Blowing It Read Online Free PDF Page B

of London, where Ryan and Sameer
lived. I missed having Ryan close—after uni, we’d roomed together for a couple
of years, then when things got serious with Sameer, they moved into a place
only ten minutes from where we’d lived together, but relocating had helped them
get onto the property ladder, and Ryan said he preferred the slower pace of
life away from the centre of London. He’d got a position at the local primary
school, and Sameer commuted into the City—London’s financial district—where he
worked as an IT manager for an investment bank.
    I walked the short distance from the tube station
to their quiet street. They owned a three-bed semi built in the 1930s, not the
prettiest house I’d ever seen but spacious, and they’d decorated it with taste
and style. I remembered only too well the garish decor, dado rails and pelmets
in every room, Artex ceilings riddled with asbestos, and outdated, country
cottage-style kitchen. For the first year, they’d lived in a building site, but
their hard work had paid off and now the interior was sleek and modern. Perhaps
Magnus would be interested in what they’d done with the place.
    Ryan answered my knock and ushered me inside. We
paused in the entrance hall to hug warmly. A couple of weeks had passed since
we’d last seen each other, and I’d missed him. The scent of spices wafting from
the kitchen told me where Sameer was, and I entered the room to greet him and sniff
at the curry he was slaving over at the stove.
    “It’s not too hot, is it?” I asked, eyeing what
appeared to me to be a lavish array of peppers sliced on the chopping board.
    “They’re mild,” Sameer promised. “I know you’re a
wimp when it comes to curry.”
    “You know he still can’t bring himself to tell Ira
he tones down her recipe for you.”
    I laughed. Sameer’s mother was a lady small in
stature, but she had a formidable personality. I had no doubt she’d string me
up if she thought I was the cause of her son modifying a much-prized family
recipe. She often said she hadn’t emigrated to England only to forget where she
came from. Sameer’s parents were part of the wave of Bangladeshi immigrants who
had arrived in London during the early 1970s, and Sameer was the first
generation of the family to be English-born. His and Ryan’s home showed the
influence of both cultures, and the colourful robes they’d worn at their
wedding had looked incredible.
    “Never mind the food, anyway.” Ryan tugged at my
arm. “I want to hear all about this mystery man you’re seeing.”
    I laughed and let myself be led into the living
room. “He’s not a mystery,” I said, sitting on the sofa. “He’s a building
surveyor.”
    “What’s he like?”
    I let a little smug self-satisfaction seep into my
voice. “Delicious.”
    “Where did he take you?”
    I told Ryan about the restaurant we’d gone to, the
food we’d eaten, and what we’d discussed.
    “He sounds nice,” Sameer said, leaning against the
door jamb between the kitchen and the lounge.
    “So you’re seeing him again?” Ryan asked.
    I nodded. “On Friday.”
    “Where are you taking him?”
    “He wants to go clubbing.”
    Ryan pulled a face. “Aren’t you a bit old for
that?”
    I slapped his leg in outrage. “Speak for yourself!”
    Sameer guffawed.
    Ryan rubbed his leg, a hurt look on his face. I
wasn’t fooled. “I just meant, the way you describe him, he doesn’t seem the
clubbing sort.”
    “He isn’t,” I admitted. “That’s why he wants to go.
I may have mentioned what we were like when we were younger.”
    “And he still wants to see you again?” Sameer
whistled. “Brave man.”
    “Aren’t you supposed to be making our dinner?” I
demanded petulantly.
    With a flick of a tea towel in my direction, Sameer
returned to the kitchen, but I didn’t doubt he was still listening.
    “If he wants to get to know you, you should bring
him to The Drake instead,” Ryan suggested. “We’re