August 1972

       Bombay, India

      Audrey walks into her kitchen and surveys the scene. Ralph’s cook is at the epicentre of what looks like a minihurricane. Five of the six burners on the hob have pans bubbling on them. The oven’s on and the worktops are all in use: chopping boards, knives, vegetables, and empty dishes cover every surface. The ceiling fans are whirring but, still, the air is plump with steam.

      ‘Madam, you want taste?’ the cook asks.

      Audrey waves her hand. ‘No. No, thank you. You make Sir’s favourite?’

      ‘Haan,’ the cook nods.

      ‘Acchaa. Lovely. Thank you.’

      Audrey takes one more look around the kitchen, happy that everything’s under control.

      ‘Everything will be ready for eight o’clock?’ Audrey asks. ‘Send snacks and drinks out to the garden with Madhu, and then serve dinner in the house.’

      The cook nods and Audrey backs out of the kitchen.

      Already dressed for dinner, she drifts out of the back door and into the garden, where she stops for a second to inhale the heady scent of the night jasmine. It’s rained heavily today and this magnifies the myriad fragrances rising from the flowerbeds. Audrey breathes in deeply, this smell of earth, rain, and flowers now as vital to her soul as oxygen is to her lungs. The garden’s well-established and there’s evidence in the riot of colour and scent that it’s well taken care of by the gardener who’s worked at the house for decades. Audrey walks slowly across the lawn, gently touching the leaves and petals of her favourite blooms. In the distance, under the hum of the city, she can sense the gentle shifting of the sea. She breathes in deeply. It’ll be all right, she tells herself. He loves you.

      It’s been a tough few weeks since the attack outside the restaurant. Although the law sided with Ralph – it was clearly self-defence – he’s been tense, and Audrey’s barely slept; black circles hang under her eyes; there’s a pallor to her skin. A distance has crept between the two of them and Audrey senses that she’s fallen off the pedestal on which Ralph once placed her. Although that night has never again been alluded to, the weight of blame hangs heavy. In every breath, in every movement, Ralph lets Audrey know that he thinks what happened is her fault. If only she’d stayed in the restaurant; if only she’d done as he’d said.

      Tonight is Audrey’s attempt to make everything right once more – to win back the respect of her husband – to apologise, because, without the pedestal, without Ralph’s adoration and respect, the little emotional games he plays with her take on a darkness. They become something else: something Audrey doesn’t want to think about.

      The screen door opens behind her and Audrey turns to see Ralph standing in the doorway.

      ‘What’s going on?’ he asks. ‘We don’t have guests.’

      Audrey takes a deep breath and steps towards him. Gingerly, she positions her body against his and slips her arms around his waist.

      ‘Can’t I spoil my husband from time to time?’

      Ralph’s body doesn’t soften. He returns the embrace stiffly, one arm loosely around her shoulders. Audrey leans in to kiss him and notices at once a hint of perfume on his skin. She could ask him where he’s been but she knows she won’t get an honest answer, and tonight is a night for apologies, not recriminations.

      Ralph breaks away from her; starts to walk down the garden.

      Audrey watches as he idles down the lawn, then turns and faces the house, his hands on his hips. She can’t read the expression on his face; it’s not one she’s familiar with. Madhu appears with the drinks and snacks and sets them up on the table on the terrace. Ralph strides back up the garden, splashes some gin into a tumbler, adds ice, fresh lime and tonic, takes a sip. He picks over the snacks that the cook’s prepared, picks up a samosa, blows on it, and pops it in his mouth.

      ‘Red. Sit down,’ he says, his mouth still full, flecks of pastry escaping as he speaks. He nods to the table. ‘I don’t know what all this is for, but I have something to tell you.’

      Audrey goes silently to the chair, sits down. She puts her hands neatly on the table, her fingers intertwined.

      ‘What is it?’ She cocks her head. Ralph chews. Audrey waits for him to swallow.

      ‘Something important,’ he says.

      Audrey raises one shoulder in the tiniest of shrugs. It’s a question: what?

      Ralph looks at her levelly, steeples his hands in front of his mouth, index fingers touching his lips: ‘We’re moving to England.’

      Audrey knows better than to say anything before Ralph’s finished.

      ‘There’s no longer a role for me here in Bombay,’ he says. ‘My company will be relocating us.’

      ‘Is this to do with …?’ she can’t say it. She can’t mention the dead man. But maybe the recent court case sits uncomfortably with his company: no-one wants a killer on their payroll. Ralph holds up a hand to stop her.

      ‘As I said, there’s no longer a role for me here in Bombay.’ He pauses. ‘For the record, it is nothing whatsoever to do with events that may have taken place.’

      They sit in silence. Audrey’s shocked. She’d thought they would remain in India long-term. It’s her home now. She thinks of the life she’s built for herself here; the way she’s fallen in love with India. She’s going to miss the garden, the house – the ayah, the houseboy, the cook. She’s going to miss the teeming mass of humanity that is Bombay; the sights, the smells, the sounds, the heat, the relief that the monsoon brings. She’s going to miss Janet and her precious visits to the dusty church. England in comparison seems dreary – in her mind, it’s flat, two-dimensional. For Audrey, the greyness of her home country has grown out of all proportion; she’s forgotten that England has sunshine, too. In her memory, the sun never shines back home; England is a country of tragedy and of gravestones; a country in which even nature cries real tears.

      ‘You needn’t worry about a thing,’ says Ralph after some time. ‘I have funds to purchase a house of significant standing in London.’

      ‘And Madhu?’ asks Audrey. ‘Will she come with us?’

      Ralph lets out a bark of a laugh. ‘You’ll have to learn to look after the children yourself. You won’t need to work. How difficult will it be to look after two small children? Millions of women do it.’

      Audrey remains silent. The fact is, while she was happy enough to take on the twins, parenting’s far harder than she imagined. She’s not a natural mother: soothing crying babies doesn’t come easily to her and she’s become dependent on the ayah, for whom these things are intuitive. ‘Magic Madhu,’ she says gratefully when the ayah eases John out of a tantrum or helps Alexandra drop off to sleep. The thought of having to get up in the night to deal with the vagaries of the children terrifies her almost