There were long periods in the Unit when they barely spoke. Standing at right angles to each other, at separate work benches, eyes down, chopping and skewering meat, or cutting vegetables into thick, cumbersome chunks, according to the different recipes. If they looked up they could see each other's profile from the corner of their eye, and hear the tapping of a knife on a chopping board, or the scrape of a pan against the stainless steel worktop. Sometimes, one of them would put the radio on, a commercial station pumping out the cheap, tinny tunes that Christian so often heard in clubs. More often, though, they worked in silence. The cold glow of the metal characterised the atmosphere – sterile, cool, clinical. Yet when Christian returned home in the evening he could still smell the warm, pungent fragrance of cumin and coriander on his clothes, and see the golden yellow stain of turmeric lingering on his finger tips.
He hadn't thought much about Syed at first. He'd taken the younger man's comment about his handshake when they'd introduced themselves as a not-too-subtle hint that Syed was homophobic and thus dismissed him from his thoughts. But as the weeks went by he'd found Syed difficult to ignore. He was quiet, and unassuming, but Christian found himself increasingly aware of Syed's presence, even looking forward to the younger man's arrival each day. They still rarely spoke, but the hours went faster when Syed was there, and not just because the workload was halved
Christian had never been fond of Zainab. She was energetic and hardworking, and dedicated to the success of the business, but he knew she disapproved of the way he chose to live. She controlled the men in her family with a sharp tongue and both her sons and husband were quick to jump the minute she uttered a word. Yet Syed was endlessly patient with her, calm and measured in his responses, sometimes looking over to Christian for a shared glance of mutual understanding. Christian normally looked away. He was jealous, he realised – envious of the Masoods' ability to tolerate each other's faults and enjoy each others' company, wishing that his own family were so quick to forget and forgive.
When Amira arrived in the kitchen for the first time, Christian's gaze travelled from her crimped hair to her painted toenails. It wasn't a sexual appraisal, but Christian was used to critiquing people's sense of style – and this woman was stunning. If he was straight, he'd have whisked her to bed within an hour, but Syed seemed content with a daily peck on the cheek or the occasional outstretched hand. His name for her – Princess – was particularly apt, Christian thought. He tended to avoid high maintenance men – he'd been accused of being one himself from time to time – but this woman took the need for attention to new heights. Yet Syed was consistently attentive and adoring when required – carrying her shopping, collecting her clothes from the dry cleaners, even, Christian was aware, paying her rent some weeks.
He'd bragged about his night with James on his birthday, thinking it would shock or repulse the Muslim man, but his boasting had backfired and he ended up feeling foolish and exposed. Later, sitting in the pub with James, trying to get their friendship back to a comfortable footing, it was Syed's face that flitted across his mind as he stared at the picture of the personal trainer on James' mobile phone. "I don't want your sloppy seconds," he'd pouted. "I prefer dark haired guys anyway." Had he said that out loud? Thinking back later, he wasn't sure whether he'd even thought it. Christian didn't have a type – or if he did, it was usually just 'available'.