Sharif took a deep breath, and tried to think of a way he didn’t have to say the words; it would be way too humiliating to have to ask outright. ‘Do you remember that Indian pop song that I told you we used to dance to when we were children in the flat above the restaurant?’ he asked.

’Yes,’ Candida nodded. ‘Ilu, Ilu! means I love …’

Sharif interrupted her. ‘That. Why don’t you ever say that. Ilu, I mean. You know how I feel about you.’

‘Oh, is that all you meant? Well, you know how I feel about you, too,’ Candida said, smiling warmly. ‘It just seems such a big word, and we’re maybe too young to use words like that unless we’re really sure we know what they mean, and besides, it wouldn’t be fair, to you, I mean. How could I talk about things like that, when I still can’t even tell my family about us, until I’m sure that Daddy is better.’

‘He might never get better,’ Sharif said petulantly. ‘He’s getting on a bit, isn’t he? I think my old grandad could give him a run for his money.’

Candida leaned over to his furrowed brow and kissed him between his eyebrows where the flesh had gathered in a frown. ‘You look so cute when you do that,’ she said, getting out of bed and stretching her arms.

After Candida had left, Sharif threw away the pizza box and beer cans with a flourish; he took a lazy man’s satisfaction in that the only washing up he had to show for his romantic lunch was Candida’s wine glass, and the knife and fork she had insisted on using. He left these on the draining board, in the hope that one of his flatmates might wash them up for him. Micky had moved in after he had finished his A levels, and had proved to be surprisingly well house-trained.

Sharif decided to pop by the Tooting house on a whim. He knew his mother was moving some of her stuff out that afternoon with his grandad, who was helping her move to his barely used Clapham flat. Omar was still in Spain, and she had deliberately not asked Sharif to help, as she didn’t want it to look like she was asking him to take sides against his dad. As he got to the front door, he heard raised voices. Perhaps Dad had come back, and they were having an argument. But then his parents never really had arguments. When they were angry at each other, there were just lots of long, painful silences, punctuated by unnecessarily loud clattering in the kitchen or bathroom. He went to walk away, but then curiosity got the better of him, and he quietly let himself in the back door, and went into the kitchen.