Ricky stood paralysed with pain as he watched Shona take leave of her lover. His daughter was having an affair with a man who lived in Clapham. His daughter was in her forties now, with quite grown-up children, and she was having an affair, with a man who lived in a flat in Clapham. The last time he had seen Parvez and Shona together, they hadn’t seemed that cheerful, but that was twenty years of marriage to a Pakistani for you. But this, this was different - he recognized tenderness, he recognized a look of love. Shona loved this man, and yet she was forcing herself to continue living with the Pakistani, the uneducated man she had ill-advisedly eloped with when she was barely older than Candida was now. How long had it been going on? Oh God - Ricky thought of Shona’s pale, pale children, who he was convinced took after his side of the family. Were they even Parvez’s? Gossips had joked that the twins looked practically half-caste, but that was just a joke in bad taste, wasn’t it?

It was a nightmare he could never have dreamed of having: his daughter reliving his life, his lies, his long-running deceit. He thought he had escaped blame and censure for living his double life - apart from some minor administrative inconveniences and more long-haul travel than he would have liked, he had been guiltlessly and wholeheartedly happy. But now, here was his punishment. He had let his daughter down - he was responsible for this. Ricky felt an icy hand close around his heart - it was too much, it felt like his heart was breaking. A dull heavy ache in his chest and shooting pains up his arm made him clench his fist, and the blowsy roses fell to the ground, scattering their petals like pale confetti. The light and shadow of the plane tree swam into nothingness ahead of him, and he walked a few faltering steps, before passing out cold, hitting the pavement with a heavy thud.