‘What?’

Gehna snapped out of her reverie and looked at the Yam. ‘What?’

‘I thought you said something.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘I know. I just made it up so you’d give me some attention. That’s one of the things that’s wrong with you, y’know, is that you don’t give me enough attention. Another thing that’s wrong with you is that you’re too skinny. Someone should feed you. Look at you, all big elbows and bony eyes.’

‘If you’ve got the munchies, idiot, just say so.’

‘I do say so. I mean, this is what I’m saying.’

A covert raid on the Yam family kitchen yielded cold chicken-mayo sandwiches, instant ramen noodles, a giant slice of leftover lasagne, a party bag of Doritos, chocolate brownies from Theobroma, half a litre of mango ice cream and a bowl of microwave popcorn. It took them three trips to carry it all from the kitchen to the bed. Sunderajan helped by eating the lasagne while the girls were away.

‘What you should do,’ said the Yam, shoving the dog off her bed, ‘is write poetry. You’ll get rich doing what you love.’

‘Sure. That’s why one hears so much about millionaire poets.’

‘Who cares? Money’s not important.’

‘Only people who have it say that.’

‘G, you went on holiday to the Maldives last year. I hate to break it to ya, but you’re not exactly a church mouse.’

‘No, I know, but that’s not my money. When you graduate in two years, they’ll throw the stuff at you by the armful.’ Gehna could feel a mood lurking. She wolfed down a brownie in the hope that sugar would forestall it. ‘It is important. I’m not jonesing for a private jet or anything, but I do want to be financially independent.’

The Yam wasn’t really listening. ‘I can see it now,’ she said, moving her hand through the air as if it were a wand conjuring up glorious vistas. ‘Gehna Rai: child, mother, angel, lover and poet-fuckin-laureate.’

‘It’s child mother sinner saint.’

‘No, it’s not. You got it wrong at Jazz, too. It’s I’m a child, I’m a mother, I’m a lover . . . no, wait . . . you’re confusing me. It’s whatever I said before.’ The Yam reached for the brownie box. ‘Bitch, did you take the last peanut butter? Oh, it’s here. I thought you took it. That’s just the kind of low-rent thing you—’

Gehna slapped the box out of her friend’s hand. The Yam fought back and they went at it like beavers again.

Later, lying amid the wreckage of the feast, the Yam had asked Gehna for her list of top-five alternative dream careers, assuming that qualification, talent and gender were no bar.

‘Alternative to what? I don’t even have a main one yet.’

‘Any top-five dream careers, then. In no particular order.’

‘Well, okay, it’s not like I’ve given it any thought, but I guess novelist, marine biologist, vocalist or drummer for a rock band, staff writer for the New Yorker, Olympic diver, astronaut . . . is that five? Can I do some more? . . . professional hip-hop dancer, spy, wildlife photographer, chef . . . no, scratch that. I hate cooking but maybe . . . cheese-taster, investigative reporter, veterinarian, neurosurgeon, children’s storybook illustrator, beach bum, restaurateur, Lego designer, orchestra conductor, Beyoncé . . . is that allowed? To be someone else as a career? . . . Panda bear caretaker, ice sculptor, chocolate sculptor, mad scientist, sign language newsreader, indie movie actor, playwright, commercial airline pilot, ethical hacker, vintage art restorer, private detective.’