‘Sorry, sorry,’ Rohini says, shoving them out of the way. ‘I’m going to put the food out.’

We put the biryani into big bowls – one vegetarian, one mutton. Raitha, pappads, pickles. ‘That Gauri,’ Rohini says. ‘Such a bloody nosy person. Every time I see her she asks me when I’m going to have kids. Fuck. I mean, what the hell?’

‘Well,’ I say, ‘having a kid has kind of been the centrepiece of her life, so I suppose for people like that it’s hard to imagine what else there could be.’

‘And you?’

‘What?’

‘Are you going to have kids?’

I laugh. ‘You’re doing a Gauri on me.’

‘I’ve earned it, right?’

‘I’ve inherited a kid. That’s plenty.’

We haul the platters of food onto the table. I’ve already put some biryani aside in Tupperware boxes to take back for Mallika and Lucia. A stab of sadness. That feeling of being among people and feeling alone. Of understanding that this is not your life but it will have to do.

‘Jaan,’ Vik says, coming over to me. He has taken to calling me Jaan. My Life. My Love. ‘Come with me.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I want to eat first. Let’s eat.’

We take plates of food onto the balcony. There are no stars to be seen, but all around, in the surrounding apartment buildings, the blue lights of televisions are flickering in the windows. Vik sits beside me, spooning biryani into his mouth. He has a way of eating, his left hand turned over like a leaf under his chin to catch any spilled grains of rice.

‘I don’t think we can do this any more,’ I say.

He puts his plate aside, puts that left leaf-like hand on my thigh. ‘What are you talking about, Jaan? It’s you and me. Forget about everything else.’

We both know it’s hardly enough but for tonight I let it go. We walk back into the flat. Loulou and Leela are tussling on the carpet. They’re growling and snarling, and Tanya’s toddler, who sits just a foot away from them, is bawling, saying, ‘Mummy, Mummy, they took Mr Pig.’

The Pomeranians cannot be broken up. Rohini is standing above them, shrieking, ‘Stop it, stop it!’ but the dogs don’t hear. They are intent on destroying the thing – teeth bared, their tiny bodies jerking around. They tear at the toy until all the stuffing of Mr Pig’s entrails has been gouged out and strewn over the carpet. After they finish, the fur on their backs that has been standing on end subsides a little, and they step away from each other. Rohini beats their noses with the flat of her fingers. ‘Bad, bad dogs,’ she shouts.

Tanya scoops up her child, who is so tired she is letting loose a long string of sounds from her mouth, refusing to sit still at her mother’s hip, lurching up and down violently, her cheeks red, her eyes drawn shut like two black pins. The noise comes from the centre of her, and I feel it pulling something out of me – unreasonable and insistent. Tanya goes to her flat next door without saying anything to anyone. Praveen follows in her wake. ‘I’ll just make sure she’s all right.’