Solace in the arms of a man or at the bottom of an expensive bottle of wine – the traditions of the successful circles she frequented – were not for her. She needed the ordinariness of life to restore order. Dressed in black lounge clothes, a cashmere blanket waiting for her on the couch and the vegan take-out on speed dial, she let the normality of the evening seep in. The dulcet tones of Reza Aslan came on, as Metaphysical Milkshake asked its listeners, ‘Why are we so lonely?’ The room was warm; the soft scent of Jo Malone filled the air. Candles were dripping on to the windowsill, rivers of wax pooling from one to the other and setting to form islands. Their light was the only kind she could tolerate at the start of a migraine.
Her friend’s Pakistani grandmother who’d visited had asked, ‘Yahan kya bijli bahut jaatee hai?’ They’d laughed at the suggestion that electrical companies might cut the power to London homes. It was a regular occurrence in Karachi, Lahore and Peshawar, done to avoid placing an excessive load on the generating plant, but here among the tenants of Jia’s Knightsbridge apartment building, it would have caused uproar.
A mobile phone began to hum persistently somewhere in another room. Jia left the comfort of her couch in search of it. It was rare for her to receive calls this late.
She stepped across the scattered clothes in her bedroom and moved towards the bed. She had undressed quickly, not caring where things landed. The maid would pick them up and hang them and send them to the dry cleaners in the morning. Cheeks to the carpet, the red soles of her work shoes chastised her. A skirt lay in a heap next to the kingsize bed, along with a soft silk blouse. Its mate, the Savile Row jacket, was neatly placed on top of the covers; beside it sat a pebble-coloured Birkin handbag. It was vibrating. It was fair to say that Jia Khan was a gently vain woman.
The phone stopped ringing as soon as she found it. ‘Baba jaan’ flashed up on the missed call log. She was about to put it down when it rang again. He knew she was avoiding him. ‘Jia Khan never whines,’ she’d overheard him saying to her mother once, ‘she protests in silence.’ He was goading her to hit ‘decline’, and so she did. A minute later the phone buzzed, signalling he’d left a voicemail.
Akbar Khan’s message was as concise as his relationship with his daughter: ‘The car will be with you at 6.00P.M. I am sending my personal driver, Michael. Do not be late, and don’t make him wait.’ The sound of his voice made her bristle, almost pushing her back to teenage strop and pout. She was tempted to call him back and tell him she wasn’t coming. But far too many years had passed for her to act that way. And besides, she’d made a promise to her little sister Maria.
‘Don’t fall down that rabbit hole of rage when Baba jaan calls.’
‘I don’t do that. Do I do that?’
‘I won’t get married if you don’t come. I will send the baraat away.’ And although Jia knew Maria’s threat was empty, she had agreed. After fifteen years away, she was going back to Pukhtun House. Now was as a good a time as any to face old foes, even ones that were family.
She put the phone down on the bedside table and returned to the warm sofa. She tried to get back to the podcast she’d been listening to but found herself unable to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering back to the call; something about it wasn’t right. Her father’s voice, normally strong and decisive, had sounded worn. She had never known Akbar Khan to waver. It was one of his countless strengths; it was how he controlled a room. As she picked over his words and pauses, someone walked over her grave and she shivered. She remembered something he’d said to her a long time ago: ‘Heaven, hell, present, past and future are all dimensions that operate in the same space. What you experience depends on how you see the world.’ She wondered which of the dimensions he was caught up in today and what he was planning for her.
CHAPTER 3
Though Jia Khan had not visited her parents in fifteen years, the wedding wouldn’t be her first time back in the city where she was raised. A court case had taken her there less than a year ago. It had felt strange to be back and not stay at her parents’ place, but she hadn’t been ready for a family reunion then, so she’d stayed in a hotel across from the Crown Court, venturing into neighbouring streets only to grab some lunch and return. She’d eaten dinner in the hotel and spent her evenings in her room, poring over case files. It had been a relief, therefore, when the trial came to a close, and not just because it meant she could return to London, but because the case had been an unsettling one.
Jia remembered that last day in court well. Windscreens were iced over, chins buried deep in scarves, any escaping breath turning to mist, as she crossed the courtyard from the hotel to the Crown Court. Buttoned up, her boots warm and her leather gloves protecting her from the bitter wind, she’d felt calm and controlled, ready to demand justice for her client.
The court dates had been issued earlier than expected, as her client had predicted. ‘My cousin will make some calls,’ he’d said. But Jia hadn’t taken him seriously. She’d heard clients drop the names of people they said would get them off or out of
