‘It’s her age,’ said Maria.

‘She leaves the room when I walk in.’

‘You know what she’s like.’

‘You’re right. It’s like I’m an extension of her, as if she can say and do whatever she likes to me without consequence. She was never like that with Zan.’

‘Zan was golden,’ said Maria. ‘The way Mama talks about him, as if he was some saint.’

‘She adored him, but I don’t think she likes me.’ This was the first time it occurred to Jia that it was possible for her mother to love her and not like her. Perhaps Sanam Khan could sense what Jia had become, or knew what she had done, but it was more likely to be something else, something simpler.

‘You have lived a completely different life to her. She stayed home and looked after Baba, raised us. She sacrificed everything for her husband, and gave no thought to how people should treat her. You and I, we draw clear lines about how we expect to be treated. She just doesn’t understand that.’

Jia knew her little sister was right: their mother didn’t understand them and never would. Much of their love was lost in translation. Maybe it was always this way with the children of immigrants, separated by the gap that grew between culture and generation. Her mother had never laughed with them the way she laughed with those from her home country, and although Jia spoke the languages of her mother’s land, they sometimes felt heavy on her tongue.

Once in London, Maria had dropped her bags at the apartment and headed to New Bond Street with her sister’s credit card. Jia liked nice things but had little interest in shopping; Maria knew what suited her, and what she liked. It was the perfect arrangement. They would head out to dinner later, but for now Jia placed her case down and sat on the edge of the bed, taking off her shoes. Her feet ached a little from being on her feet. She used public transport when in London. Here she could be just another face in the crowd.