‘So what?’ said Iman.

Salma was disappointed. There was an intellectual satisfaction in pursuing that ‘what if ’ parallel scenario. Why was Iman so pedantic and literal? But she regarded her younger friend as a useful sounding board. She said, ‘I’ve started to imagine that other life clearly, like I’m watching a film. A film about myself.’ The other Salma would have been Dr Salma for a start. Not a massage therapist. When Salma had first come to Britain, she found that her medical degree was not sufficient. After failing her qualifying exams twice, she had sat herself down firmly and taken stock of the situation. Not enough money, baby on the way and David, himself the first in his family to go to university, was not exerting undue pressure on her to practise as a doctor. It was time to pursue other alternatives. Changing sheets and bedpans would have been too much of a blow to her ego. She said no to nursing. The qualifications and training to become a massage therapist were affordable and accessible. She surged ahead. She didn’t look back. Until last month when, in their very first exchanges, Amir addressed her as Dr Salma and she had to say, ‘I’m not a doctor.’ And because he wasn’t as polite as David, he contradicted her and said, ‘Nonsense. You are. We graduated in the same year and you got better grades in the exams than I did.’

‘Told you Moni would take ages,’ Iman drawled. ‘Bet you, she’ll now say she doesn’t want to go on this trip at all. It won’t be easy for her to leave Adam.’

Salma hadn’t thought of this. Surely Moni couldn’t back out now, not after all the preparations. Not after having got this far. She hurried into the nursing home.

Iman stepped out of the car. She walked a few steps and stood under a tree. The tree hid her from the road. She took off her coat and felt the breeze through her clothes. She felt submission wafting towards her from the nursing home, as if it were tangible and elemental. The submission to imperfection, to illness, to fate. It didn’t make her sad. Instead she understood it as if it were an old language she had practised, as if it were as basic and solid as the ground beneath her feet. She closed her eyes and heard the distant traffic, a few soft sounds coming from inside the home, then the caw of seagulls. The sunlight played on her closed eyelids, she smelt the leaves of the tree and the fresh air. Existence without feelings or desires – nothing to complain or brag about. She smelt the grass and heard a bird sing hoo poo hoo poo again and again. She opened her eyes and saw it on a branch of the tree. Gold necklace around its neck, a delicate crown. There was something reassuring about it, a weight and a balance. Iman reached up her hand as if she wanted it to settle on her wrist. Instead it fluttered and hopped further away up the branch. ‘Come back,’ she said in Arabic, her voice sounding foreign in her ears. But would the bird understand English better? What language was the speech of birds?