Shona did not understand why her mother was talking like a jealous wife. Uncle Aziz was free to marry whoever he wanted, although now that he was in his late fifties, most of Dhaka society would have no longer expected it. People joked that he was married to his farms, and to his family. She was about to say something calming to her mother, when she noticed the photo of her mother on the dresser. It was taken maybe ten years ago at a charity event in Dhaka, and her mother looked radiant and beautiful, and very happy. She had seen the photo many times before, but had never registered who her mother was dancing with, as his back was to the camera and the face couldn’t quite be seen. Of course, it was Uncle Aziz; her father never danced, and would certainly not have gone willingly to one of those events during his flying visits back, even if Henna had deigned to ask him. Realization finally dawned on her, as she remembered the unkind, unfounded words of gossips all those years ago, and she sat down heavily on the divan.

‘Uncle Aziz?’ she asked. ‘All this time, you and Uncle Aziz? Here in this house?’

Henna looked pitifully at Shona. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so naive, child,’ she spat impatiently. ‘Did you think I would sit here like a grieving widow while your father played with his Air Miles? Playing the English gentleman over in the UK, playing house with some insipid, weak-chinned, crooked-toothed Lady Limey?’

Shona had to admit that she was indeed, a stupid, stupid girl. ‘You knew? About Papa and Verity? You know?’ Everyone, it seemed, knew about the family skeletons, secrets and hidden liaisons apart from her. She struggled to find a firm place for her confused thoughts to settle. ‘So Papa knew about you, too? He must have.’

Henna looked impatiently at Shona. ‘Arré, what did I do to have such a slow daughter!’ she muttered, practically rolling her eyes. ‘If your darling father knew, do you think he would be flying back here with such guilty regularity, do you think he would be keeping up appearances over here with such efficiency, do you think he would be sending back such a big chunk of his salary to us every month? Of course your father does not know; he suspects, as he has suspected us for years because of the bloody gossiping servants, like your precious Osama, but he was too guilty himself to ever confront us. If your father found out, I would have had to divorce him and marry Aziz; and I would have lost my position in society here with the scandal.’