Despite the years, her handwriting remains unchanged: big loops, rounded forms and circles for dots. I smile, then tut. She’s put Sydney on the envelope rather than Melbourne. Judging by the date on the postmark, it’s been round the whole of Australia to get here.

I ease out the card, and a stream of glitter and sequins spills out. I laugh. It’s like a rainbow’s exploded over the table. The glossy black card is decorated with a swirl of tendrils and heart-shaped leaves. Across the middle, embossed in silver, two names:

“Shazia & Majid”

I shake my head. Where has the time gone? One minute, Shazia and I are in makeshift saris pretending to be Bollywood starlets; the next, she’s all grown-up and getting married.

Opening the card, I read the invitation inside:

 

 “Are you sure you won’t come?”

We’re in the kitchen, seated at the island. I play with my salad while he tucks into his carbonara. I stare at him until he is forced to put his fork down.

“You need to do this on your own,” he says. “It’s been five years. You’ll have lots to catch up on.”

“Go on, it’ll be fun,” I insist, forcing an olive down and trying not to choke. “We can do all the sights!” He scoffs and takes a slurp of wine. I blather on: “Come on, you can easily get time off. You’re my plus one.”

He finishes chewing his mouthful of spaghetti. “Rafi, would you just—”

“I can’t believe you don’t want to be there for me!” I stab my fork into a tomato, then jump off the stool and pace the room. “Everyone else’ll have someone. Just Billy No-Mates here. I can get your ticket if that’s it?” I’m shouting, turning sharply with each sentence, flinging my words into the air with a dramatic wafting of arms.

He leans back, his stool creaking. His green eyes track me as I storm up and down the kitchen. The TV is on in the background, and a chat show audience cheers as the next guest arrives on set. I grab the remote control and zap the TV, but accidentally hit the volume up button. The audience roars, as though they’re also telling me to shut up.

He takes the remote from me and turns the TV off. “You done, Shah Rukh?” he says, calling me by the name of my favourite Bollywood actor. “Here’s the thing.” Standing before me, he begins counting on his fingers. “You barely keep in touch with anyone from back there. You’ve never introduced me to any of them. I don’t even know if they know about me. You tell me to shush when you’re on the phone to your mum in case she hears me. So, forgive me if I don’t fancy flying halfway around the world, with next to no notice, to be judged by a bunch of strangers.”

I feel my ears redden. He’s right. The years have flown past and as the months rolled by, promises to return to Blackburn became fewer and fewer. Life took over: the house, the career, the relationship. I realise, with a pang of guilt, that I’ve never put him on the phone to any of my friends or family. Not because I’m ashamed of him, but because . . . because what?

I stutter and try to apologise, but he waves it away. He moves back to the counter and picks up his fork. “No time, mister. You’ve got to pack. And book that flight!”

Because of the incorrectly labelled envelope and Shazia’s belief that mail to the other side of the world arrives in the same time as it does to the UK, there are only three days to the wedding. There’s no time to mull over my decision. I can’t not go to my oldest friend’s wedding.

“I’m sorry for being a selfish prick,” I say, going over and taking hold of his hands. The current heatwave means we’re almost the same colour. He nods, and I pummel his chest. “You’re not supposed to agree! I really want you to meet Shazia. She’d love you. And you her. I know it!”

Spinning me onto his knee while he perches on the bar stool at the island, he kisses me from behind. His strong arms wrap around my chest. I stare at the little hairs leading down to his wrists, bleached white from the sun. “No. This is your moment. You need to reconnect. And, anyway, one of us has to stay and keep Milo company.” Our two-year-old labradoodle looks up at his name and wags his tail. “Is your work okay with this?”

I raise my shoulders. That’s my next task. I break free from his embrace and head to the master bedroom, my Birkenstocks slapping on the tiled floor.

“Have you got everything you’ll need?” he calls after me. “Everything but the kitchen sink.”

Luckily, I’d been organised enough to buy a traditional Asian wedding outfit from Sydney Road a few months ago. Growing up, I’d railed against the baggy salwaar kameez trouser-tunic combination, wearing it only when I attended the mosque. But the wedding apparel is tailored, fitted and flattering. I pack the blue tunic and tight-fitting trousers away. Then I pull on the sherwani that’ll go over the top. It’s a pale gold, the colour of straw, with red piping and a neckline embroidered with an elaborate snowflake pattern. The buttonholes are in the shape of mango stones, jewelled and sequined. Appraising myself in the full-length mirror, I can’t help adopting a range of catalogue poses, model- ling for an imaginary photographer. The cotton silk frockcoat rustles satisfyingly.

“Quit admiring yourself!” he shouts from the kitchen. “You’ve a plane to catch.”

I take one last look. There was a time when I’d have been mocked for wearing something so flamboyant. But now I’m grown up and considered a “someone” it will be admired and commented on by all the aunties and uncles. The irony doesn’t escape me.

I unbutton the sherwani and carefully lay it on top of the case.

The only flight I can get at such short notice leaves after midnight. With little traffic on the road, we reach the airport in record time. The air con in the Jeep hasn’t worked for months; I pour out of the passenger seat, my hair plastered to my forehead and my shirt slicked to my back.

Despite the late hour, I slip on a pair of Gucci sunglasses and a Burberry cap.

“Steady on there, Madonna,” he says, handing me my suitcase from the back seat. “I think you’re safe from the screaming hordes.”

He can laugh, but the airport is busy even at this hour. A cool breeze wafts out of the electronic doors of the Departures lounge each time they slide open.

“Have an amazing time.” Hugging me, he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Say hi to Shaheeda.” He never gets her name right. “I hope your mum and brother and sister are well.”

My body tenses, as it always does whenever he talks about them. Although I try to ring every month, this has become less frequent over the years. Work is flat out. There aren’t enough hours in the day. And my sister Nabila and brother Taleeb live just streets away from Mother and can pop in and see her any time. But, even as I think this, the angel on my shoulder remonstrates with me – they, too, have busy lives and their own families to look after. As the familiar sensation of guilt works its way through my body, I change the subject.

“I love you,” I tell him. He smells of fabric softener, cumin and Dior Fahrenheit.

“Back atcha.”

I give him one final hug before he jumps back in the Jeep. “Time to head home to my other man,” he says through the open window, “before he starts barking the place down.”

As he pulls away, I feel a wave of apprehension. Sighing, I head into Departures.

*

I board and instinctively turn left before stopping at the curtain. Not for the first time in the last few days, I curse Shazia and her bad planning, which means I’m relegated to cattle class. Gritting my teeth, I swing right, pulling my sunglasses and cap back down. Almost immediately, one of the flight attendants recognises me and asks if I’ll sign a napkin for her little boy. She thrusts a pen into my hand. As I begin scribbling, I nod over my shoulder. “Would it be possible” – I peer at her name badge – “Kylie, to get an upgrade?”

She shakes her head. “I wish I could, Mr Aziz, but we’re a full flight.”

I keep the message on the napkin short.

When I get to my seat, I’m dismayed to find it’s in the middle of a block of three. My heart sinks further at the man and woman on either side – they are both the size of Sumo wrestlers. Shazia would tell me off for being so judgemental. But shouldn’t she have known that I only fly first class? One of the perks of fame is being ferried around with lots of leg and elbow room. I bestow a watery smile to my neighbours and take my seat. As I belt up, I give Shazia another piece of my mind under my breath.

We take off half an hour later. Not feeling sociable, I plug my headphones in and go through the films on board: Harry Potter, Moulin Rouge, Lord of the Rings, all of which I’ve seen. Then, in the World Cinema section, Naseeb, a 1981 Bollywood superhit starring Amitabh Bachchan, Shatrugan Sinha, Hema Malini and Reena Roy. A welcome blast of nostalgia, and it’ll shave three hours off the flight.

As the titles roll, I hear Mother’s little-girl singing voice. A big fan of Hema Malini, she’d rewind the songs so many times that the tape wore thin, making the images flicker and the sound warble. She’d break into song at the slight- est excuse, much to Father’s consternation.

I unclip my seatbelt and lean back as far I can go – which isn’t far. I force myself to relax. The faded colours and fuzzy edges of the old film help the years rewind. As the villains appear onscreen, a delicious shiver runs through me. I’m ten again – when everything changed. My own Bollywood film plays out in my head.