With the tickets paid for, he looked up to see what was keeping Júlía, and his heart lurched. She was standing in conversation with the cook, who was still holding their food. What was so special about a kebab that it called for a discussion? Júlía had her back to him, but he saw the long hair hanging down her back shiver as she laughed. What could this burger-flipping cook in a stained apron have to say that was so funny? The man had black hair and there was a dark, Arab look about him, something that applied to practically all the staff in this place. He had to be a Muslim.

Anton felt the anger swell inside him and rush to his head as he marched over to the counter.

‘Are we going to eat this before it gets cold?’ he demanded, snatching the baskets from the man’s hands and turning to bang them down on the table.

Júlía followed and took her time sitting down, taking off her coat and hanging it over the back of her chair.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, giving him a searching look.

Anton stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth, chewed but then struggled to swallow as his throat had suddenly gone dry. He took a gulp of his drink to help it down, almost choked, and finally managed to swallow, by which time she had been waiting for an answer for a while.

‘What’s the matter, Anton?’

‘Why were you talking to the cook?’ he demanded.

‘Because I know him a bit.’

Júlía pulled her basket closer and began salting her food. She always salted before tasting.

‘And how do you know him?’ he asked.

‘He’s a friend of a friend,’ she said and smiled.

Anton was in no mood to smile back.

‘And what was so funny?’

‘What?’

‘What was so funny that he made you laugh so much?’

‘Nothing special. Just chat, y’know,’ she said, her eyes questioning.

He could no longer hold back.

‘No, I don’t know what you could have been talking to that guy about. How old is he, anyway?’

There was a stronger note of accusation in Anton’s voice than he had intended.

Júlía pushed her food from her and folded her arms.

‘How should I know how old he is? Twenty-something, probably.’

‘And where’s he from?’

‘He’s from Syria.’

‘I knew it,’ Anton hissed. ‘You’ll end up married to some Muslim.’

He could hear that his voice sounded angry, furious, even, but in reality he was struggling to hold back tears. Júlía stood up, took her coat from the back of the chair and walked out. Anton sat still for a moment, took a couple of deep breaths, and leaped to his feet to hurry out after her.

‘I’m sorry, Júlía,’ he said as he caught her up. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

She walked in silence, staring straight ahead. He reached for her hand, but she didn’t do it – didn’t give him her little finger to hook into. Instead she pulled her hand away and wrapped her coat more tightly around her.