Yvonne walks across the road to Emma’s new flat and presses the bell. She shifts the blue gift bag and juggles the weight of the casserole dish from one arm to another and tries to fix her face into a neutral expression. They hadn’t spoken after their argument in the pub, Yvonne didn’t know what to say, who was meant to apologise. But none of that mattered after she received the message to say Kiama had been born, early but well.

She presses the bell again and listens to footsteps on the other side.

‘Wow,’ Yvonne says as Emma opens the door, babe in arms.

‘Hi.’ She smiles brightly but her face is pale and even slightly gaunt.

‘Hi. Oh my God. Look at him.’ Yvonne walks slowly into the hallway. ‘He’s tiny. I thought he was going to be massive.’

‘I know, I think it was just a load of water in there or something.’ Emma kicks the front door shut, ‘Can you hold him, please?’

She’s wearing her striped fleece pyjama bottoms. The ones she used to wear when they didn’t top up the heating in their student house. ‘I really need the loo.’

‘Oh hang on, let me put these things down first.’ The flat is small, the front door opening straight into the living room and kitchen. ‘I need to wash my hands. I’ve been on public transport.’

‘No, don’t worry,’ Emma uses one hand to pull the gift bag and drops it in a pile with others, she then puts the casserole dish on the kitchen counter. ‘Germs are good for him. He needs germs. Here,’ she says passing him and running off to the bathroom.

‘What the…’ Yvonne whispers as she stands in the middle of the room, her coat still on, trying to make sure she doesn’t wake the baby, still as a doll. She sits on the slouchy sofa and manages to slide one arm out of her coat at a time. The baby doesn’t move but at one point he yawns, which is the only way Yvonne knows he’s even alive. He doesn’t obviously look like anyone and she places her finger next to his cheek to check if he’s white, but it feels a little wrong, so she stops.

‘Sorry. Got a bit of a post-partum situation happening,’ Emma says as she finally comes out of the bathroom. Yvonne’s heard from others that this is one of the things that happen when your friends start having babies. All of a sudden, frank discussions about bodily fluids, functions and damage become regular conversation. This will be especially bad with Emma, who, in general, has no filter.

‘Please, before you say anything, you know I’m squeamish. I don’t want a birth story, okay? I just can’t hear it.’

Emma laughs as she fills the kettle. ‘Don’t worry, he was C section.’

‘Oh, okay.’