Track 8: At Home He's a Tourist by Gang of Four

At the opening, looking over the guest-list, Asma was distant, almost unrecognisable.

“Olly,” she whispered. “All of these people are cocks.”

“All of these people are embarrassed white liberal cocks,” he’d corrected, kissing her brown cheek, congratulating her on her success, fascinated by the paleness of his hand against the band of waist left exposed by her sari.

Studying together at Leeds, he’d first suggested she use her Pakistani heritage in her art, steering her toward fabric shops and women’s meetings, praising delicate paintings of stooped women with grey hair, photo realistic images of mosques standing in bombed out streets, photographs of herself in headscarf and bondage gear.

Asma wasn’t sure.

Working the room, shaking hands, making contacts, he felt puffed with paternal pride.

When he got home, Asma was already asleep. Drunk and aroused, her skin on white sheets seemed to taunt him. Sometimes, when they slept together, a bubble of triumph popped in his chest.

Awake, laying in silence, staring at her, he thought of his mother.

In the still afternoon light of the Surrey living room, he’d expected her to cry when he said, “I’m marrying Asma.”

He was disappointed when all she did was smile, supportive.