Iman’s anger ebbed away as her tears flowed. I am watering the date seed I planted, watering it with my tears, she told herself. It sounded like words from a song.

You’re beautiful, Ibrahim had said. So had the husband before him and the one before him. Other men too, behind her back. And yet it wasn’t a guarantee; not much of a safety net. She sat up and stared at the sea. Her feet were cold. She put her coat back on and stood up. She could walk straight into the sea. She could keep stomping the cold water until the final crush. Or she could drag herself up the slope. Salma would look after her. Salma would know what to do.

Salma, summoned by phone, was struggling to find room in the boot for all of Iman’s stuff, which Ibrahim was intent on inflicting upon her. ‘You can’t just throw her out. She has rights. What you’re doing is against the sharia.’

He shrugged, too miserable to care.

‘And you just left her on the beach! Shame on you. I should be there with her, not dealing with this.’ Where was Moni now when she could be of help? ‘I will speak to your father,’ she said. ‘Give me his number. I will go back to town and speak to him.’

Ibrahim flinched at the suggestion. ‘There’s no point.’

Salma wanted to sound reasonable. She had warned Iman against this kind of paperless marriage. One that was solely religious and not recognised under British law. Mosques were forbidden to carry out marriage ceremonies without a civil marriage certificate. Iman and Ibrahim had been married privately by a transient Arab scholar who reinforced Ibrahim’s view that such a ramshackle agreement, devoid even of the couple’s parents’ blessing, was preferable to living in sin. Not that Salma disagreed on that last point, but a token, casual marriage was not the solution. And now this was the result. A divorce on the beach!

Ibrahim tipped into the car boot a carton box filled with an assortment of clothes, a hairdryer, a shower cap, jars of spices, clothes hangers, a pair of sandals and a pregnancy kit. The poignancy of this last item made Salma raise her voice. ‘Listen, I don’t have space for all these things. I really don’t. Not on top of our own luggage. Enough. Don’t put in any more.’

‘So what shall I do?’ He had that sullen look her teenage children had when they were set chores, when they were forced away from their PlayStations, Netflix and phones.

‘Take them to my house,’ said Salma. ‘I’ll call David and he’ll put them in the garage.’ She thought ahead. After the holiday at the loch, Iman would have to move in with her. Daughter Number 1 would have to share her room. There would be tantrums and coaxing. But there was no alternative. Iman did not have anywhere else to go. Apart from the Woman’s Shelter, that is, and Salma would not do that to her friend.