She said, ‘The first day of our clinical placement. We were put together.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

Did he remember that he had hated it and she had encouraged him, neglected her own work to do his for him while he procrastinated? He never acknowledged her support or thanked her. But then she didn’t need to be thanked. To be his love was enough. To bear his weight was enough. If she were to judge him now, she would say spoilt brat. Mollycoddled at home as the only son, privileged everywhere else. But that was typical of their time and place. The hard knocks hit the men later in life, while vulnerable girls turned into venerable matrons who could do no wrong.

‘Salma. Salma.’ His repetition of her name pushed its way through her.

It was coming too soon, she wanted to press down the brakes, to keep the pace steady, to be in control. Instead she blurted out, ‘I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’

‘Sorry is not enough. It’s not enough.’

The whine in his voice made her laugh or sob or cough. A sound from the throat. She was far away. Cruel and far away.

‘You can laugh all you want, but there are flights to London every single day,’ he said. ‘More than once a day.’

‘I’m not in London.’

‘Then how do I get to this forsaken place where you’re at, another flight?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘You’re not taking me seriously.’

‘I thought I was the one who was going to come back, and you were going to make a doctor of me.’ Even while joking the hurt was still there, old but visceral.

‘I will bring you back with me. That’s a separate issue.’

‘Ah, well. You would like it here. There’s a tennis court. I’ve seen some people playing. I haven’t played in years.’ It was such a holiday thing to do. Search for equipment, play a sport you haven’t played in years.

‘I will book and let you know.’

She laughed, and he said, ‘This isn’t an empty threat.’

‘I believe you.’ She was playing along now. ‘Bring some coriander with you.’

‘What!’

‘Freshly ground. It’s not the same here.’

‘What else?’ His tone was bored. Even in this play-acting, he did not want to be the one to bring, the one to carry or go out of his way. Salma imagined his wife being totally in charge of the household, while he lived in an orbit of work, siesta and tennis club – actually not much different than when he had been a boy. His print on the household would be faint, his presence brooding rather than constructive. Or when he was in a good mood, his presence as sparkling as a holiday, the family hanging on every word of his clever banter.

She said, ‘Long ago, when you used to tell me you felt stifled, I thought you wanted to emigrate. Do you still want to do that?’