She feigns indecision for all of five seconds. ‘Lewis, I’m—’

‘Give me a missed call when you’re close by, I’ll pick you up from the station.’

Yvonne sweats under the polyester black gown, while her dad encourages her to pose in various parts of the Barbican. He splashed out on a digital camera especially for graduation and has spent the entire morning directing her, then viewing and retaking almost every picture. ‘It’s dark in here,’ he complains. ‘Why is it so dark in here?’

‘I think you’ve taken enough,’ Yvonne says firing her older brother a look. ‘Nick, please tell him to stop.’

Without taking his eyes from his paper Nick says, ‘Dad. No. Stop.’

Why did her brothers bother coming today? All they’ve done all is look bored and slightly put out by having to take a day off work to celebrate her. It’s not like she insisted either.

‘I know,’ her dad says. ‘How about I take one from down here with you all standing up on that balcony? But where’s Claude?’

Finally, her mum puts her foot down. ‘Enough. Leave them alone. Go and take some photos of the art or something. There is art here, isn’t there? Not that I’d be able to spot it. I’m assuming it’s all modern. Not to my style, love a bit of Jack Vettriano.’

Yvonne searches for her beeping phone within the folds of her gown. She’s been waiting to hear from him all morning. But it’s just another auntie congratulating her. Perhaps Lewis has forgotten it’s today. Between setting up his new business and caring for his mum, he’s got so much going on.

Yvonne sighs and her mum puts an arm around her. ‘Is there a particular reason your eyes light up every time that phone goes?’

It’s as if everyone stops to stare at her.

‘No,’ Yvonne says, but she sounds too defensive.

Nick laughs, ‘We all know you’re seeing someone. Is he here?’

‘No. It’s nothing, there’s no one. I was checking in case it was Emma.’

‘Is she the stuck up one?’

Mum squeals. ‘What are the odds? We were just talking about you.’

‘Look who walked into my shot!’ Yvonne’s dad calls as he pulls Emma through a sea of black cloaks.

Yvonne moves towards her. ‘Weird. We really were just talking—’

Emma pulls away quickly. ‘Don’t get too close.’

‘What’s wrong? You’re ill?’

‘Yeah, don’t anyone kiss me,’ she says.

‘Sweetheart, hangovers aren’t contagious.’ Yvonne’s mum pulls her in for a hug, while her dad drops to one knee and starts taking shots of them.

Emma tips her hat at him, ‘We do look stunning in these outfits, don’t we?’

‘Dad, enough. Where are your parents, Emma?’

‘Oh, they’re not here.’