Omar looked at Jim, the numb shock he felt replaced by another, undefinable feeling. A little like the recklessness he had felt when he dared Jim to kiss Karen, again he suddenly wanted to get all his doubt out in the open, to let that sword of Damocles finally fall. But this feeling was an affirmative one, one of near hope rather than dread. ‘Wait,’ he said to Jim, and standing up, stood opposite him and kissed him quickly and softly on the cheek. ‘I thought that might have been my only opportunity, too,’ he explained. Jim looked at him in amazement, and hesitated just briefly before smoothing back Omar’s wet hair from his forehead, taking Omar’s face in both hands, and kissing him back.

Mrs Henna Karim Extends a

Cordial Invitation

SHONA HAD MANAGED to avoid thinking about her mother for several weeks following her father’s heart attack, until Henna inconsiderately barged back into her life. ’Shona moni,’ Henna brayed loudly, into the answering machine at an ungodly hour, ‘Shona moni, it’s Amma, pick up!’ Pausing for a moment, Henna started a sing-song chant that would test the patience of the most charitably disposed acquaintance, Tick up, pick up, pick up … Pick up! Pick up!’

Shona, bleary-eyed, wrapped a dressing gown around her and obediently picked up the bedroom phone, taking it on to the landing to avoid waking Parvez, who was sleeping heavily with slow and deliberate breaths. Just as she reverted to her cut-glass patrician accent when speaking to her papa or to her colleagues at school, with her Amma, she automatically fell into Bangladeshi vernacular, perhaps to make her feel closer to her, she wasn’t sure.

‘Ouf, why are you shouting so much? Don’t you know what time it is here, Amma?’

’Tch! Why did you take so long to answer?’ said Henna unrepentantly. ‘This is long distance, you know. Does the fat Pakistani keep you chained up so that you can’t answer your old mother when she calls?’

‘Amma, Parvez isn’t fat,’ said Shona, getting drawn in despite herself.

‘Of course not. Parvez is perfect in every way, Rashid is perfect in every way. Everyone is perfect apart from your stupid old mother whom you never call, and who you ignore when she calls you for help.’

‘Amma, what’s wrong? What do you need help with?’ Shona asked, suddenly concerned; she had been thinking that it was unlike her mother to use the endearment ‘moni’ when calling, and it was also not very like her to become belligerent so quickly; insulting Shona’s loved ones and life choices was one of her favourite themes, but normally she warmed up to these with much greater calculation and finesse.

‘I can’t tell you over the phone. You have to come over here. I need your help, Shona moni. I need you here,’ Henna entreated, now sounding almost distressed. ‘Please come next week, as soon as you can.’