The clock ticks loudly, marking each second of silence, each second Yvonne continues to sit with them rather than go after Kiama. ‘You know what? I’m going.’ She rises from the table and throws her napkin to the chair, suddenly desperate to find Kiama, to make sure he’s okay. It’s part of her role here after all, to protect him. ‘I’ll leave you two to enjoy your lunch.’

Outside the sun is oppressively bright and burns the back of her hand as she uses it to shield her eyes. On the other side of the street he sits on the kerb, his back curled, head in hands. He doesn’t look up as she approaches, nor as she sits down next to him.

Two security guards in khaki slow on the other side of the road and stare at them curiously before moving on.

‘It must be hard for them, Kiama. She was their only child.’

He keeps his head lowered.

‘I’m on your side,’ she says.

‘Really? Cause it didn’t feel like it back there.’

He’s angry with her.

‘They’re always so hard.’

‘They were hard on Emma as well.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about any of it.’ He unzips his bag and pulls out a multipack of Wagon Wheels. ‘That cake was disgusting.’ He rips open the packet and says, ‘Five items British expats miss.’

‘What?’

‘I was racking my brains about what to bring my grandparents when I read this expat blog about the five food items Brits miss when they live here.’ He passes her one and she experiences a moment of nostalgia as she smells the fake chocolate.

‘Don’t know why I even bothered,’ he mumbles. ‘I should have just brought myself more T-shirts.’

‘You bothered because you’re thoughtful.’ It’s a trait in him she wasn’t quite expecting, maybe because her own teenage nephews are all narcissists, or because of how self-centred Emma could be. ‘I don’t know where you get it from. Emma was such a typical only child, no offence. She would do things like eat my favourite flavour of crisps and decide they were disgusting. Or use up the last of the milk in her cereal and waste the cereal. She would give me her last pound if I asked for it, but that’s the thing, I would have to explicitly ask for it.’

He laughs a little, out of courtesy perhaps, and she wonders if she read the situation wrongly, if this is maybe exactly the opposite of what he needs to hear. She can’t eat anymore of the chocolate. ‘Did these always taste like this? It’s like eating a Styrofoam cup.’

He pulls the Wagon Wheel from her hand and finishes it off.