She says he gave her some brandy, pulled the curtains and asked her to turn around, at which point she fled the house. It sounds far-fetched, but Banaz Mahmod knew what she was talking about. Within a month, the 19-year-old was dead.
Mahmod, an Iraqi Kurd whose family arrived in Britain as asylum seekers when she was 10, had been forced to marry a Kurdish man from the Midlands. But the marriage was a disaster and Mahmod fled to the family home in south London, saying her husband had raped her. In London she fell in love with another man, Rahmat Sulemani, an Iranian Kurd whom her family said was not a good enough Muslim.
One day she kissed him on a street. A Kurdish bystander photographed the kiss on a mobile phone and showed it to her uncle, Ari Mahmod. He called a family meeting where it was decided that the couple would be murdered.
Three months after she disappeared, Mahmod's naked body was found in a case buried in a Birmingham backyard. The young men her uncle had recruited to kill her had also raped and tortured her, and left the bootlace they used to strangle her around her neck.
Sentencing Mahmod's father, uncle and one of the killers to a collective 60 years in jail, the judge told them Banaz had been an admirable woman who had made one mistake: she fell in love "with an accomplished man that you and you family thought was unsuitable. So to restore your family honour you decided that she should die." The men's standing in their community, the judge said, had been "more important than the happiness of your flesh and blood".
The Banaz Mahmod case horrified Britain. It also showed how far the country has come in fighting the extraordinary phenomenon of honour killings and how far it has to go.
Police say 12 or 13 Britons — mainly women but very occasionally men — are the victims of honour killings each year. Activists say the figure dramatically understates the true number and police agree: they are reviewing 117 cases of women who died in mysterious circumstances in the past 15 years, many of which are thought to have been honour killings. (Police and activists dislike the term honour killings because it appears to excuse the crime, but it remains official usage.)
The fact that young British-Asian women (from Pakistani, Indian and Bangladeshi backgrounds) kill themselves at three times the national average for women of their age is also being studied. Could some of these deaths be hidden murders, or suicides imposed on a woman in order to restore her family's honour?
While precise figures do not exist for the perpetrators' cultural backgrounds, Diana Nammi of the Iranian and Kurdish Women's Rights Organisation says about two-thirds are Muslim. Yet they can also be Hindu, Sikh and even eastern European.
The issue is acutely sensitive among British Muslims, already feeling embattled since the September 11 and July 7 terrorist attacks. Reported levels of domestic violence in British-Asian communities are lower than the national average, according to The Guardian. But for a small minority of families, British judge Marilyn Mornington has said: "Honour rests with the chastity and obedience of women in the community. If that is transgressed then the woman must be punished, ultimately unto death."
Britain is not alone: 47 Muslim women, many of them Turkish Kurds, were killed in Germany between 2000 and 2006. The United Nations estimates that 5000 women and girls are victims of honour killings each year.
In 2006, one in 10 of 500 young British-Asians told the BBC that honour killings could be justified. Nazir Afzal of the Crown Prosecution Service and a leading prosecutor of honour crimes says when he began work on such cases, "I thought it was an imported practice that would die out when the elder generation (of a migrant community) died. But many of the young people tell me shocking things."
A young Sikh man told Mr Afzal: "A man is a piece of gold and a woman is a piece of silk. "If you drop a piece of gold into the mud you can polish it clean. If you drop a piece of silk into mud it is stained forever."
Ms Nammi has heard worse: she and her volunteers have had many phone threats in their small East London office. But their main callers are frightened women. Ms Nammi takes them to the police. She has 285 clients, 46 thought to be at high risk and who are in hiding. The youngest is a 13-year-old girl hiding from her father who believed she was chatting to boys on a mobile phone.
In 2000, a spate of high-profile forced marriage cases led Blair government minister Mike O'Brien to say that "multicultural sensitivity is no excuse for moral blindness". Then came the murder of Heshu Yones.
A Muslim by birth but an atheist since she was young, Ms Nammi says the rise of extremist and fundamentalist Islam has been dire for women.
But Ghayasuddin Siddiqui of the Muslim Parliament of Britain says the issue is "not about Islam but about a tribal, rural mindset that says women belong to men and men must at all costs be obeyed". Mr Afzal, a practising Muslim from a Pakistani family, agrees, saying nothing in the Koran supports honour crimes, "it's the exact opposite". But he says some families will use Islam to justify their authority. Mr Afzal says more people are reporting crimes, extraditions of suspected perpetrators who flee the country are being pursued and some community leaders have become "champions" of change. Yet the killings go on.
Last month a coroner ruled that 17-year-old Shafilea Ahmed of Cheshire had been murdered after she had defied her parents. They wanted her to marry a man in Pakistan; she wanted to study law.