Free No Sex in the City by Randa Abdel-Fattah Page A

voice that warns me that my parents’ marriage will be buried forever if my mum ever finds out about my dad’s guilty secret.
    I meet Yasir at an Italian restaurant in Drummoyne. When I see him I get that funny feeling in my stomach. I walk over to him and his smile is so genuine, so warm, it makes me melt.
    We don’t hug or kiss (although I’m obviously thinking about what it would feel like), just shake hands and take our seats. Granted, I’m far from being the world’s most religious person, but if there’s one thing I won’t compromise on, it’s my ‘no touching before the ink dries on the marriage certificate’ rule (except for shaking hands – ooh, how positively scandalous!).
    We order our entrées and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in Yasir’s mind. I wish I could just come out and ask him whether we’re on the same page: whether our getting to know each other is for the long-term. But I’m not suicidal. I’m not going to bring up the C word with a guy I’ve known for seven days.
    Yasir’s phone vibrates on the table, jolting me out of my nervous thoughts.
    ‘Sorry,’ he says, checking his phone. ‘It’s work. Just give me a sec.’
    ‘Problems at work?’ I ask when he’s put his phone away.
    ‘A bit of a disaster, actually. I’m scared to tell you. Given your low opinion of builders.’
    ‘You’re changing that, so don’t worry.’
    ‘Am I now?’
    ‘Slowly.
Very
slowly.’ We grin at each other. ‘So what’s the problem?’
    ‘I arrived at the house we’re building today to find that the painters have painted the walls in the wrong colour. Electric blue. Throughout the entire house, mind you. Not just one feature wall. You would think they’d have realised something had gone amiss in the paint delivery. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever come across an electric-blue house before.’
    ‘What a nightmare.’
    ‘It’s our mistake, so we have to wear the cost.’
    ‘That’s terrible.’
    ‘It could be worse. I had a job once where a contractor I hired to do the plasterboard did such a dodgy job that I refused to pay him. He got me back by putting a carton of milk in the cavity of one of the walls and sealing it up.’
    I burst out laughing.
    ‘Of course, the milk went off pretty quickly and the stench was overpowering. We had no idea where the smell was coming from. It was only when we had the plasterboard removed by the new contractor that we found the carton of rotten milk!’
    ‘You’re supposed to be redeeming the construction industry’s image, remember, not validating my low opinion of it.’
    ‘Hey, short of mopping the floors with Chanel No. 5, I did everything I could to get rid of the smell. I went the extra mile. See what a nice builder I am?’
    ‘Very nice,’ I admit. And at least your job has its moments.’
    ‘And what moments do you savour in your work?’
    ‘Ah, now that’s a tough one.’ I tap my fingers on the table as I think. ‘Strangely enough, pharmacy recruitment does have its fair share of amusing anecdotes. A couple of weeks ago I reviewed an application for the position of pharmacy assistant from a guy who put down as his reference a female escort who had apparently been a male pharmacist for ten years before an operation and career change.’
    We go on like this for the rest of the evening, laughing and swapping stories. If you can laugh with a guy for a couple of hours, I reckon it’s a safe bet that you’re onto a good thing.

Ten
    It was Brooke Shields who once said, ‘Smoking kills. If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life.’
    There are some statements you simply can’t take back. And that’s the way it is tonight.
    I’m standing beside Ruby and Lisa at Anil’s thirtieth. Nirvana’s brought us along as support, and because Anil wants to meet her friends (a big step in any relationship).
    It’s a barbecue lunch at Anil’s family’s mansion in West Pennant Hills. Nirvana has filled us