“Rashid knows all these intimately, their contours, markings and curves,” Fatima said through the smoky haze of patchouli. I hadn’t expected to be meeting Rashid’s sister on my first visit to his home, although he’d mentioned her quite a lot over the few months we’d known each other.

“It started with these, which I inherited from my father,” Rashid said, going over to the mantelpiece. He picked up a statue. “You know Cleo; everybody does, and her brother, Ptolemy, over there. She’s crafted in clay, and moulded in poly-stone, and he’s made of the finest porcelain. They’re both hand painted with real, gold paint.” He cradled the object in his arms and caressed its belly. “Cleo’s very special.”

“Yes, she is,” Fatima said, rubbing her abdomen. “Please make yourself at home Simran.” When I’d shook her hand a few minutes earlier, her palms and fingers had caught my attention; they were like those of a child, petite with baby-soft skin. Her hand was limp and she’d withdrawn it from mine in an instant…