She had confessed to Dermot about that night with Parvez, and Dermot had said he understood; he even made excuses for her, saying that she had been confused and upset after finding out about her father’s heart attack and then discovering his bigamy. Although he claimed to have appreciated her honesty, she could tell that the truth had upset him, as she had known it would. She had selfishly put her own conscience above his feelings, and she now felt little pride in this deed, which had seemed so noble at the time; how could you say someone deserved to hear the bitter truth, unless they also deserved to be hurt? She had decided to put an end to this new and damaging instinct to confess. The truth was overrated; it was rarely pure and never simple, that was the real truth that she had known since she was a child.

Given this, she wasn’t sure if she should, or even if she could, expose her other demon; her ambivalence and resentment towards her mother. Besides, why did she dislike her mother so much? She barely knew her. Of course, she had worshipped her as a little girl, this fragrant, beautiful creature who was constantly flitting out dressed in sparkling, butterfly brightness. While other mothers wore their hair in long, undistinguished plaits, or pulled back into chaste buns, Shona’s mother wore her glossy hair cut fashionably at her shoulders like a movie star, where it swung provocatively. But Henna had never paid her daughter the slightest bit of attention, passing her over indiscriminately to servants and nannies when her father wasn’t available, except on a few precious outings, when it had just been her mother and her. She couldn’t remember why her mother had relented, and taken her out on those visits to the clinic. She had only vague memories of kind-faced nurses, of lollipops and white coats. And after she had left with Parvez, her mother needed nothing else to do with her; it was as though the idea of her daughter was enough and she didn’t need a flesh and blood one littering up her pleasant, indulgent life. Shona imagined that she was just a character in her mother’s stories, something she used to boast to her friends: My Daughter, she lives in London, you know; My Daughter is an MA; My Daughter’s son goes to Oxford. So where does your daughter live, Roshan, the one with the BA in English? Connecticut? Where’s that? Oh-well-never-mind, I’m sure it must be nice. And Mina, where does your grandson attend college? Oh, really? Right here at Dhaka University. Well, it must be a comfort to have him so close …