Sara searched for an escape route but the geography of the room was against her. The exit was at its lower level; she would have to walk directly past Kareem to reach it. Instead it was he who made the first gesture, moving up and beside her before she had time to think.

‘Sara!’ He smiled, stretching out his arms.

‘Kareem.’ The magnetism was still there, the beam of energy from those brown eyes. She looked at him, avoiding any animation, keeping her hands by her side.

Maryam joined them. ‘Did you ever meet Sara?’ asked Kareem innocently; he must have known she had not.

‘I would never forget if I had,’ said Maryam with gushing flattery.

‘We’re going to eat,’ said Kareem, ‘you must join us.’

Sara wished she had a prepared excuse that would have stopped him. ‘No really, I must—’

‘Of course you will come. We have room in the car. We are meeting a friend or two who will interest you.’

The president of the society loomed alongside. ‘Yes, you must come.’ She felt locked between them, their prisoner. But there was a tiny flicker of curiosity too.

The sports car had been replaced by something much larger with tinted windows. Kareem and the president sat in the front, Maryam and Sara in the back.

‘How did you know it would be Kareem speaking?’ asked Maryam.

‘I didn’t,’ replied Sara. ‘No names were given.’ She paused, catching sight of him glancing at her in his rear-view mirror. ‘It was a surprise.’

‘A good one, I hope.’ Sara did not answer. ‘How long have you known Kareem?’ asked Maryam.

‘Oh, we go back a while.’

‘Did you meet at university?’

‘Yes. His third year, I think. And you?’

‘I was doing jobs here and there,’ Maryam answered vaguely. ‘There was no university for me.’ Sara detected bitterness and the shutters rising. There was a waspishness and also a fragility about her.

In silence, they pretended to listen to the two men in front. Through the tinted window, Sara saw the lights of King’s Cross and St Pancras struggling against the evening sun as they headed west, finally turning into Edgware Road and towards Marble Arch. Mothers on pavements in black burqas wheeling babies in smart new buggies, and the occasional open-topped Ferrari or Lamborghini with Kuwaiti or Qatari number plates, driven by white-shirted young men wearing gold neck chains, revealed the oil-enriched tip of England’s inverted pyramid of Islam. It wasn’t like that in the suburbs of Bradford and Birmingham.

Stopped at traffic lights, Kareem turned round. ‘Bayswater. Full of Arabs like me. And the best Lebanese restaurant in London.’ The funds continued to flow.