When it became her turn to confess, the mood lightened between them. She said that she had already told him about not being a physiotherapist. ‘That can’t be everything,’ he said, which made her laugh. He was right, but it was Iman who was her confidante, Iman was the one with whom she shared her secrets. She could not bring herself to tell him about the shop assistant who sold her the gloves. He was handsome and young, most likely a student, and she had felt an attraction to him that was so strong that it was almost tangible; every second in his company loaded, the whole interaction heaving. It was all over the top and in telling the story to Iman, she had embellished the details, added more spice, to the extent that Iman insisted that she must see him for herself. The next day they went together to the department store and while Salma stayed away, Iman went over to the counter and pretended to be interested in gloves. Salma should have seen it coming. The attendant was warmer towards Iman than he had been to her yesterday. Even though Iman did not buy a pair of gloves, he gave her more attention and showed her more patience. Afterwards, Salma and Iman had coffee and cake and laughed about him. Iman said that he was too rough-looking for her taste. She said that the ladies’ accessories section of this reputable department store could not camouflage the essential manual labourer in him. And they laughed even more.

The second crush/attraction/disloyalty to her husband – she could not decide on how to name it except that it was a secret – involved a client and was less light-hearted than the shop assistant. The dull, small, grey cubicle in which she worked lit up in crimson, warming her until she was flushing, the partitions narrowing until she felt the need to escape. It was a struggle not to drop the bottle of oil, an effort to keep her voice from rising a pitch. The second time he scheduled a session, he spoke to her in a way that made her realise that her hijab, which she had always depended on for protection, had become useless. It was flimsy and hypocritical. The fire was closer than ever. One word, one step, one stumble. The third time he scheduled an appointment, she called in sick. The fourth time he scheduled an appointment, she made sure she had the day off. The fifth time he scheduled an appointment, she assigned him instead to one of her colleagues who owed her a favour. He asked after you, he asked after you, she would hear and enjoy hearing. But she was sensible enough to keep away from the temptation. To save her soul, to save her marriage, to save her sanity. Keeping away was the right thing to do.

‘Where are you, Salma?’ Amir asked.

‘Far away.’

‘Tell me.’

‘No.’

‘Tell me.’

‘No.’