His uncle wasn’t in tonight so the floor was clear, and he could walk in wide circles looping in and out of their conversation with no one else bothering him. It was a weird vibe, for sure – the man looked uncomfortable all night and any time he came near, she would give him that huge smile again, rest her chin on her hand and gaze towards him, like him asking whether everything was all right with their starters (he’d brought her pakora on the house) was some sort of beautiful compliment, like he and she were in it together.

He decided their water needed refilling.

‘Robert Burns?’ the man was saying, pulling a face.

‘Contemporary versions, though. Maybe collaborating with pop or techno artists. Hip hop. The poetry angle. Sort of Martyn Bennett style. Isn’t it genius? That’s why I need someone from back home on board. I can line up the connections down here but it’s the sort of thing that will need a good grounding in the Scottish market first, will hopefully travel outwards from there. I mean, it hits the nostalgia crowd, the tartan crowd, gets in the papers because it’s a bit controversial, maybe the sort of thing that schools could use. Ready-made sales, Danny.’

‘No offence, Clio, but it’s been a while since you were up on the Scottish market, you know …’

Hamza lurked near the kitchen door for a while, unable to hear the conversation but clocking the signs of an argument building. Her fists clenched round her napkin and her face distorted – and Aftan sailed past him carrying their main courses. They both stopped, put their faces down, lifted forks in silence. Aftan slunk back, whispered in his ear, ‘Mate, you’re being fucking useless today. Sort it out.’

Ten minutes seemed like a decent amount of time to regain his cool. He began walking towards them again, checking the forks were laid correctly on the empty tables en route. He heard her laugh, loud and false.