Almost Forever: An emotional debut perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes

‘Right. I’ll get it then, shall I?’ he says before walking out of the living room.

‘Thanks, you are a star!’ I call after him, moving the cushions around and trying to get a little more comfortable. As I settle in my freshly arranged nest, I hear an indistinguishable chatter coming from the corridor. I don’t recognise any of the voices so I start to wonder who it could possibly be.

After a few seconds Harry re-enters the room. Two people are following him: a wiry teenage boy and a petite lady just a step behind. She looks too old to be his mother but they resemble each other so I assume they are somehow related. They both stand near the door of the living room, as if they don’t feel welcome enough to walk in all the way to me.

‘Please come in, have a seat,’ offers Harry but they just remain rooted to that same spot.

I look at them with detached curiosity, and even if they look somewhat familiar, I can’t quite figure out who they are and why they are here.

‘Mrs FitzRoy …’ says the boy and I flinch at his words because I’m still legally Francesca Willson. I swallow the pain caused by that thought as he continues, ‘We are very sorry to disturb you. I’m Fahim.’ He stutters a little as he introduces himself. ‘And this is my grandmother, Tanjila.’ He turns his head slightly towards the woman at his side. ‘Sorry, she doesn’t speak much English,’ he explains as I wait patiently for him to tell me why they’re in my house.

He is young, probably sixteen. His dark complexion highlights the pale jade colour of his eyes. Under his open parka, he is wearing jeans and a grey jumper and he looks just like one of the many boys who live in the neighbourhood, and because of that, the woman next to him stands out even more.

She is dressed in a beautiful red sari embroidered with gold-coloured decorations that start on the hems and run all the way down the sides, intersecting the intricate patterns of the fabric. She wears a matching headscarf and a thin chain connects a gold earring to the metal circle pierced through the side of her nose. Her skin is darker than her grandchild’s and her eyes are midnight black. She is clutching a foil-covered dish.

We wait in silence, patiently, for a reason as to why they are standing in my living room, dressed for a Monsoon wedding, and bringing a gift. The silence is growing increasingly awkward and even Harry is looking between us, waiting for some sort of explanation.

‘We brought you Nokshi Pitha,’ the boy says proudly. ‘My grandmother made them for you and your family to say thank you. We are truly sorry for what happened to your husband and extremely grateful to him.’

I try to remain neutral at his words and not reveal that shock and heartache have ripped through me.

‘Do you know Paul?’ I ask, swallowing loudly.

Fahim nods. ‘I’ve seen him in our off-licence sometimes. He saved my mother …’ And then his voice breaks and the silence descends between us as we wait for him to recover.

I watch him as he fights to get his emotions under control again.

‘My mother was alone in the shop. It never happens,’ he adds quickly, the need to justify himself clear from the guilt in his tone. ‘If I’m not in, one of my uncles usually comes to keep an eye on things. It was mid-morning, broad daylight, and I just popped out for a minute. I didn’t think …’