chest. He’d shaved and had a haircut. Promising signs.
“You look nice,” he said, clasping my arm and
bending to kiss me on the cheek.
So did he. Dressed in a charcoal suit with pink
shirt, the collar open at the neck to expose the hollow of his clavicle, he cut
a fine figure. He wore a light cologne, something sandalwood-y and masculine,
which emphasised the overall impression of virility and manliness. I felt
positively delicate by comparison. Just the way I liked it.
He drove a black BMW, a couple of years old.
“Company car,” he explained as he unlocked the doors.
“Nice.” I got in and looked around the spotless
interior. I hoped he wasn’t a neat freak.
Magnus chuckled as he started the engine. “I was
about to say the same thing about your building.”
I shrugged. “It’s a glass box.”
“I’ll admit it wasn’t what I expected.”
“Oh?” I twisted in my seat to face him. “What were
you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” he confessed, manoeuvring the car
through the busy East London streets with calm efficiency. “Something older, I
suppose. Something with more character.”
“It fits the stereotype, doesn’t it?” I smirked. “The
truth is I haven’t a clue when it comes to renovations, and didn’t trust myself
to find a property that wasn’t going to have the roof fall in within the first
year. At least with a new build, there’s more guarantee.”
“I can understand that.”
“Old houses, they’re pretty, but they need
maintenance.” I shuddered, recalling too well some of the places I’d lived.
Unreliable plumbing and ill-fitting windows, stairs which creaked like a
gunshot on every tread, and the exorbitant price of contents insurance because
they lacked the security of modern houses. I caught Magnus’s eye and grinned.
“I bet you live in one, don’t you? Some little rundown fixer-upper you bought
as a wreck and renovated into a show home?”
He laughed throatily. “Not exactly.”
“But I’m not far off, right?”
“Someone else did it up,” Magnus admitted. “I
bought it already finished.”
“What’s it like?”
“Small.”
“Isn’t everything in London?”
“I bet your place isn’t,” he commented wryly.
“Ha!” I laughed. “You should have seen where I
lived before.”
“I can imagine.” He stopped for a set of traffic
lights and smiled at me. “I can’t wait to be out of London.”
“You’re not native, then?”
“You mean you can’t tell?”
I admitted I could. His accent lacked the lazy
vowels of the estuary.
“I’m more Hampshire than Hammersmith,” he said,
edging the car forward as the lights changed.
“Why did you move?”
“Bright lights, big city. Usual story. Jobs in
London paid more, and at twenty-four that’s all that matters, isn’t it? You
don’t think about the reasons why they pay more. Plus my brother already lived
here.”
We were travelling northwest through narrow roads
lined with 1970s council tower blocks and red London buses, past Shoreditch
Park and towards the Angel, where the utilitarian architecture gave way to
terraces of yellow-bricked and white-clad Georgian townhouses, much easier on
the eye.
“You live around here?” I asked.
“Not far.”
“So where are you taking me?”
“One of my favourite restaurants. The Smokehouse.
You heard of it?”
I shook my head.
Magnus grinned. “I hope you like meat.”
“Love it.”
“Excellent.”
The smiles we exchanged were decidedly wolfish.
҉҉҉
The Smokehouse lived up to its name. Situated in a
converted pub, the interior was decked out in dark wood and wrought iron,
candles on the table, and the specials chalked on a blackboard hung on the wall
next to a timbered bar. We were shown to a table at the rear, in front of a
large window overlooking a small garden where a couple of smokers stood, arms
crossed against the chill in the late-March air, the smoke from their
cigarettes rising over their heads in thin plumes.
I
“You look nice,” he said, clasping my arm and
bending to kiss me on the cheek.
So did he. Dressed in a charcoal suit with pink
shirt, the collar open at the neck to expose the hollow of his clavicle, he cut
a fine figure. He wore a light cologne, something sandalwood-y and masculine,
which emphasised the overall impression of virility and manliness. I felt
positively delicate by comparison. Just the way I liked it.
He drove a black BMW, a couple of years old.
“Company car,” he explained as he unlocked the doors.
“Nice.” I got in and looked around the spotless
interior. I hoped he wasn’t a neat freak.
Magnus chuckled as he started the engine. “I was
about to say the same thing about your building.”
I shrugged. “It’s a glass box.”
“I’ll admit it wasn’t what I expected.”
“Oh?” I twisted in my seat to face him. “What were
you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” he confessed, manoeuvring the car
through the busy East London streets with calm efficiency. “Something older, I
suppose. Something with more character.”
“It fits the stereotype, doesn’t it?” I smirked. “The
truth is I haven’t a clue when it comes to renovations, and didn’t trust myself
to find a property that wasn’t going to have the roof fall in within the first
year. At least with a new build, there’s more guarantee.”
“I can understand that.”
“Old houses, they’re pretty, but they need
maintenance.” I shuddered, recalling too well some of the places I’d lived.
Unreliable plumbing and ill-fitting windows, stairs which creaked like a
gunshot on every tread, and the exorbitant price of contents insurance because
they lacked the security of modern houses. I caught Magnus’s eye and grinned.
“I bet you live in one, don’t you? Some little rundown fixer-upper you bought
as a wreck and renovated into a show home?”
He laughed throatily. “Not exactly.”
“But I’m not far off, right?”
“Someone else did it up,” Magnus admitted. “I
bought it already finished.”
“What’s it like?”
“Small.”
“Isn’t everything in London?”
“I bet your place isn’t,” he commented wryly.
“Ha!” I laughed. “You should have seen where I
lived before.”
“I can imagine.” He stopped for a set of traffic
lights and smiled at me. “I can’t wait to be out of London.”
“You’re not native, then?”
“You mean you can’t tell?”
I admitted I could. His accent lacked the lazy
vowels of the estuary.
“I’m more Hampshire than Hammersmith,” he said,
edging the car forward as the lights changed.
“Why did you move?”
“Bright lights, big city. Usual story. Jobs in
London paid more, and at twenty-four that’s all that matters, isn’t it? You
don’t think about the reasons why they pay more. Plus my brother already lived
here.”
We were travelling northwest through narrow roads
lined with 1970s council tower blocks and red London buses, past Shoreditch
Park and towards the Angel, where the utilitarian architecture gave way to
terraces of yellow-bricked and white-clad Georgian townhouses, much easier on
the eye.
“You live around here?” I asked.
“Not far.”
“So where are you taking me?”
“One of my favourite restaurants. The Smokehouse.
You heard of it?”
I shook my head.
Magnus grinned. “I hope you like meat.”
“Love it.”
“Excellent.”
The smiles we exchanged were decidedly wolfish.
҉҉҉
The Smokehouse lived up to its name. Situated in a
converted pub, the interior was decked out in dark wood and wrought iron,
candles on the table, and the specials chalked on a blackboard hung on the wall
next to a timbered bar. We were shown to a table at the rear, in front of a
large window overlooking a small garden where a couple of smokers stood, arms
crossed against the chill in the late-March air, the smoke from their
cigarettes rising over their heads in thin plumes.
I
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