Inaya’s face fell, all her hopes collapsing like a house of cards.

‘ . . . that you have been selected for the tournament,’ continued Habib in the same morose vein, although a twinkle crept into his eyes.

It took a few seconds for Inaya to register what her grandfather had said. She stared at him in disbelief and then dashed over to take a look at the letter herself. She read it and then re-read it to make completely sure that there had been no mistake. With a whoop of joy, she hugged her grandfather and almost upset the tea trolley in her excitement.

‘Oho! What’s the commotion about?’ said Humaira, emerging from the prayer room. One look at Inaya waving the letter in her face told her all that she needed to know. She whooped as well, causing Mudassar to hurry back into the room, to check if anyone needed first aid.

The sound of a car rolling up the driveway was like a pinprick to everyone’s ballooning enthusiasm. Inaya’s father was home.

‘Don’t you worry, Inaya,’ said her grandmother. ‘Don’t say anything to Irfan tonight. Let me handle it,’ she said with the worldly air of a woman who had handled much more than she let on to.

‘Thanks, Daadi,’ said Inaya, grateful that she was not to be the one to break the news to her father.

‘I’ll go and tell Saba—and Zain,’ she said.

‘Yes, tell Zain first,’ said Humaira. ‘The poor boy has come by thrice already asking whether you’ve heard back.’

‘That’s only because he’s so competitive, Daadi. It’s not because he’s happy for me or anything.’

‘That’s not true, Inaya. He has been such a good friend to you ever since you both could barely hold a cricket bat. Of course, he’d be happy for . . . ’

‘Who’d be happy? And what about?’ asked Irfan walking into the room just as Inaya was preparing to slink out. ‘Were you leaving, Inaya? Come and sit with us all. How have your extra classes been going?’

Irfan sat down and looked pointedly at the empty seat next to him. Inaya groaned inwardly as she came over and sat down.

‘They’re going fine, Abba.’

‘Good, good. So, whose happiness were we talking about?’ repeated Irfan.

He looked around expectantly for an answer. There was a pregnant pause—until Humaira, as usual, took charge, laying the foundation of her little plan.

‘We were just saying that my sister, Adeela, would be so happy if we visited her this summer in London. Habib could also finally exhibit his art there—the Aicon Gallery has been keen to have him for ages. Should we all plan to go?’

Irfan turned to his father.

‘But you’ve never been keen on having shows in London, Abba?’

Habib slurped his tea, buying time to come up with a suitable response. He wished, as he had done a million times before, that Humaira would give him a heads-up before launching him willy-nilly into such situations.