It was the simplest question, and she suddenly realized it was the most profound. It was far easier to answer than the hackneyed, ‘Do you still love me?’ Because how, Shona thought, could you talk about love after twenty years, when the relentless tank of habit is all it’s become, from the wedding bands you still wear, to the golden earrings you put on every morning that were his first present to you, to the united front you present to both your families and to your friends? It would be stupid, infantile, to still talk of love. But did she still care if he was happy? That would answer it all. Did she still care if he was happy? Because she knew that if the answer was no, she could start to withdraw, to disengage, to break apart and mourn the loss.

The saddest thing for Shona, on that still, chill night, were the silent tears that she began to shed on realizing the brutal answer to his question; not the tears themselves, but her realization that her tears weren’t even for him, but for the coldness of her own unhappy heart.

The Octopus in the Garage

SHONA WAS UNDERSTANDABLY annoyed when she wasn’t considered the automatic replacement for the post of head of languages at her school when old Monsieur Matthieu retired. She had already given thirteen years of service to the school, and was certain she merited to be first in line. She wasn’t sure if the perplexing decision against her had been made because she was a woman, or because she was Asian, or because she didn’t have any overseas working experience, or simply because she wasn’t considered good enough. When the newly appointed head of languages turned up, male, Caucasian, barely older than her and scrubbed up well enough to charm the head teacher, she was even more annoyed. And his language experience was in Spanish, of all things. Spanish! Who learned Spanish in England? Everyone learned French, and maybe a bit of German or Italian if they were arty or romantically inclined. No one learned the language of the Costas here; Shona privately believed that the sort of Brits who went to Spain were the sort of people who thought that speaking English louder and more slowly would miraculously make them understood to the pesky foreigners. She and Parvez had taken most of their family holidays in different parts of France, when they weren’t dutifully visiting Pakistan or Bangladesh.