Iman perked up. The two of them sat side by side, their backs resting on the headrest, drinking the chocolate and Iman rambled on about work. Maybe she should have stuck to that job at the supermarket. Maybe improving her English was the way forward. Salma listened, indulging her from time to time, challenging her with questions or suggestions to help her formulate more realistic goals. Then Iman lurched back to talking about Ibrahim, reminiscing. ‘Once, he had a friend over, spending the night on the sofa. In the morning I got to the shower first and washed my hair. As soon as I came out, Ibrahim said I had to go back in there and make sure I hadn’t left a single stray hair down the plughole. He wasn’t worried about the plug being blocked. He didn’t want his friend seeing a strand of my hair.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘No, I’m not. He was that possessive about me!’

‘That’s daft, Iman.’

‘He said one single strand was enough to determine the length of my hair, its colour and texture.’

Salma burst out laughing and Iman said, ‘It’s true. I’m not making this up.’

Outside, dusk was gathering and although the ground was dark and hidden, there were still dabs of orange and pink high in the western sky. I am happy, thought Salma, sitting here with my friend. I am happy being of use to her, being needed. Already Iman was in a more settled if not cheerful mood. When she slid down and stretched out on the bed, Salma felt free to leave her.

At last, after running around all day, she could take off her scarf and shower. In the bathroom she combed her wet hair. She was conscious of its thinness compared to Iman’s luxuriant tresses. In terms of looks, there was no point in competing. Enjoying Iman’s beauty without succumbing to envy was the only sensible thing to do. But a month ago, at Salma’s house, Iman had said with genuine surprise, ‘Your hair is getting so thin, Salma!’ Salma was not prone to overreacting, but from that day on she had become self-conscious about her hair. She started using an expensive scalp foam, volumisers and fillers. She topped up her supplements. Now, gazing into the mirror, she fancied she saw an improvement. Her hair was in better condition even if it was not any thicker. Turning sideways, she glimpsed a diagonal roll of fat above her waist. Where had that come from? Pilates twice a week, regular walks and eating more or less the same. Her bathroom scales back home had failed to flag this up. She put on her pyjama top and started to make wudu.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she asked Iman, ‘Do you think I’ve put on weight?’ Iman’s eyes flickered over her friend, noticed the wet hair. It distracted her from answering Salma’s question. Instead she said, ‘How come you washed your hair?’

Silence is a sign of agreement, as the Arabic saying went. So, I am getting fat, Salma thought, I am spreading out, this is exactly what they call middle-age spread. ‘I felt sweaty from my walk.’