Read Blowing It for Free Online Page B

backcombed it a little on top, and my eyes
were sooty with kohl. He’d said he wanted to see me glammed up, and I’d
decided, after much dithering, if my appearance was going to put him off, I’d
rather know sooner than later.
    “I think… wow. ” He smiled broadly. “You look
incredible.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I thought you said you didn’t dress like that
anymore?” he said, falling into step beside me as we began the short walk down Bethnal
Green Road to the pub.
    I glanced at him sidelong. “I thought you said you
wanted to see it.”
    “I’m not complaining,” he said with fervour.
    I couldn’t stop the pleased smile from teasing my
lips.
    “Cold?” he asked as I pulled my close-fitting black
jacket around my waist.
    “A little,” I admitted. It was almost seven in the
evening, and the sun was setting, leaving the air decidedly chilly. “It’s not
far, though. I’ll be fine.”
    “So where are you taking me?” he asked, loping
along with boyish strides.
    “It’s a pub. Nothing too wild.”
    “Won’t you be overdressed?”
    “Heh. You haven’t been to The George.”
    The pub was already bustling with patrons when we
arrived. Magnus hesitated in the doorway so I took the lead, winding my way
through the throng to the busy bar. Some sort of indie pop was playing over the
sound of talk and laughter, and I had to shout in Magnus’s ear for his order.
    “I’ll get this,” he said. “What are you having?”
    I asked for a rum and Coke, then, spying a couple
pulling on their coats, I tapped Magnus’s arm and indicated the table they were
leaving. At his nod, I left him to catch a barman’s attention and scurried to
claim the table before somebody else beat me to it.
    The crowd was young, predominantly male, men in
their twenties and early thirties dressed, for the most part, casually in jeans
and T-shirts, the occasional splash of colour from a more flamboyant soul or
the deep black of leather breaking the monotony. Magnus joined me, drinks in
hand, set them down, and shrugged off his jacket before taking a seat opposite.
    His shirt was short-sleeved, and I admired his
thick, furry forearms. He looked like he hadn’t shaved since I’d last seen him,
the stubble on his chin long and dark enough to be more beard than scruff. It
suited him.
    I asked about his week, and we exchanged
pleasantries in a tone slightly louder than comfortable, having to raise our
voices to be heard over the background drone of the other patrons. We lapsed
into an uneasy silence, sipping our drinks and nodding whenever our eyes met. A
group moved closer to our table, somebody’s denim-clad arse practically shoved
in my face, their conversation obnoxiously loud. Magnus drained his drink and tapped
his fingernail against the side of the glass. Dammit, this wasn’t working out
the way I’d planned.
    “Do you want to dance?” he shouted, nodding at a
small, crowded section of the floor where pairs and small groups dipped their
shoulders and shuffled on the spot in time with the thumping beat of whatever
was blasting over the speakers.
    I shook my head. “Do you want to get out of here?”
    A relieved look crossed Magnus’s face before he
could properly disguise it, and I smiled.
    It was dark outside, the pavement busy with people
hopping in and out of the bars along Hackney Road. It was Friday night, and the
younger Shoreditch residents wanted to party. Black cabs and London buses wove
between each other along the street, and I caught snatches of conversation from
the people we passed and the stench of grease from an open takeaway. We’d
barely been in the pub half an hour, but I didn’t fancy repeating the
experience elsewhere. Nor, however, did I want to cut the evening short.
    I felt like a failure, like I’d let Magnus down.
I’d promised him a fun date, and all we’d done was sit in excruciating silence,
grinning inanely at each other like a pair of nodding dogs.
    “I’m sorry about that,” I said,