‘You can laugh all you like, but I am secure in my masculinity.’

She pushed past him and started snooping around the immaculately tidy two-bedroom apartment. ‘Where’s all the squalor?’ she asked hopefully.

‘The what?’

‘The squalor. The filth. The slaves. Y’know, why you didn’t want me over.’

Eram shoved his hands into his pockets. He was clearly uncomfortable. ‘No, it’s nothing like that, it’s just—’

‘ERAM.’ The voice came from somewhere within the apartment. ‘IS THAT THE CLEANING WOMAN? TELL HER SHE’S LATE.’

Faizl charged out of the kitchen. To Gehna, who had never met him, the tall, bearded man in an apron bearing down on them seemed a little intimidating. Not knowing that Parkinson’s caused involuntary muscle tremors, she couldn’t understand why he was waving a spatula in circles at her.

‘You’re late,’ he told her. ‘It’s almost time for me to go to work and you—’

‘Pa. This isn’t the cleaning woman. Gehna’s a friend of mine. Gehna, my father.’

‘Not the cleaning woman? No, of course she isn’t.’ For a moment, Faizl looked lost. Then he collected himself. ‘My apologies, Gehna. I’m not used to guests, especially not Eram’s friends. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

He stuck the spatula out instead of his hand and Gehna politely shook it. ‘Hi. Nice to meet you too.’

‘You’re just in time to join us,’ Faizl said. ‘Do you like omelettes? I’m not one to boast, but people who have had my omelette have been known to never eat another. Either because they know they will never again taste anything so sublime,’ he winked at her, ‘or because I’ve poisoned them. Follow me, please.’

He marched back towards the kitchen. Gehna followed, raising a quizzical eyebrow at Eram.

‘He thinks it’s 6.30 a.m.,’ he said. ‘We’re having breakfast. I’m sorry, this is why—’

‘Stoppit. I like him. And who doesn’t love breakfast for dinner?’

Over the next half an hour, Eram was struck speechless by the change in Faizl. Gone was the sullen, confused and eccentric man-child he had got used to living with for the past five years. This Faizl, having drafted Gehna as his sous-chef, was totally sure of himself. He showed Gehna how to separate the eggs, how to whip the whites into a froth so thick that it would stay inside an overturned bowl. Together they sliced the potatoes, chopped parsley, grated cheese and grilled the tomatoes. All the while, Faizl kept up a constant flow of banter, speaking with Gehna as he never would with Eram.

‘Cooking and sex,’ he said, ‘are close cousins.’

‘Pa,’ Eram said, shocked. He had never heard his father talk about sex before. It felt wrong.

‘What?’ Faizl said. ‘It’s true. They are both sensual arts. There is no better way to court a woman than to cook for her. How do you think I got your mother to notice me? It certainly wasn’t my movie-star looks.’ He turned to mug for Gehna, showing her a pouty profile of his face. She laughed.