Iman considered Salma’s question. Already every minute of every day, the angel on her left shoulder was writing down her minor and not so minor sins. But Salma wanted a major sin.

‘I don’t know,’ said Iman. ‘I can’t think of anything.’

‘Champagne?’ said Salma.

Iman imagined it to be like 7UP but pink, fizzy on her tongue, the taste a blend between perfume and overripe fruit. She shrugged.

‘Model a bikini?’

‘Maybe.’

Salma laughed. She could imagine Iman on the cover of a magazine. Long hair cascading down to her hips. But she was too beautiful to be a model. Whatever piece of clothing she was modelling would be overshadowed by herself. But then maybe not. Maybe as soon as she uncovered herself, all the mystique would be swept away, the spell broken. Iman would become another pretty face, another great body. One more woman on a screen.

‘No.’ Iman made a face. She shook her head and said, ‘Nothing. There is no sin that I want to do.’

‘Oh, you are a spoilsport,’ said Salma.

‘Wait,’ said Iman. ‘There is something I want. To be completely alone.’

‘But you love having people take care of you.’

‘I mean not be accountable to others.’ Her voice was soft. ‘Free as a fish.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Besides, how is that a sin!’ Salma turned her head towards Moni, who was still only halfway through her coffee. ‘Moni?’

‘You’re too optimistic, Salma,’ Moni said. ‘What if the sin doesn’t get wiped away, instead it manifests itself physically and we are stuck with it? If you punch someone, your arm gets twisted round your back and you can’t move it. Or if you abuse someone, your tongue hangs out of your mouth.’

‘Like Pinocchio,’ said Iman. ‘When he lies, his nose gets long.’

‘Oh come on,’ Salma laughed. ‘Moni, play the game. What would you do if you could get away with it?’

‘I would kill someone,’ Moni’s voice was flat. ‘More than one.’

‘Who?’

Moni didn’t answer.

It wasn’t funny. ‘Well,’ said Salma. ‘This isn’t how I thought this would turn out. Neither of you are any fun. So I will keep my secret to myself.’ She spoke lightly but she was irritated with them both. They had let her down. She sent a message to Amir asking him the same question. It had been her intention all along, hadn’t it? The reason she had come up with the game. He replied immediately, ‘I would steal.’

‘What would you steal?’ she typed, the smile stretched across her face. Here was someone on the same wavelength. Someone with a sense of humour.

‘What was once mine and then got taken away from me,’ he replied.

She almost laughed out loud. Yes, it would be stealing. What she wanted to do with him (in theory, of course, definitely in theory) was also a kind of theft. She started the engine.

Sometimes Moni found Salma and Iman juvenile. Imagine you were allowed one major sin . . . Did this not sound like some game teenagers would play? Iman was in her twenties, so she could be forgiven. But Salma was older than Moni, over forty, even if she did look younger. The first time they met, Moni thought they were the same age. It was just another massage therapy appointment for Adam, but instead of Kathy or Anne, there was Salma in a plain navy headscarf that matched her uniform. When she spoke Arabic, Moni was won over, though she had to admit that, at first, she doubted Salma’s abilities. Surely, Moni thought, Salma would neither be as professional nor as qualified as her white British counterparts. But Salma was even better with Adam. She was patient and interested. She made Moni feel that Adam was more to her than just a client. Once, during the Christmas break when the clinic was closed, Salma came over to Moni’s flat and gave Adam a session free of charge, a session that made all the difference to those long days when Moni had nowhere to take him. Salma made him relax and when he relaxed he ate and slept better.