She followed Ricky into the kitchen, marvelling at its gleaming state of disuse - the enamel hob looked like it had never been cooked on. Opening the fridge to deposit her gift of samosas and bhajis, she noticed that it was empty, apart from a pint of milk. Of course, her father couldn’t cook for himself. She guessed he ate out most nights, or perhaps ate at work.

‘This place needs a woman’s touch, Papa. It’s like a hotel room, it’s so impersonal. Do you want me to come round and decorate it for you?’

Ricky smiled at the genuine concern in his daughter’s voice. It’s company property, so I can’t do too much to it. It’s fine, I like it.’

‘Still, it’s no way to live. I could make it cosier for you. Bring some flowers, some nice cushions and candles. Help you put out your books. I could even come round and cook for you the odd night. I’ve become quite a good cook now- Parvez loves my koftas.’

Ricky remembered why his daughter was here in the first place and sighed. She clearly wanted to stay with him. ‘That’s very kind of you, Jaan, but really, there’s no need.’ Picking up the tea tray on which he had carefully laid a pot of tea, the sugar bowl and the milk jug, he walked through to the sitting room. There seemed little point in putting off the inevitable, so as he sat down, he raised the subject of the Pakistani with fatherly concern. ‘So how is young Parvez? I’m glad you’re feeding him well.’

Instead of responding with the anticipated barrage of complaints about her husband, Shona surprised her father with her warm and effusive reply. Tarvez is wonderful. He’s got a great business head; he’s already bought part of a restaurant across the street. He’s managing that as well as the tea shop now - he works so hard he hardly has a spare minute. He barely plays his music any more -you remember how he used to love his music? All he does is think about us and our future.’

Ricky was confused. This didn’t seem to add up at all. If Shona was happy with the Pakistani, then why was she here? Had she heard rumours about her mother’s insensitive flirtation with hapless Aziz? Pouring the tea with a delicate splash of milk, he passed a teacup to his daughter. ‘Thanks, Papa,’ she said and, reaching for the sugar, noticed something odd. ‘Papa, the sugar’s brown.’

’Sorry, Jaan, I know. It’s all I have.’

‘But why brown?’ Shona asked. Her father had never had brown sugar in his life, as far as she was aware.