Chapter 18
When Camilla came through the door, I couldn’t help but stare.
‘Don’t ask,’ she said in a very definite tone, her hands held up, palms facing outward in a gesture of assertiveness. ‘And from now on, I want you to call me Jamilla. Just like the old days.’
The shalwar kameez was a rich blue with subtle dots of gold along the edges. In the middle of her forehead, slightly off centre, sat a tikka. Kohl rimmed her eyes, widening them, making them appear very dramatic. She looked beautiful. She looked like her mother. I imagined her as a starlet from Bombay, dancing and singing in a Bollywood film with fountains and ornate gardens in the background and men on sitars and drums. Her eyelashes were missing, so I knew she was still struggling with her compulsion.
I shuddered. For a se
