She kissed him on the cheek, accepting his apology. She slipped off her shoes by the door and hung up her mac, before walking to the kitchen with the provisions she’d brought. ‘I’ve got some time before my meeting. Why don’t you finish your work, and I’ll heat this up for you?’ she said.

He was going to protest, but changed his mind. It was rare for him to be looked after by someone else, and so he accepted the help graciously, taking a seat at the kitchen table. He watched her move around the room, taking out bowls and glasses and warming up food, like this was normal. ‘So, this is how it feels,’ he said. ‘I could get used to this.’

She put the bowl down in front of him, along with a napkin and spoon. The fragrance of chicken broth, cooked with onion and garlic, cloves, peppercorns and whole coriander wafted towards him. She waited expectantly as he put the spoon to his mouth. His face conveyed the right response: it was delicious. ‘Don’t get used to it,’ she said, and then laughed.

Little by little Jia began to seep into Elyas and Ahad’s life more and more. Elyas had extended his stay after the previous editor of the paper decided he didn’t want to return from his six-month sabbatical. He was eighteen months into the job now and didn’t know whether to take up the permanent post they had offered him – a lot depended on what happened with Jia. Things had remained steady and secretive and he’d been too busy to ask questions up until now.

‘So, are we going to talk about what’s been going on or just pretend that nothing is?’ Elyas said one day, waving at Ahad on the pitch. They were at a rugby match. Ahad was on his college team.

‘Where do you want to start?’ she asked.

The way he felt about her made him uncomfortable. He had built his house on a fault line and was expecting to avoid an earthquake. People always said that there were two sides to every argument but he knew that wasn’t true. There were always three: your side, their side and the truth. In this case the truth was a distant hope and Jia’s side had never been told. They discussed everything around them except her leaving him. And they never talked about her stolen visits to his house in the night.

‘You would never have said that ten years ago,’ he said.

‘Things change.’

‘That they do,’ he agreed. ‘You and I being whatever we are…and me sending Ahad to this poncy school with all these middle-class white boys in blazers and hats. What has happened to us?’

‘You always said I was the champagne socialist.’