‘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?’

‘It’s too late.’ He sounded resigned. ‘There are decisions that need to be taken at a certain time. You can’t put them off for ever. I wasn’t desperate about leaving, though. Not like you.’

So this was how he saw her. Desperate to get out. True, she had done the rounds of embassies – New Zealand, Canada, Australia, the US – come back with forms, which she read and summarised for him. The precious pages on the café table between them, the extra care lest a drop of tea fell on them. If she hadn’t queued for the forms, he wouldn’t have. That was their pattern, what came naturally to them both – she did the legwork and the research so that they could brainstorm and fumble towards a decision in which he would have the final word.

‘I wasn’t desperate to leave,’ she said.

‘Oh, you were,’ he said. ‘It’s the only explanation.’

She felt pushed back, unable to come up with a defence. A defence that would not be a personal criticism of him. It was admirable, in a way, how he had justified her actions and protected his ego. She loves me but she’s desperate to leave. She loves me, but a better opportunity came up. She loves me.

Salma said, ‘Is this why you’re back in contact? To prove that I made the wrong choice.’

‘Didn’t you?’

Her voice was stiff. ‘There is something called fate and destiny, as you well know.’

‘Sure. I don’t disagree.’

‘Let’s not quarrel.’

‘I’m sorry. I act disingenuous and it must be infuriating for you. You once let me beat you at tennis, didn’t you?’

Once? She laughed, taken by surprise, the warmth back again, the edge gone. Such a concession from him! ‘Of course not. It’s not the sort of thing I would do.’