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Authors: Harper Cole
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how over-apologetic and goddamn British I'd gotten, so I laughed and said, "Sure, actually, you know what? That sounds great. I'll bring some wine."
"I do not drink. Simply bring yourself, and that will be enough. It is my pleasure to help out." He gave me his address, and a time, and I had a few hours to put myself and my work affairs in order for the day.
* * * *
I rode in a cab to his house. It was a quiet residential part of London, maybe forty minutes or so from the center. I hoped fervently that he did have a wife. I started to wonder how this would look to Andrew, but pushed it out of my mind immediately. He had control over my body but he could never, would never say how I spent my free time.
Amjad must have been waiting by the window or listening for the slam of the cab door because he was there on the front step, silhouetted against a warmly lit hallway, welcoming me in.
"Please. Your coat? Thank you. Come through. You are well?"
"I'm good, yeah, thanks. So, nice house you got here. I hope I'm not intruding…"
"No, no, no! Please. Through here."
He led me into a strangely sparse living room. There were two enormous leather couches, a bare fireplace with artificial flowers in the space for the fire, and very rich, densely patterned wallpaper. It would have felt opulent but for the lack of things - no television, no ornaments, no pictures. It was a show room, untouched and unused. Visitors only, I guessed.
Amjad was dressed in a polo shirt and cream slacks. He waved me to the far couch, and stayed by the door, smiling warmly. "Would you like some tea? Or coffee, maybe?"
I was learning to like the way people made tea here, and I didn't want to stay awake all night with a coffee. "Uh, tea, please. Thank you."
"One moment."
He disappeared and I was left feeling awkward, sitting on the couch as if I were waiting to be called into an interview. Cooking smells wafted through as the doors opened and closed, and then he was back with a tray. He balanced the tray on the other couch while he fetched a small folding table that was stashed behind that couch, and then took his seat opposite me.
"I feel kinda silly now," I told him. "You're very kind."
He shrugged. "What we give, we receive nine-fold in heaven."
"Ri-ight. Do you … live alone?" It was a perfectly normal question but I felt I might be taken as impolite, I didn't know why.
"My wife, she is not here," he said, and though his words were sad, his face kept on smiling.
And what did that mean? Ill, divorced, on holiday, working? I didn't want to start jumping to stereotypical assumptions about his culture or faith here, but I wanted to know. Well, Brits all thought we Americans were rude and brash, so that kinda gave me an excuse to push on with my questions. "Oh, where is she?"
"Her mother is sick. How is your tea?"
"It's great, thanks," I said automatically, before I'd even taken a sip, and then waved my hand at my blatant lie. "Sorry. Yeah. Okay, so, I'm sorry about your wife's mother. Maybe when she comes back, I might get to meet her? I realized lately that I haven't been making many friends here." Scratch that. I hadn't been making any friends here. "And the way I work, I can't start mixing with co-workers, because I don't have any. So I guess I need to ask around, ask people that I already know and trust, for a bit of help."
"Networking?"
"Social networking, yes. Can you recommend a gym?"
"There are many gyms."
"Sure, I pass a dozen a day. But if you or your wife go to one, then I can go in and say you sent me, you know. You might get a referral fee. It gives me a conversation starter."
"I do not go to a gym."
Jeez. This was painful. This was a huge, massive mistake. I was going to have to go back to the drawing board with this one. What was I even thinking? You couldn't engineer friendship like this.
And I still had the meal to get through. I could fake a sudden stomach ache, but then he'd have gone to all the effort for
"I do not drink. Simply bring yourself, and that will be enough. It is my pleasure to help out." He gave me his address, and a time, and I had a few hours to put myself and my work affairs in order for the day.
* * * *
I rode in a cab to his house. It was a quiet residential part of London, maybe forty minutes or so from the center. I hoped fervently that he did have a wife. I started to wonder how this would look to Andrew, but pushed it out of my mind immediately. He had control over my body but he could never, would never say how I spent my free time.
Amjad must have been waiting by the window or listening for the slam of the cab door because he was there on the front step, silhouetted against a warmly lit hallway, welcoming me in.
"Please. Your coat? Thank you. Come through. You are well?"
"I'm good, yeah, thanks. So, nice house you got here. I hope I'm not intruding…"
"No, no, no! Please. Through here."
He led me into a strangely sparse living room. There were two enormous leather couches, a bare fireplace with artificial flowers in the space for the fire, and very rich, densely patterned wallpaper. It would have felt opulent but for the lack of things - no television, no ornaments, no pictures. It was a show room, untouched and unused. Visitors only, I guessed.
Amjad was dressed in a polo shirt and cream slacks. He waved me to the far couch, and stayed by the door, smiling warmly. "Would you like some tea? Or coffee, maybe?"
I was learning to like the way people made tea here, and I didn't want to stay awake all night with a coffee. "Uh, tea, please. Thank you."
"One moment."
He disappeared and I was left feeling awkward, sitting on the couch as if I were waiting to be called into an interview. Cooking smells wafted through as the doors opened and closed, and then he was back with a tray. He balanced the tray on the other couch while he fetched a small folding table that was stashed behind that couch, and then took his seat opposite me.
"I feel kinda silly now," I told him. "You're very kind."
He shrugged. "What we give, we receive nine-fold in heaven."
"Ri-ight. Do you … live alone?" It was a perfectly normal question but I felt I might be taken as impolite, I didn't know why.
"My wife, she is not here," he said, and though his words were sad, his face kept on smiling.
And what did that mean? Ill, divorced, on holiday, working? I didn't want to start jumping to stereotypical assumptions about his culture or faith here, but I wanted to know. Well, Brits all thought we Americans were rude and brash, so that kinda gave me an excuse to push on with my questions. "Oh, where is she?"
"Her mother is sick. How is your tea?"
"It's great, thanks," I said automatically, before I'd even taken a sip, and then waved my hand at my blatant lie. "Sorry. Yeah. Okay, so, I'm sorry about your wife's mother. Maybe when she comes back, I might get to meet her? I realized lately that I haven't been making many friends here." Scratch that. I hadn't been making any friends here. "And the way I work, I can't start mixing with co-workers, because I don't have any. So I guess I need to ask around, ask people that I already know and trust, for a bit of help."
"Networking?"
"Social networking, yes. Can you recommend a gym?"
"There are many gyms."
"Sure, I pass a dozen a day. But if you or your wife go to one, then I can go in and say you sent me, you know. You might get a referral fee. It gives me a conversation starter."
"I do not go to a gym."
Jeez. This was painful. This was a huge, massive mistake. I was going to have to go back to the drawing board with this one. What was I even thinking? You couldn't engineer friendship like this.
And I still had the meal to get through. I could fake a sudden stomach ache, but then he'd have gone to all the effort for
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