The drive back to Gràcia, in Imara's stupidly impractical convertible, is full of ranting. Madi is frustrated with the negotiations, having never gotten used to not getting her own way. It seems that Barça are more reluctant to arrange anything in the US, regardless of the profit figures they've been presented with.

Madi's first impression of the duplex is the same as mine.

"This was a gift," she states quite simply, no accusation behind her words. Nevertheless, Imara prickles.

"I paid for most of it." Madi inspects the spacious downstairs, eyebrows raising at the staircase. "Dadi and Dada may have contributed. Birthday money."

"They've never bought me property," I tell her.

"I've never insisted on financial independence," Imara retorts. Then, after a pause. She glances at Madi, gaze softer now. "Do you miss it?"

"What? Fucking northwest London?" I laugh at our cousin's response. It's a shared distaste for where we grew up. "I don't miss the drama. If it wasn't our family, it was someone else's. And god forbid I got dragged into whatever happened on tour."

"No, no. That I get. Even I got tired of hearing how many people accidentally got with their cousin," Imara says, shaking her head. Once, if I recall correctly, a girl found out her and her first boyfriend were related. Her grandfather had told her. "I just meant... having everyone so close. Being able to hop on the northern and get to yours when I was upset or needed advice. Now we all live so far apart. Sometimes I just feel so alone."

"I miss hearing Bengali in the next room," Madi confesses. "The husband is incompetent – he can't grasp it. Now I only get it from the TV, or suffering through a phone call from whichever relative, more to nose about what I'm doing than to ask how I am."

Imara runs a hand over her kitchen worktop, fingers dusting away crumbs from whatever she must have gorged herself on earlier. "How did you cope, Anya? How did you do it?"

Their eyes are kind, curious, watching my face carefully as though when my mouth opens, they are expecting me to scream. I think about my response.

"I don't really know." When you are disconnected from the people you love, I have found it only makes me love them more. "The culture in Sudan is somewhat similar."

"Pragmatic answer."

"We hardly keep up with our culture."

"The Madanis moved to England in 1871," recites Madi, her index raised in the air, imitating our grandfather, bringing back memories of him teaching us our family's history as children, spreading out maps and books in our laps and telling us that we are both, we are everything: we are part of our homeland and we are part of our country. "Our culture is shooting on Bank House's grounds. My mother's penchant for polo."

"Biryani instead of Sunday roast," I add. "Christmas at the Earl's. And they'd come for Eid."

"You fucking hated the Hobart-Hampdens." I roll my eyes at the comment, although it is true. "And they hated you back, after you slept with George."

"George is who made me realise I was a lesbian. I'm forever grateful to him and his puny dick." I wince at the memory. Family friends are known to be inherently pathetic partners, in any sense.

Madi snorts. "Poor George. What a legacy to leave behind."

"Better than nothing," I reply, leaning back against the worktop. The kitchen is still cluttered, predictably so – Imara has always had a taste for the unnecessary, for expensive items carelessly discarded on mountains of dirty laundry and the like. Our cleaners were afraid of her teenage bedroom.

I watch as she traces the lines of the nearest mixing board.

"What are you thinking about?" Madi asks, watching her too.

Ima exhales through her nose, a short laugh. "That we've all changed so much."

"You more than anyone," I say, and I mean it. Imara, who once wanted so desperately to have two letters after her name and save the world one case at a time. Who would start arguments to 'practice' and win them with natural flair. Now she stands here, amidst unforeseen chaos, in her duplex in Barcelona, in her absurd car, hosting us like both an adult and a little girl having her friends around for dinner. It's strange.

"I had to grow up." She shrugs, and for the first time tonight, she looks tired. "And Barcelona gave me the space to do that."

"Was that before or after the convertible?" Madi teases, but her tone is gentle. We all know why Imara couldn't be in London anymore, even if none of us say it outright. Guilt pangs low down in my stomach.

My sister grins. "Daddy bought that for me. Refused to let me have a motorbike – 'no child of mine will get on such a ridiculous, dangerous, and uncouth machine'. I almost told him that you had one in London, Anu." I glare playfully. "He'd have killed you before any Sudanese gang could."

I glance at the clock on the wall. "We should eat."

Madi groans. "Please tell me you have food and that we don't have to go out. I can't handle being around more Catalan businessmen who think they are cleverer than me."

"I have food," Imara assures her, already moving towards the fridge. When the doors open, she seems a little more sceptical. "Mostly. If you want actual sustenance, we might need to order something." She glances at me. "Is there anything you'd like?"

I gesture to our cousin, shedding the weight of food. She's making it a big deal. It's not. "Madi's our guest."

"I'll just have a scan online."

And so she does, quite effectively. Within ten minutes of placing our order, Imara is persuaded to share her latest mixes, which has our cousin – who has become far too professional for her own good – reminiscing about her university days. She even accepts a canned cocktail as a drink.

Basslines vibrate through the floorboards as pulsating rhythms fill the duplex, Madi on her second can now, hair unpinned from its bun. She's laughing, her head thrown back as she recounts Thanksgiving with her husband in Chicago, something about a disastrously heated conversation at the table where she accidentally insulted an uncle. I sprawl out on the nearby sofa, tired of standing, feet touching the velvet arm with an itching need to feel grounded.

This is comforting; the three of us together is reminiscent of our entire family, long dinner parties almost made bearable by walks through the estate with joints in hand, catching each other up on our antics.

My eyes are nearly closed, fluttering to the beat of Ima's final track, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I'm pulled out of my thoughts.

The name that flashes as I unlock the device makes my stomach twist in a way that's equal parts anticipation and regret.

Alexia.

She had said she would message me. She'd been so arrogant, smirking until all vulnerability had disappeared from her expression. As though it was wrong of me to catch her off-guard. As though I'd found her in a bar, drooling over the notion of having an athlete inside of me.

The text is what I'd expected: lacking both shame and creativity. An address and a shameless question. At least she had begun with 'hola'.

I stare at the screen for a moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I can feel Ima's eyes on me, even though she is pretending to be engrossed in Madi's story.

"Who's that?" she asks, her tone casual. She's not fooling anyone.

I quickly reply to the message: nos vemos pronto.

I shut my phone off.

An hour later, the city lights are blurring as the car pulls away from the duplex, gliding effortlessly through Barcelona's streets. I lean back against the cool leather, exhaling slowly. Imara's stupid track still hums faintly in my ears, but, soon enough, the silence inside the car settles around me like a second skin.

I glance at my phone. No further messages. Not that I had expected any. She has been precise, efficient: an address to send a car to; a destination; an obligatory pleasantry, but the bare minimum at that.

I watch the roads flicker past, the warm glow of streetlights casting fleeting shadows over the pavements. It's even later now, but the world is alive here. Groups of people spill out from bars, laughter echoing out into the air. A couple leans against a wall, locked in a lazy embrace. I ignore the tug of my ribs, the ache in my chest. It hasn't gone away yet. I worry if it ever will.

The driver doesn't speak, which is appreciated. No longer in the presence of Madi and Imara, numbness begins to creep through my body, automatically detaching me as though I am still in danger, still preparing to die at any moment. As a distraction, I scroll absently through my messages, skipping past unread ones from relatives I still have neglected to respond to. I tap into a chat with a friend from university, a half-written message abandoned at the bottom of the screen. I consider finishing it, then lock my phone instead.

The car slows as we approach the destination. I recognise the area from a visit to Barcelona years ago – maybe a cousin had lived here in a brief stint to escape the family? It's private. It's nice.

We come to a smooth stop outside an unassuming building. No signs, no grand entrance (far from a male footballer's style, I note with mild interest), only a discreet, heavy door with an intercom. I hesitate only a moment before stepping out, smoothing my new jacket as I move towards the door, thanking the driver as I leave.

The response is instant when I press the buzzer. A soft beep. The door swings open.

Inside, the air is warmer, the space dimly lit. A hallway stretches out ahead, leading to a shining lift.

It takes seconds to reach the penthouse.

And there she is, staring at me as the doors to the lift open.

She's leaning against her front door, exuding an easy confidence in the way she stands. Her hair is neatly flattened against her scalp – as though she hasn't even bothered to get into bed yet – and she's wearing loose joggers. Her hoodie sports a matching Nike logo.

It lacks refinement, but then I remind myself of my baggy t-shirt on a freezing beach.

"You came," she remarks, as if the outcome had never been in doubt.

I tilt my head slightly, allowing myself the hint of a smirk. "It would have been rude to refuse a car on my doorstep."

I can see the broad outline of her shoulders through the material, her arms flexing as she crosses them, still keeping me outside. And despite seeming so assured, Alexia falters for just a moment.

"Who are you?"

She asks the question like she doesn't expect an answer, like the words have slipped out before she can stop them. Her eyes flicker, searching – something like hesitation, something like curiosity.

I don't give her the chance to take it back.

Stepping forwards, I close the space between us, my fingers ghosting over the fabric of her hoodie before I press my mouth to hers. It's slow at first, measured. Then sharper, a quiet hunger creeping in.

Alexia exhales against me, and just like that, she lets me in.

The door clicks shut behind us. 

notes: 

soz for the disappearance i was suddenly very occupied 

anyway let's just ignore the imperialism woven in -- it's not my fault