She had called Ammi in tears the morning she woke and found his clothes and the suitcase they kept on top of the wardrobe, the one that had conveyed all their belongings to England, missing.

'What will I do?' she’d asked plaintively, marooned in this strange country where people’s smiles didn’t reach their eyes; where they asked, ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ but didn’t wait for an answer; where they drank tea with no sugar and called supper ‘having tea’.

'He’ll come back, beti,' her mother had said, the static causing her voice to echo strangely, to sound almost accusing. 'You carry on as normal. Cook for him, and wait.'

Ammi had then proceeded to visit every temple in the south of India and offer prayers and lavish gifts she could barely afford, begging the Gods and Goddesses to shower their benevolence on her only daughter and restore her husband to her. And she, tired of waiting and watching the meagre savings in their joint bank account dwindle, had started working at the local Tesco Metro.

Ammi had refused to consider the possibility that he might not return. And in the beginning, neither did she. But then one evening she did not cook lemon rice and rajma for two; she ordered the Hawaiian chicken pizza she’d always fancied from the Papa John’s flyer instead. She fixed the lamp shade. She watched Eastenders and Holby City, Britain’s Got Talent and Strictly Come Dancing: programs that he’d pooh poohed. She invited her colleagues to ‘tea’ and served Chicken Biryani and Lamb Kebabs, with Kheer studded with raisins and nuts for afters. She took ESOL and Beginner’s computer classes at the library. When the kitchen tap fell off, she asked her neighbour for advice and fixed it.

And then there was a knock on the door and unthinkingly, she opened it, letting him back into her life.

She could not stand his snores any longer. She shook him awake. He blinked, squinted up at her. 'What?'

'Leave,' she said.

'Huh?'

'I said, leave.'

'Are you serious?'

How could she ever have thought her life revolved around this man; that it depended on him?

'Please just go.'

He sat up, scratched his stomach uncomprehendingly. She absently noted that he had a welt near his belly button, garish red amongst the forest of curly black hair. His expression was that of a lost little boy. 'I... I don’t understand.'

She suppressed her mounting irritation. 'I want to be on my own.'

'But… Where will I go?’

Ah, so his bit on the side had had enough of him and kicked him out - he hadn’t tired of her and left like he had done to her.

'Not my problem.’ She shrugged. ‘Please leave.'

Tomorrow, she would go to work, make small talk with her customers: ‘How are you today? Looks like rain, doesn’t it? Would you like to buy two of these? They’re BOGOF, you know.’

She would finish her shift and come home. To her home.

She would watch Eastenders and I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. She would have a long hot bath with the Tea Tree Oil soak that had been on offer last week. She would have a glass of wine and eat oven fish and chips while watching Come Dine With Me.

She would not call Ammi.

And then she would go upstairs, lie on the bed – hers alone again - look up at the lampshade and smile.