At the door, in the long dark hallway, Shona and Henna faced each other silently. Shona looked pleadingly at her mother: Please speak to me, please explain it all, please don’t make me have to drag it all out of you, don’t let it all be unsaid again and again. Henna took a deep breath, and then smiled brightly as she skitted off girlishly to her quarters. ‘I’ve got a visit to make before dinner,’ she said cheerfully, over her shoulder.

Shona caught up with her, keeping ruthlessly in step with her. ‘Amma, we need to talk, now.’ Henna kept walking, trying to shake her off by looking straight ahead and ignoring her, as she had so often when Shona was a tottering infant trailing persistently after her pretty mamma.

‘Besides, you must be very tired, Shona,’ added Henna, as she reached her door. ‘I’ll be back for dinner.5 She went to shut the door smilingly in Shona’s face, but Shona wedged her foot in the heavy door. She was fortunately still wearing her heavy airport loafers rather than sandals better suited to the climate. I can’t believe she’s making me do this, Shona thought to herself, as she found herself forced to fight with the door in a manner that was hardly dignified. She managed to push the door back open, and stood purposefully with her back against it.

‘Mamma,’ she said pleadingly. ‘We must talk. We really must.5

Henna, having lost the battle of the door, was already at her dressing table smoothing out her glossy hair with an expensive bristle brush. ‘What about, dear?5 she said artlessly. ‘Are you and the Pakistani having problems? Is that why he didn’t come with you?5

Shona wasn’t going to be thrown so easily this time. ‘Amma, you know that Parvez is working. Why aren’t Uncle Aziz and Ammie here? Why have the old chauffeur and Osama left? You’ve fallen out over this wedding, haven’t you?’