Around her table, Sunni's husband was leaning back, at home, feet on a chair, rice-whisky bottle opened and half empty.

'Wife!' called Joe, as if overjoyed to see her. Siao looked up in drunken dolefulness.

Faysal Haseem appraised her with narrow eyes, and a grin.

'We are honoured,' said Sunni's husband, pushing a whisky glass to her in her own kitchen. 'You wear your best dress for us.'

'She couldn't find another!' Joe thought this was very funny and laughed, opening his mouth like a duck's bill.

Mae said, 'You are very kind to offer us help.'

'Aren't I?' said Sunni's-man, and lifted up the glass.

'He has already loaned us one hundred riels!' said Joe.

'Oh,' said Mae. 'Then you must give them back.'

'Naw,' growled Sunni's husband, and sloshed the whisky around in his mouth.

'One hundred riels, wife! A new barn! Goats! We will be rich.'

'Mr Haseem is far too kind.' Mae sat down, trying to get her business brain to work. She was not up to cunning. 'But how will you pay him back, husband?'

'Oh, we can come to some kind of arrangement,' said Joe, besotted, foolish.

'No problem about payments!' said Sunni's husband, not so drunk that his eyes did not fix on Mae and twinkle with mischief. 'If it comes to it, you can pay out of your fashion business.'

'Ah,' said Joe in scorn. 'We will not need that.'

'You do not have it,' said Mae, with a sick and weary chuckle. Could not Joe see that? Mae had been ill through the spring fashion season.

'We will have an ox, two oxen,' said Joe, with a bit of swagger.

'Two oxen cannot pay back one hundred riels.' Mae clasped her head to keep her brains together. All she could do was play the game as if everything were above board.

So she asked straight out: 'Please, Mr Haseem, there is no way for us to pay the money back. This is a very bad business proposition for you.'

'I think it is a good one,' he said, red-faced, knowing exactly what he was doing.

'You will lose the money!' Oh, she had been a fool to try to dress! Why did she dress? To show him they still had an extra source of money? All the village knew now that was unlikely. All her dressing-up had done was delay her until it was too late. So much for fashion.

'I won't lose the money,' said Sunni's husband. 'Will I, Joe?'

'Certainly not,' said Joe, dazzled. He unfolded the actual money in a fan.

'Joe, you are drunk,' Mae said in desperation. She looked at Siao, who took light little puffs of his cigarette and gazed at his shoes. He didn't like this, either.

'Siao,' she pleaded. 'Tell him. This is your father's house! Tell him that we won't be able to pay back the money!'

Siao glanced up at her and rubbed his whole face, once, with his hand. He had managed to grow a wispy beard, and around his mouth were strings of muscle. He flicked ash. 'Mr Haseem has been very kind, but we've all hit the bottle. Perhaps we should say thank you, Mr Haseem, and give our answer in the morning.'

'Answer in the morning?' Joe said. 'A friend generously offers money and you insult him by saying we have to consider?'

'I am saying that perhaps Mr Haseem and ourselves will feel different in the morning,' Siao said.

Joe glanced sideways at Mr Haseem. He needed to look like the boss of the house. 'Sometimes it is necessary to take a risk. You never have done that, Siao. You have never left home.'

'Neither have you,' said Siao, quietly. 'But I think perhaps soon you may have to.'

Mae spoke. 'Joe, your brother is right.'

'Wife. This is between men.'

Mae turned. 'Mr Haseem, please, my husband does not know what he is doing, please take the money back, there is no way we can pay you. Except to give you the farm.'

She was being honest. She was much reduced; she had no weapons.

'I think that is for your husband to say,' said Mr Haseem.

Mae leaned forward. 'Mr Haseem, please don't take the farm, please don't do this, I am a friend of your wife's, think of the friendship and please don't swallow us. Please, I beg of you!'

Terror and confusion from the Test, hatred of what was happening, overwhelmed her. Mae got down on her knees. In the dust in her best white dress with the heart-shaped patterns, she abased herself.

'Please don't take our farm!'

'I think it is your wife who is drunk,' chuckled Sunni's husband.

'Wife!' barked Joe. 'You are making a scene. You are ill. Ill in the head.' He jabbed a finger at his own.

'Take the money back!' sobbed Mae, seizing it from Joe and pushing it at Mr Haseem. 'Please.' It fell on the ground. She cradled it up, poison money, and tried to push it at him again. He took it, rolled it neatly, leaned across the table, and put it into Joe's pocket, patted it, grunted, and leaned back. He looked content, exactly as though he had eaten well.

So, Mae thought. You have your loan and you even had me begging on my knees. You know that I know, and that I am helpless. I should have denied you that, at least. I give nothing else away to you.

Mae stood up and wiped her cheeks. She had a blinding headache, suddenly, and the entire room seemed filthy, dull, and wearisome.

'One hundred riels is not a bad price to pay for a farm,' she said. 'It is good business, Mr Haseem. For you.'

Joe looked befuddled.

'Here, husband.' She poured him another whisky. 'It is best that you be merry now. It is best that you forget.' She stroked his crisp, slicked-back hair, then lightly batted it.

He took the glass with a hazy swagger. The wife pours her man a drink, that is right and proper behaviour. Mae slipped her hand into his pocket, and took the money. She counted it.

'One hundred riels,' she said, in acknowledgement to Sunni's husband. 'It is all there.'

'Of course,' said Mr Haseem, leaning back. 'I am an honest man.'

'An honest man!' insisted Joe, and held up the glass.

'The wife always keeps the money,' Mae said, folding the money into the collar of her best dress. She thought, I would not put it beyond you to steal it back from my husband while he drops off.

Sunni's husband tipped his glass towards her in mock salute.

Mae could not bear to see any more. She left and pulled the curtain shut behind her, but did not lie down. She stood riveted to the spot by panic. He has us, he has us, just like he got the others, the loans, the further loans, the money that could not be paid, the seizing of the house, the lands. This whole house is only worth three hundred riels! Our fields only bring in about a hundred. We have to find a year's extra income, with interest.

Mae thought of Sunni. Men's business, is it? Well it can be women's business as well.

Now she could turn on the light. The bare bulb glowed over sewing machine, toiletries, and heaps of cloth. It showed her crumpled face, bags and lines around the eyes, a puffy mouth as if her husband beat her. There was her comb. She pulled it through her hair. There was her lipstick. She precisely placed it, outlining the lips she wished she had. She pinched her cheeks and found the right shoes, and threw on a sweater. She strode back out into the kitchen.

'I'm going for a walk,' she announced, and stalked out into the courtyard. Sunni's husband roared with laughter, and saluted her. 'Walk well, fashion expert!'

Mae walked across Upper Street then up the steep slope to Mr Haseem's riverside house. She knew that Sunni would be awake, bitter, watchful.

Mae pushed open the courtyard gate, walked to the kitchen door, ducked down, and entered. The kitchen light was on, but Sunni was not there. Best not to surprise her if she was not looking her best. 'Friend Sunni!' she called. 'It is just Mae. Can I come to talk?'

In fact Sunni was ready for her. Mae knew that from the way the curtain snapped back on its rings, the way Sunni's hair and makeup were perfect, but most of all from the way she stood straight and tall with her plump face set.