‘What’s the time?’ I’d taken off my watch since the sweat trapped under it irritated my skin. The air was humid and the birds in the tree – now I registered their racket – were agitated, restless – as if they could feel something that we couldn’t yet sense ourselves. I looked out of the window: the orangey-purply sky was shot with white vapour trails. A canvas in itself. The air was ripe with the sense of…

‘Seven,’ Rohan said. ‘It’s date night. We’re booked at Mr Ho’s – if you still want to go?’

He stepped closer to me and ran his hands appreciatively over my bare skin, then pulled my hips against his so I could feel his hard-on, but my head was full of the weird sky, restlessness, Grace and the painting. Rohan’s hands wandered up to and slipped casually inside my bra, sending a jolt of desire through me. He kissed me deeply then pulled away, his hands in the air like he was surrendering.

‘That was just a teaser,’ he said. ‘The rest comes after dinner. If you still want to go…?’

I tore my thoughts back to reality: my husband, date night, Mr Ho’s, and nodded.

‘Yes, of course. Let’s go.’

And so I cleaned my brushes and went down to the bedroom to find something to wear. The concept of ‘date night’ was something Rohan had brought to our marriage and – although I disliked the fact we’d become the cliché of the married couple who needed to carve out time for each other – I was the first to admit it was quite useful in as much as it gave us a chance to catch up properly; it gave structure to our week. Anyhow, I liked Mr Ho’s despite its stiff pink tablecloths. It specialized in Indian-Chinese – a spiced-up version of the classics – and we were regulars. We’d sit at pretty much the same table by the window with the view of the High Street every time, and Rohan would open the menu, turn the pages while rubbing his chin, then close it with a bang and say, ‘Think I’ll have my usual, for a change.’

This night was no different.

‘Have you decided?’ Rohan asked as we sat at our table, and I shook my head, unable to say the names of dishes when all that was in my head was Grace. I put the menu carefully back down.

‘Rohan,’ I began, the thing so big in my head now I struggled to find words to contain it. ‘My friend Grace…’

‘As in, your university friend? The one you lived with?’ Rohan interrupted.

I nodded, irritated. ‘Yes, her. Well, I wanted to tell you that she’s, uh, moving back to the UK.’

And that was it. The genie was out. The secret no longer mine.