I was planning to visit Ajmer with Sabah, see my uncle in Aligarh and then fly to Bombay, from where I would go back to London. I had bought my ticket on a special deal that allowed me to stay in India a month, but if I postponed my departure I’d have to pay a forfeit. Farhan had changed my bookings soon after I arrived to allow me to leave from Bombay, as he said that travelling back to Delhi only to fly out to London again would be an unnecessary waste of a day in airports and planes.

I had only about nine days of my holiday left.

‘I can’t, Marco. I have to go back.’

‘Mehran, we made some plans. You promised me three weeks in India. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet earlier, I told you. But you said you were coming in October. When I left Rome you hadn’t even booked your flight. I should have known. The bad fairy’s waiting.’

For a moment I didn’t know who he was talking about. Then I realised that in the last week he hadn’t asked me any questions about Riccarda. And I, of course, hadn’t told him that our moment, Riccarda’s and mine, was over. I wanted to say something but felt it was disloyal to Riccarda.

We got back to our shared room in the guest house. He took a shower before me and went straight to his bed. When I came out from the bathroom later his face was turned to the wall, and he didn’t talk. We’ve been up since five, I thought: he must be exhausted. I was.

In the middle of the night I heard footsteps on the veranda. I sensed he was smoking out there. I didn’t open my eyes.