There are moments when I feel I have nothing to do with any of the life around me. I have no idea what most people find delectable, what pushes them to betray or lift up another person. Yesterday at brunch, someone asked what I thought about Aamir Khan’s acting in PK. ‘I don’t watch Hindi movies,’ I said. This woman was a former Ms Madras – a fetching thing with somewhat overexaggerated eyes and a stage-one zit marring her forehead. ‘You don’t watch Hindi movies,’ she repeated. ‘At all?’ I told her I lived in a place far from cinemas, that mostly I watched cartoons and nature documentaries, but my interest in movies in any language had just died, and I hadn’t bothered to question it. ‘But don’t you feel left out?’ she asked. And it went like this, the former Ms Madras quizzing me about my village life, her hands getting increasingly hysterical as I told her about mouse killings and dog poisonings. I wanted to ask, Isn’t it tiring to be a former? Doesn’t that define the quality of your life to such an extent that you are always looking backwards? Former Ms Madras, former finance minister, former wife.

‘You should hire a security team,’ she said.

‘So tell me,’ I said, ‘how did you meet your husband?’

The man she was married to sat across from her. He had flexible fingers that he bent backwards vigorously while listening, a delicate face, a carving knife for a mouth. ‘She used to play tennikoit in school,’ he answered. ‘I met her at a party where I was flying my fucking balls off, went down on one knee and proposed. She said no, but I persisted. You married?’

‘Yes. But I’m having an affair.’

Everyone but the former Ms Madras and her husband looked shocked. ‘I like this girl,’ the beauty queen said. ‘Come and visit us when you’re in town next. We’ll force you to watch a movie. We have the most fabulous home-entertainment system. Now listen, be a sweetie and text me about putting pimple cream on my face when I get home, will you?’

Blake had written several emails proposing reconciliation. I had replied saying I’d met someone, that I was happy and was sorry he couldn’t move on. Perhaps we should get divorced? He wrote back, a perturbed ramble about infidelity, which I thought quite unfair, because while we’d been together, I’d held steadfastly to him.