‘Just send me the copies, Moni, and we can discuss all that later. A step at a time.’ He spoke as if all she needed was for him to jolly her along.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m not at home. I told you all this. I told you about the respite for Adam and the trip with Salma.’
‘Ah yes, I remember now. How inconvenient! When will you get back? Can’t you cut your visit short for this?’
‘That’s not the point,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘I told you a thousand times. Here is the best place for Adam. Here is where he’s getting the right treatment, he might even go to a special school. He—’
‘But I am not there, Moni. I am here, and I want my wife and son with me. It’s as simple as that.’
She became angry now, but still she was conscious of her surroundings, the lunchtime restaurant, people coming in and leaving while she argued out loud in Arabic. ‘You don’t even say his name,’ she said, and that was a mistake because it brought tears to her eyes. ‘You don’t even say Adam. You can’t bring yourself to say it.’ She did not want to sob in public, so she hung up.
He immediately called her back. ‘Adam. There, I’m saying his name. Adam. Happy? Listen, I’m earning well here. I don’t pay a penny in taxes. If you expect me to give this up and come back to you, then you’re dreaming. We need to move on, Moni.’
No, it was not enough.
‘You need to get back on track, Moni. Be fair to yourself. Get this through your head, Adam isn’t going to get better—’
‘He is getting better. Not cured. But the massage therapy and the cognitive therapy are helping. In little ways. In Saudi there will be nothing for him. He’ll be stuck at home all day, every day.’
‘I’ll get help. I promise you. I’ll get you a Filipina.’
‘I don’t want a Filipina!’ People looked up from their plates as she shouted into her phone.
‘Moni, you’re being unreasonable. This isn’t how we imagined our future. This isn’t what we planned.’
He was right: the togetherness, the love, her banking career were all expendable. Life was about getting through each day; it was no longer about futures. ‘It’s fine that you come back for holidays,’ she said.
‘A month,’ he snorted. ‘Out of the twelve. One month in which you get to play the part of a wife. That sounds fair to you?’
‘No one is stopping you from coming back. Get a job here.’
‘It’s that easy, is it? And even if I do get a job as I had before, why live where I’m not wanted? Here I come and go as I like without ever having to justify myself. On Fridays I wear my jellabiya and saunter to the mosque in my slippers. There is no pressure to prove anything. I do my work and get paid. No nonsense.’
‘How dare you talk like this! You aren’t thinking about Adam. You want to pretend he doesn’t exist. But he does.’
‘Actually, I am thinking about him growing up where he’s seen as a burden. Where’s your pride, Moni? You’re not wanted in Britain. People see you as a leech benefiting from the free health system.’
‘I don’t care what anyone thinks as long as it’s good for Adam. You just don’t get it.’ She sensed the disapproval of the restaurant gathering around her. Her coffees getting cold. When Murtada started to protest, she said, ‘I can’t talk now, I have to go.’
With trembling hands, she carried the lattes back to the car. She had bought some shortbread too. Salma started to make her way through it, in no great hurry to start driving. Iman didn’t want to eat. She had cramps and the hot drink was comfort enough. Moni felt congested as if the sob threatening to rise from her was a tangible object, stuck in her throat. Even sipping the sweet milky coffee was an effort. Her phone rang. Her first thought was that it was Adam’s nursing home, but it was Murtada again. She rejected the call.
‘Let’s play a game,’ said Salma, enlivened by caffeine and sugar. ‘Just for fun, let’s imagine a hypothetical situation.’ Iman turned to her with a smile. She would play along with her friend. For Moni, though, the delight in Salma’s voice sounded foreign. She craned her head forward to understand.
Salma said, ‘Imagine a hypothetical situation in which you are allowed to commit one sin and get away with it. Only one major sin. It would be wiped clean straight afterwards and would never count against you in this life or the next. What would you do?’
Kill Murtada, thought Moni. No, kill myself. No, kill both Adam and myself. Her eyes filled with tears. She had been counselled once and was told that these fantasies of self-harm were signals that she was exhausted, highly stressed, on the verge of not coping. This was the sort of professional guidance Moni appreciated. No one in Saudi would give her that. Instead she would sit in her nightdress with the air conditioner on full blast watching television while the Filipina maid fetched and carried. Whenever she wanted to go out she would put on her black abaya on top of her nightdress and for many reasons, ranging from lack of wheelchair access to intrusive do-gooders and fools, she would not be able to take Adam with her.
Salma was oblivious to Moni’s mood. She sipped her coffee and mimicked the voice of a TV game show, ‘One chance to do whatever haram you’ve always wanted to do. Free without repercussion. What would it be?’ She turned to look at Iman and said gleefully, ‘I know what I would do. But you say first, Iman.’
Salma was visualising this as a fun activity. Each of them would say something outrageous followed by peals of laughter.
Iman considered Salma’s question. Already every minute of every day, the angel on her left
