‘Guess it’s a long way to come, isn’t it?’ Yvonne’s mum says. ‘Still, I’m sure they’re very proud of you.’

‘You look so pale,’ Yvonne says. Maybe it’s her hair, the pink now gone and back to jet black, or maybe she is genuinely sick. ‘Is this still from the dengue thing you made up?’

‘No, more like a stomach bug.’

Yvonne nods at the acceptable answer, recalling how often Emma got food poisoning, gastro-flu, head colds, rashes and even once, in the first year, impetigo which saw the skin on her hips blaze red and her parents check her into a hotel for a week.

Yvonne’s parents become embroiled in a row with Nick about something in the newspaper, the perfect time to move away from them. ‘They’re driving me mad today,’ she tells Emma. ‘We’re going for a walk,’ she calls back, taking Emma’s clammy hand in her own.

‘God, look at everyone here with their parents,’ Emma says. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

Yvonne has never met Emma’s parents, but often heard their voices on the phone, her dad’s short, clipped way of cutting down everything Emma said, while her mum ummed and ahhed in the background.

The tannoy sounds signalling five minutes till the start of proceedings.

Emma straightens Yvonne’s cap and gown. ‘You better go. Your family look super keen to see you walk across that stage.’

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yeah, just feeling a bit rough today.’ She plucks a leaflet for a rock opera from a stand and fans herself. ‘I’m going to look like shit in every photo.’

‘What exactly did you eat last night?’

She turns her head away and flaps the leaflet more furiously. ‘I need to sit down.’

‘What’s going on?’ Yvonne follows Emma over to a low sofa and kneels on the ground in front, her gown gathers around her legs like an oil spill. Something isn’t right. Emma has always been prone to dramatics but this is different, she really isn’t herself. ‘Talk to me?’

Emma bursts into tears. The last time Yvonne saw her cry like this was while watching footage of the Gujarat earthquake. Emma was inconsolable for days, but then mobilised the student union, through a slave auction, to fundraise almost five hundred pounds.

Yvonne pulls out the packet of tissues she brought in case the day got emotional. ‘Are you sick sick?’ She braces herself for bad news.

Emma looks up at the crowds as they move slowly into the main hall.

‘Em, you’re scaring me.’

‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispers. ‘It’s my graduation and I’m fucking pregnant.’

Yvonne sinks further down to the floor. ‘Shit. No.’