And what lies ahead for her, how will she live? Everyone had predicted she would marry a rich man and never have to lift a finger. Her beauty had pointed towards this. Marriage versus prostitution. Marriage a way to legitimise the oldest profession? It need not be like this. She knew this, glimpsed it in the lives of other couples. Two things could look alike and feel alike and seem alike yet be profoundly different. One was blessed and the other doomed. The intentions that led to each were different. The resemblance was superficial but understandable. Man pays and woman serves. He houses, clothes and feeds her to get something in return. Put love in the equation. He gives because he loves her and would give regardless of whether services were rendered or not; she gives because she loves him and would keep giving even if he didn’t pay. Or they both give and receive in a flow generated by love with neither one keeping tabs, with neither one viewing the relationship as a transaction.

She looked up when her friend walked into the room. ‘What am I going to do, Salma?’ Tears started rolling down her face.

Salma sat next to her. ‘You’ll be fine. He isn’t worth it. And how can you possibly cry when you’re wearing this amazing outfit. Look at you, a queen!’

Iman rested her forehead on her knees and Salma continued talking. ‘Everything happens for a reason. Earlier today, you were upset that you weren’t pregnant. Imagine if you were, it would have been an added complication.’

‘Ibrahim wouldn’t have left me if I was pregnant.’

‘Really?’ said Salma with sarcasm. ‘He wasn’t up to the responsibility of a wife, let alone a child. Don’t fool yourself.’

‘You warned me against him,’ said Iman, looking up and wiping her face.

Salma was pleased to hear this. She had been restraining herself from saying, ‘I told you so.’

‘You insisted on him,’ she said gently.

‘He was so nice to me, I can’t believe it.’ She remembered how he could scarcely keep his hands off her during the daylight hours of Ramadan, how he gave her everything she wanted – a Netflix subscription, a new coat, a weekend away in London. ‘His parents are to blame.’ She was musing now, looking for justification.

‘You deserve better than him. Mark my words. This time next year, inshallah, you will be married to the right man and with a baby on the way.’

Iman shook her head. ‘I want to depend on myself. To work, like you.’

Salma tried not to laugh. Iman’s greatest asset was her looks, her finest skill was in drawing men to her; zero qualifications, English language minimal. What sort of job could she do? Iman was lazy too. With Salma’s children, she watched children’s TV and never got bored. Imagine being told, you’re too beautiful to ever toil, you’re to be kept home in a fine state, you’re created to be pampered and adored – all that Iman heard as she was growing up. Salma said, ‘I’ll make you hot chocolate and you’ll tell me the kinds of jobs you can see yourself doing.’