When the moon hits the sky like a big pizza pie, that’s amoré. Neel sings out-of-key, pulls Diya close and dances her around the room. They kiss and hum and spin. Riti crosses the room and sits next to me on the sofa, she slips her arm through mine. But we’re too conscious now: they started first; we feel like fakes. Our arms are all elbows. We lean into the shadow and wait for them to be done. Their live-in maid, as invisible as air, wheels in dinner on a trolley and sets the table. Riti and I smile at each other, relieved. ‘Thank god, I’m starving,’ we both whisper at the same time. It makes us laugh, takes us by surprise. It’s been a while since we’ve done that – said the same thing at the same time. We used to do it all the time. In college, friends would tease us; they called us the Chorus Couple. Now in the borrowed shadow of someone else’s home, something from an old time comes back. It’s good, it’s fragile, and I’m careful. Riti’s eyes tread softly too. Her hair has fallen back into its old parting. I smooth it back to hide the greys like she does; I know there’s a low light hanging over the dining table. Riti squeezes my arm and drops a kiss on my shoulder. I can’t remember the last time she’s done that. Her eyes fall on the fern next to me. ‘That plant’s looking as drunk as Neel,’ she grins. ‘Shhh,’ I say. There’s a comfort in keeping each other’s secrets. That too is like a dance. ‘C’mon you lovebirds, stop flirting in the dark like teenagers,’ Diya laughs. ‘Dinner’s ready.’ But we’re slow to ease off the sofa, hesitant to let go of this thing. My hunger feels different now. Dinner is chicken tagine with couscous, and a salad of lettuce, oranges and pomegranate. All made by their cook, who has never tasted a tagine or a grain of couscous, but cooks them as well as any North African restaurant in London. ‘Oh, you should try her pastas and risottos,’ Diya says. ‘Perfect, even though you couldn’t convince her to taste any of it.’ A cook’s job is competitive these days; everyone wants to throw dinner parties that hint at their travels. Neel tells us how Diya bargained for the red clay tagines in the markets of Marrakech and dragged them all the way home. Riti and I glance at each other across the table. We’d planned a