Every newcomer to this country fears repatriation. Even those born here aren’t exempt if their parents or grandparents weren’t – one immigrant grandparent in four is enough. It’s a provision that always puts me in mind of Bram’s racehorse, which broke just one of its four legs and had to be destroyed. The horse’s name was Catacomb; Chanel called it Catatonic. It always finished in the last three – its legs brought that animal nothing but bad luck.

‘We’re not immediate family,’ Chanel said. ‘Anyway, Bram might not be repatriated. He knows a lot of powerful people and he’s highly regarded in his field.’

‘What about that footballer whose father got into trouble? If they can repatriate a sporting hero …’

‘Bram’s not a Muslim – never has been. That’ll count in his favour. He could get off with a fine.’

‘So far, the only migrants who’ve got off with a fine have been white.’

Among the photographs on the chest of drawers, I noticed one of me as a young man. How strange, I thought, didn’t we ditch all those photos when we left? Then I realised that it was a photograph of Sydney. Sydney is a lamppost, long and lean. He takes after Chanel’s father and looks nothing like me.

Chanel said, ‘We’re so lucky that you can take care of things.’

I’d seen that one coming like a coronary. I refused. I refused at once and I went on refusing.

‘I’ve already told Bram that he can count on us,’ said Chanel. ‘He’s family.’

‘Not immediate. You said so yourself.’

‘He’s family just the same. Think of everything he’s done for Ivy. I’ve told him that we’ll help.’

‘You mean you’ve told him that I’ll help.’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Even if it’s only a fine, you know what’ll happen. It’ll go on Bram’s record and his name will be flagged. Ours as well, because we sponsored his application to immigrate.’ Chanel said, ‘Think of the children.’

I lay down on my side and stared at the walk-in wardrobe. My suits and shirts were lined up behind the mirrored doors. For the office, I always choose natural colours that don’t draw attention – mud, rain clouds, the sky with a pall of smoke. When Mel was a teenager she looked at me one morning and said, ‘If you stood next to a filing cabinet, you’d be invisible.’ Exactly! Now Chanel – Chanel! – expected me to jeopardise everything, including the no-brand identity I’d laboured to create. My throat closed up. My dear suits! Their situation, hanging there empty in the dark, was pitiful. I wanted to stroke their sleeves, assure them that they were loved and safe. Chanel seemed to be talking – did I hear ‘calling in the debt one day’? I can’t swear to it. She might have said something or nothing. But I hope I’ve made it clear that Chanel is extraordinary. It’s possible that even at that moment, she was thinking ahead.