The Saturday after the exams there was no real reason to get the train to Ewan’s. He’d told me I was welcome, that we could celebrate, go over some of the questions, whatever I wanted. So I went anyway. I left earlier than usual. I didn’t tell anyone I was going. I didn’t repeat the lie about revising in the library with Nafisa. They wouldn’t have believed it anyway. There were boxes stacked in the hall. No photographs on the walls. I should’ve stayed at home to help pack, but the thought of not being with him – of not even getting to say thank you and goodbye was too much.

When he opened the door he was smiling. He was wearing denim shorts and a checked shirt. He looked like he was going to the beach.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said as soon as he saw my face, ‘come in and sit down. For God’s sake – what on earth’s the matter?’

He put his hands on my shoulders and guided me to the sofa. I couldn’t speak. I kept shaking my head to clear it. Then he was next to me. His arm was around me.

‘The exams can’t have gone that badly, surely, Sana.’

I wanted to tell him they had. They’d been a total disaster. But that wasn’t why I was crying.

‘I’m moving,’ I said finally.

‘Oh.’ He sat up. ‘Where?’

‘Leicester.’

‘That’s a bit sudden.’

‘The house is finished. It’s a private sale. I was hoping we’d stay close by, but my Dad found a new project over there, so…’

‘When are you going?’

‘A week or two.’

‘That’s quite a way. What about college?’

All the applications he’d helped me with. With my grades they’d probably be worthless anyway. I shrugged. He stood up.

‘We need a coffee.’

He went into the kitchen and I sat there thinking I should’ve stayed at home. What exactly did I expect him to do? This was how he was going to remember me. Pathetic. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. I waited for him, but I knew that after the coffee all that was really left was to go home and face Dadi. Stand back while she mapped out my future. Achieving in school is not for everyone, Sana. Opening those brown envelopes. The photos of nice young Pakistani men with big side partings and serious faces. Like they’ve been told not to smile. Like Victorians.

He put the mugs on the coffee table and sat down. He turned towards me. I thought he was going to tell me he was sorry, wish me luck, all that politeness. He didn’t. He swallowed. He looked nervous.

‘You mentioned once that you hadn’t always worn the headscarf.’

I was confused. It wasn’t what I was expecting. I put my hands to my head.