Shona looked at her mother in surprise. So was that all it had been? She had wanted her family to support her from the audience for her latest event, as Aziz and Ammie wouldn’t be available. Why hadn’t she just said? Shona realized quickly that of course her mother wouldn’t have told her over the phone; she had played it just right by making it sound like it was something urgent with dire consequences. With the price of the airfare, the play was the most expensive evening out Shona had ever bought. Henna had the grace to look a little sheepish, and said brightly, ‘I think that’s Shameela coming through with her daughter,’ as she bustled to the door.

Shameela was an elegant woman who was about Henna’s age, but looked much older - her greyhound thinness did not complement her, and her face looked especially haggard, with the skin pulled tautly across her high cheekbones and jutting forehead. Her daughter, Par-vine, was neither elderly nor ugly; she was only a few years older than Shona, and simply a little bit plain. Her worthy, nun-like looks were not helped by the frazzled grey hair scraped back and held with a plastic clasp, nor by her thick, heavily framed glasses. Despite the unprepossessing appearances, both mother and daughter seemed very friendly, and had thoughtfully brought a gift, a large box of multicoloured burfis from one of the city’s most celebrated sweet-makers.

During the gossipy conversation that followed between Henna and Shameela, mainly in English for Omar’s benefit, Shona found herself staring a little too much at Parvine - she was thinking that this was what she could look like in a few years, if she decided to wear glasses rather than contact lenses, and let her hair go grey and long rather than colouring and styling it. She wondered what Dermot would think of her then, if she lost her looks before he did.

These are great sweets,’ said Omar politely, biting into a peach-coloured burfi. ‘As good as Uncle Hassan’s.5

‘My husband’s cousin,’ Shona explained to Shameela and Parvine. ‘He owns a confectionery shop in Tooting.5 Seeing the warning look from her mother, that clearly told her not to make further reference to her husband’s Pakistani, plebeian, shopkeeping relatives, she recklessly added, ‘We used to live above his shop when we first moved to London.5

Henna looked thunderous, but regained composure instantly. ‘Yes, my daughter was such a free spirit. We always supported her in her whims: going to London, living above a sweet shop. A kid in a candy shop, like the Americans say; I think she inherited my sweet tooth!’ She laughed at her own joke, pleased at having turned Shona’s embarrassing early poverty into a sugary anecdote.

‘I love London,5 sighed Shameela. ‘I would love my granddaughter to live there so I had an excuse to visit. I would go to the theatre every night.5