She laughed meanly. ‘What do you know about hard? My husband lies in a hospital now. He might die. Then what will happen to me? How will I live?’ She was adamant, shrieking, ‘Everyone talks about accepting this, accepting that. Everything must be accepted. It’s God’s will. It’s someone’s will. As if we are nothing – mud – shit – I do not accept. You listen to me: I do not accept.’

‘Where are the girls?’ I asked.

Lenin had stalked back into the room. He looked worried. ‘Amma,’ he kept saying, but she turned to him wildly. ‘Shut up! How many times I told you, now is not the time to talk. My daughters! Yes, what will happen to those girls now? They are at my mother’s. They’re not safe here.’

‘I must find Lucy. You call me if you need anything.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she sneered. ‘You are always so available.’

When I go downstairs, Praveen is standing with Kavitha by the kitchen island fixing martinis, plopping olives into long-stemmed glasses. ‘Come here, darling,’ he says, wrapping his arms around me, squeezing my ribs.

I feel like how I used to when Papi and Ma fought. It was always a kind of battering. After long arguments, after everything had been said and nothing could be taken back, one or the other would make a small touch, an advance. Usually Ma. And it always surprised me how that managed to restore things. But isn’t everything broken? I wanted to ask. Haven’t you shattered everything that you’ve taken so long to build? All the days of calm. Aren’t you exhausted by each other?

The sun appears cauldron-like, and by nine in the morning the whole sky is milk-white with heat. The sea murmurs beneath and I can hear the sounds of a few catamarans puttering across the water. I look at the tops of the casuarina trees from bed. They are motionless, not a hint of breeze. There is clattering in the kitchen below. Kavitha, always an early riser, would have returned from a walk. She would have known to take the dogs with her. I wonder if Golly is back. I know I should shower, descend, begin, but my legs feel like axes – leaden, directionless.

I thought I heard Lucia shuffling down the corridor last night. She had been so excited about Bagheera’s new babies. It had become a ritual – talking about the new pups, how many they’d be, what colour, what names. It was almost a way of getting back together.

I reach for my iPod, push the earphones into my ears. Jacqueline du Pré. Elgar’s cello concerto. I know there will be emails from my lawyer Mr Sriram waiting. Praveen will want an extensive breakfast discussion about how to proceed. But I feel like a person dying or dead. I want to be alone.

A hand at my shoulder. ‘Grace, wake up.’