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given the high price of flowers these days. The two sons wore sharp Western-looking suits, which meant that they fitted properly and were not made from polyester. The three men were clean-shaven. They were a modern,
sonati
family and when they entered the room, Haj Agha felt a stab of jealousy. They were what he wanted to be.
    Mohammad had heard of his brother-in-law Haj Agha’s new-found religious zeal and was struck with respect. Mohammad was so busy making money, he did not have time for spiritual pursuits. As he congratulated Haj Agha on his latest holy jaunt, the sisters embraced and immediately retreated into the kitchen.
    Zahra’s oldest son, Amir-Ali, had done everything possible to get out of coming to the party. But when he walked into the flat, he saw that he had a reason for staying: Somayeh. Amir-Ali was taken aback by her transformation from unattractive little girl to alluring teenager. She had hazel eyes and, below a handsome straight nose, red lips sculpted in a defined Cupid’s bow. Her skin was flawless and her make-up subtle. Her
roo-farshee
house shoes were black sequinned ballet pumps, not the usual ugly plastic slip-on
dampaee
slippers that most girls in the neighbourhood wore at home. When she loosened her grip on her chador, an earlobe studded with three earrings peaked out from under wisps of highlighted hair. This surprised Amir-Ali; he had not expected his poor cousins from Meydan-e Khorasan to know about multiple piercings. These were details that mattered to him. Details that told him she would understand his world.
    Amir-Ali wanted a woman with traditional values but who appreciated the need to look good. In Amir-Ali’s experience,
chadori
girls were usually one of two types. They were unsophisticated with ugly, clumpy shoes or they had Botox-smooth foreheads and wore stripper heels, the rich ones picking up their vulgar, red-soled Louboutins in Dubai – wolves in black chadors. Too rebellious and deceiving to make good wives.
    A few young men in the corner of the room were trying to steal glimpses of Somayeh. Amir-Ali’s competitive streak pulsed into action. She was
his
cousin, and he would be damned if any of these lowly upstarts would get her.
    The attraction between them was instant. Somayeh felt her face reddening when he walked through the door. Amir-Ali was tall and muscular with a confident laugh and a sharp jaw. She noticed that his nose had shrunk in size, the handsome aquiline ridge now shaved off by the surgeon’s knife. She always ridiculed the boys in her neighbourhood who had nose jobs. You get the nose you pay for. Many of the residents in the Meydan could not afford the city’s certified plastic surgeons and had to make do with local dentists with a sideline in crude cosmetic surgery. The results were not always pretty. But Amir-Ali’s nose was so expertly shaped, it was a work of art. A mark of success and good taste.
    ‘So Mohammad-Reza, Persepolis or Esteghlal?’ Amir-Ali was asking the obligatory football question, but his mind was not on Mohammad-Reza or Tehran’s top competing clubs; his eyes were locked onto Somayeh, carefully tracking her around the room. She could feel his stare burning through her chador. She grabbed it tight round her, partly for comfort and partly because she knew it would cling to her and reveal her sylph-like body. Amir-Ali saw she was nubile and slim. You never knew with
chadori
girls. A few too many times chadors had slipped off to unveil dumpy hips and bounteous, fleshy stomachs, bounty he had not been looking for.
    ‘So Somayeh, are you still at school?’
    She blushed. ‘Yes.’ She hurried away. It would be inappropriate for her to talk to him for too long. In the neighbourhood, when puberty hit, cousins were no longer treated as close family. From her first period, Somayeh was not allowed to play unsupervised with the cousins she had considered as brothers. They had become potential sexual partners. ‘Boys and girls are like