Zara sat there for a good twenty minutes, twiddling her pencil as the rain drizzled down the smoke-smeared windows and the Jubilee tube line rumbled past. She had abandoned the computer in a bid to break through her writer’s block. Manuhar, her main character, was giving her trouble. She had set him up in a Balti house off Belsize Lane and even decorated the restaurant interior. Heavy red flock wallpaper with a fleur-de-lys pattern and fluorescent reproductions of the river Bramahputra and the Star Mosque in Dacca.

Small and balding with brylcream smoothed over his remaining hair, Manuhar was not the youngest or most handsome of her characters. Most of the time he wore the suit made for him by his cousin when he first arrived in England from Bangladesh. It was his cousin who was responsible for Manuhar being in Britain, sending him an entry voucher to work in his factory in East London in the early 1960s.

But Manuhar had not liked working in the sweatshop all hours of the day and night. It affected his eyes and his cousin was always on his back if he did not sew quick enough or if his stitching went off course. So Manuhar went into the only other trade open to him - the catering business. His first job was in Whitechapel, washing dishes, but after a few months the restaurant closed down. It had been hard at first but now he was glad to be away from the touts vying for business in Banglatown. It had become too commercialised with drunks and city toffs taking their girlfriends there on a Friday night. Anyway he preferred being a waiter. It was a step up from washing up and better wages. And he preferred Belsize Lane to Whitechapel. More mixed. Manuhar was grateful to Zara for having moved him away from the East End.

But now he was concerned. He had some inclination that Zara was going to send the plot in a different direction. To fix an arranged marriage for him with a young girl from a rural part of Sylhet in Bangladesh who spoke no English. Someone from Beanibazaar, maybe, his home village, meant to keep him company in his old age. He had escaped an arranged marriage so far and he was damned if he was going to give in now. But he did not want to confront his author with this concern up front. Better to soften her up first, he thought.

“Hi Zara. Would like me to cook you a meal?”

Zara was happy to be distracted.

“ Oh yes. That would be great.”

Zara started to relax for the first time that week. She loved Indian food and felt sure that after a satisfying meal she would be able to conjure up a better image of Manuhar’s future wife, even fill out a few details of the wedding. She could just see it. Garlands of flowers, colorful saris, women in one room and men in the other and the bride heavily veiled until after the wedding.

Manuhar went into the kitchen, mixing the chapati batter and turning it on the griddle pan. How could he convince his young author that he was not a sexually repressed, aging Bangladeshi who needed a young virginal wife? He had a secret lover, after all, who worked in the ice cream parlour at Chalk Farm. It was a well-kept secret. Even Zara did not know about Gina.

It had all started because of his search for kulfi ice cream in the area. He could not find it anywhere. So in desperation he went into Marine Ices opposite the tube station at Chalk Farm and asked the woman with a white hat perched on her jet-black bouffant hair,

"Do you sell kulfi?"

"No, but I do a nice raspberry ripple."

He was smitten from that moment on.

It was not an easy conquest. Manuhar had to try twenty-six varieties of ice cream before Gina gave into his charms. She needed to be convinced of his commitment.

“There is more to me than meets the eye,” she would say, wagging her finger at him. Manuhar hoped so. He fantasized about it often enough. But then he began to get nervous that maybe she had connections with the Italian mafia or a jealous husband in the background. Gina always seemed to know when he was anxious, reassuring him with a double scoop of the latest flavour.

Gina and Manuhar were a good partnership. He served her ice creams in his Balti house and she had started to make up recipes with a distinctly Indian flavour. Fusion ice cream, she called it. They were still experiments at this stage but Manuhar was convinced they would take off. He and Gina tested a new flavour during each lovemaking. Maybe he could distract Zara with the cranberry and coconut curry flavour. Then Manuhar remembered the fish he had imported from Chittagong that was meant to have aphrodisiac qualities. He would use this to prepare a special dish. He had to do something to dissuade Zara from marrying him off.

Manuhar took the fish out of the freezer, chopped off the head and placed it in the microwave with a few fresh herbs and a bottle of Patak sauce. Within a few minutes the meal was ready.

“ Chapati with my best mango chutney and a very special surprise. Fish curry straight from Chittagong Bay – you know, where all those islands went under water in those floods.”

Manuhar thought he would prick Zara’s conscience about global warming.

“Oh, very good. That’s excellent.”

Zara sat down to eat the chapati and fish curry. If nothing else it saved her nipping down to Tesco's and being harassed by a group of Chinese young men and women trying to sell her dodgy dvds. Either that or being asked for help with fares home by an old man who slept under the nearby railway bridge.

Manuhar hovered, asking if the food was cooked to Zara’s taste.

“How do you like my special chapati?”

“Oh, yes. It’s fine. Lovely.”

“And how do you like my special mango sauce?”

“Oh, yes. Fine, too.”

“And my hot, hot, special fish curry. How do you like that?”

“Oh, that’s fine too. Very nice.”

“Is it hot enough to make you perspire?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, Zara. Let me take off your cardigan.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Zara took another mouthful of curry. Another gulp of water.

“Still hot, Zara. Let me unbutton your fine silk blouse.”

Another gulp of water. Another mouthful of curry.

“I’ll just take your blouse off. Make you more comfortable.”

Manuhar slid the blouse off her back and with deft fingers he unclipped her bra. Zara struggled to push the last mouthful of curry into her mouth as Manuhar slipped his hands around her waist and cupped them under Zara’s breasts.

“Would you like some special Darjeeling tea?”

“Yes, please. That would be lovely.”

With great gentleness, he slipped his hand under her skirt, moving his fingers deftly. Zara gasped, the floodgates released, rivers of words flowing into the Indian ocean. ‘That should do the trick’, thought Manuhar.

Zara wrote and wrote, the words tumbling out over her curry-splattered paper. She knew exactly how the plot should progress. She couldn’t understand why she had had so much difficulty.

Manuhar paced the floor, brought her a cup of hot, steaming Darjeeling tea and lingered nearby. He took the plates and walked away. He retuned to take away the knife, the fork. To clear the crumbs from the table, to sweep the floor, looking over Zara's shoulder and trying to decipher every word.

At last, exhausted, Zara put down her pen. The novel was finished. She would send it off to an agent after one final edit. She felt sure it would become a best seller. All she needed now was a well-deserved rest. She could feel herself nodding off already.

Manuhar crept forward, picking up the precious manuscript and flicking through to the end. Then he lay it back on the table, careful not to disturb his author and ran all the way to Chalk Farm, bursting into the parlour full of people.

"The immigration authorities found out about us so my bride was refused entry.”

Gina’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

“ They did not believe it was a bona fide marriage," he shouted.

Manuhar pulled Gina from behind the counter and kissed her full on the lips, no longer caring who knew about their affair. Manuhar was unstoppable now.

“Cherry chapati, topped with mango sauce for everyone,” he shouted as people clapped and cheered.

"Best save some for Zara, " Gina whispered. “And best invite her to the wedding too.”

Manuhar beamed and nodded in agreement before tasting the ice cream.

“Best flavour yet,” he said. “Bound to be a success.”