"Yes Mum…"
Syed held the phone slightly away from his ear and mouthed 'blah blah blah.'
"But she left me. What can I say? Yes, I know. Good family, yes."
He listened glumly to his mother's voice on the other end of the line, berating him, pleading.
And she was right. Saira had been gorgeous. Funny, intelligent, sophisticated, beautiful. She would have made an ideal wife.
But, like the others before her, he had seen the love die in her eyes, replaced by confusion, self doubt.
He remembered that last evening together. Sitting at opposite sides of the table in the expensive restaurant, urging her to choose whatever she wanted from the menu, throwing money at her as a replacement for intimacy.
"You say you love me, but you're so cold. When you kiss me it's as if your heart is a million miles away."
And he had nothing to say in reply. Because she was right. And all he felt as she swept, weeping, into the cold London street was a faint sense of relief.
It had been easier with Amira. She had been so caught up with the idea of him, his looks, his cash. Plus, thankfully, she wanted to save herself for her wedding night, so he had avoided those embarrassing, gut turning occasions he had suffered with other girlfriends, their seduction, their need, having to think of pathetic excuses, making himself out to be a paragon of virtue who was preserving their morality, when really the thought of intercourse with them, their soft feminine bodies, made him feel physically sick.
Eventually, even Amira had tired of waiting. Met someone richer who was more than happy to give her the fairy tale romance, the family and position that she secretly craved.
He turned his attention back to his Mother's disappointed ranting.
"Yes Mum. But I'm only thirty. And you've got Tambo's wedding to arrange, you don't need another one just yet, surely?"
The squawking increased and he sighed.
"I'm really focused on work at the minute, no time for love."
This calmed her slightly. If nothing else she was enormously proud of how well his property business was doing.
And this was mostly down to her. If she hadn't managed to smuggle the money to him for the development, hadn't smoothed things over with his Father, he would have had to return to live with them.
It had been a mixture of luck and bare faced audacity that had enabled him to prosper in the recession when so many others failed. That, and a huge dollop of charm.
He was so glad it had paid off though, enabled him to get his family away from that East End square and into their four bedroom home in Hampstead.
He mentally clocked up how much their house would now be worth and realised he was writing the sales spec for it in his head as his Mother droned on.
"Yes Mum. Of course I'll be over for the Mehndi rehearsal. Give everyone my love.. Yes I am eating properly.. No, I don't need you to get Bushra to introduce me to anyone. Bye now, bye, bye, bye…"
He snapped the phone shut and threw it across the glass coffee table. Clutching his head and shouting; "My ears!" into the silence of his flat.
He tightened the towel around his waist and padded on bare feet across the solid oak flooring, relishing the warmth that came from the heating beneath.
The large glass windows opened smoothly and suddenly the apartment was full of noise, the low hum of constant traffic, the horn of a passing barge below him. He stood on the terrace, leaning against the metal rail and gazing across the Thames to Canary Wharf, it's glass glittering magically in the late afternoon sun.