‘I know he’s a baby,’ Emma says. ‘It’s what he’s meant to do, but I didn’t realise how much he would cry. Except when people are around of course, then he usually lies quietly like some sleeping angel, he must like you enough to let his guard down.’

Yvonne feels her arm going dead, not from the weight, but from the awkward way Kiama is lying. ‘Is it okay that he’s so curled like this? Don’t you need to keep their spines straight or something?’

This time Emma says nothing. Her eyes are bloodshot and she looks as if she’s about to doze off. Yvonne sits next to her and stares. ‘Em? You okay?’

‘You were right, Yvonne.’

‘About what?’

‘I shouldn’t have tried to do this on my own.’

‘You’re not alone.’

‘I am. I’m completely alone.’

‘You’re not. You’ve got your parents. Your friends.’

‘They’ve all run a mile. Of course they have. I would do the same.’

‘You’ve got me. Stop it. Stop crying.’

Emma dries her face on a sleeve.

The washing machine spins out. She looks at it and huffs. ‘You okay with him if I pop out for a bit?’

Yvonne panics. ‘To where?’

‘Just on the balcony, for a cigarette.’

‘I thought you gave up.’

‘I did, but I need one vice.’ Emma pulls on her big parka jacket and climbs out onto the small balcony; there she sits on a little plastic stool and smokes cigarette after cigarette. She’s out there for so long that when pigeons land on the rail they jump down and peck by her feet.

Kiama purrs and falls asleep. Yvonne looks at a book titled Your Baby and You, First Steps. ‘You’ve got a lot of targets to meet,’ she whispers and he stirs slightly, his wide eyebrows wriggling. It’s funny to think of him having Emma’s overly animated eyebrows.

When Emma comes back in her eyes are red, she’s been crying again.

‘Should I be worried about you?’ Yvonne asks.

‘No. It’s nothing. Hormones. It makes you go a bit crazy.’ She washes her hands in the sink, but the smell of smoke sticks to her pyjama bottoms and coat. ‘You want to give him back to me now?’ She puts out her arms. Yvonne flexes her fingers; she can feel them prickling. ‘No. He’s fine, he’s asleep. Let’s not rock the boat.’

‘I understand if you need to leave. You’ve got other things to do, right? Your work?’

Yvonne shakes her head. ‘No, it’s not important. I want to stay with you.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Emma cries again.

‘I know that. But I want to.’ The washing machine beeps and Emma flops her head in her hands.

‘He’s got your eyebrows,’ Yvonne says.