Page 54 of People Change

Shirin is peculiarly nervous for this meeting with Hana now. She has never been nervous to see Hana before. Subconsciously, she realises now they have grown apart, without anything particularly dramatic having happened between them. Hana was irritated to hear that Shirin had acquired Abigail’s book, though Shirin pitched it to seem asthough it was less her idea than it actually was. They text less frequently because they have less to say to one another; their lives are too different. Hana’s life, Shirin feels, is infinitely more fun and carefree. Shirin sees herself growing more dull as the years pass, her primary conversation topics being work and the issues there, which really, unless you’re involved, is boring. Her social life is not particularly engaging, while Hana continues to go out most weekends (though she will tell Shirin that she is not, or she will tell her that she is but not extend an invite).

It is a particularly cold January evening. Despite the fur jacket Shirin wears – two sizes too big, from a vintage shop in Dalston – and multiple layers, she can feel the chill. Her ears, which habitually pop out of her hair, as though to see what is going on, are red and icy. She takes her hands out of her pockets to text Hana again at the same time as she sees her approach in the distance. Hana is wearing an oversized leather coat, a beret and pointed boots. She looks significantly cooler than Shirin.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Hana says as she approaches, though she does not offer an excuse as to why she is thirty-five minutes late.

‘You’re always late,’ Shirin says, in a jokey tone, though it does not match how she feels.

‘I know, it’s a chronic problem. You should know by now to be late yourself, then we’d both be on time.’

They enter the art gallery and have their bags checked upon arrival. The security guard probes Shirin’s work bag, with the empty Tupperware wrapped in a Sainsbury’s bag, using his security stick to dig to the bottom, past sanitarytowels and Sharpies. He nods, satisfied. Hana comes with a mini cross-body bag, which is looked at very briefly.

They don’t have a particular exhibition they want to see; Hana said she wanted to do something free. They wander the halls, barely looking at the paintings on the walls as they speak.

‘So, you were in Paris for New Year’s Eve?’ Shirin says.

Hana looks at Shirin initially like she doesn’t understand what she’s saying, then in a flash nods her head rapidly. ‘Yes! God, it feels like ages ago now. Valentia’s mum has a flat in Paris and invited me along. Can you believe it? It was amazing. I really needed that break.’ Shirin thinks Valentia is the one whose dad works for Chanel or Hermès. Somewhere impressive and luxurious, either way.

‘That’s so cool,’ Shirin says, her voice empty. This urge to compare their lives emerges again. She wants to shake it off so she can move on with her life, but it remains a weight close to her back.

‘They’re all really cool. I’m so glad I met them.’

‘I’d like to meet them sometime,’ Shirin says, a half-fib. She has nothing inherently against rich people, but it is not their company that she would choose to keep. She works among too many of them, anyway. This thought of hers feels unnecessary, though she cannot muster any guilt about it.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Hana says breezily. They pass a Picasso painting. Both stop for half a minute to observe, though Shirin is only pretending to observe. When did it become so awkward between them? Why do they have so little tosay to each other? ‘What did you do for New Year’s Eve then?’ Hana asks.

It was ten days ago now. Shirin has since returned to work. It was strange how she had forgotten the drudgery of her commute to work, the sticky bodies against hers, the way she can smell coffee on other people’s breath. Perplexing how the mind quickly discards such memories. Though commuting hell aside, the office is quieter and much calmer in the New Year, post-Christmas. There is less urgency to every task, for now.

Shirin continues to work on Abigail’s book with Florence. Though Florence now rarely responds to Abigail’s emails, so it is Shirin who is answering queries, liaising with her agent, sending edit notes on the essays Abigail submits. It is as if now that Florence has the credit and praise, she no longer needs to work on the project. This suits Shirin, who would rather not work with her, but it makes Florence’s motives so clear, so unopen to interpretation.

She tells Hana everything, toning down how much she likes Kian, while heightening how terrible her argument with Phoebe was. ‘Um, what?’ Hana raises her hand in the air between herself and Shirin and makes them stop by a floor-to-ceiling painting that is essentially painted black canvas with a tiny white dot in the middle. ‘I never liked her.’

‘Well, you never said so.’

‘I thought she was your home-town friend, I didn’t want to seem rude,’ Hana says, pressing her lips together. ‘But I knew she wasn’t good. She always made you smaller when you were with her.’

Shirin has this urge to say,Don’t you do that?But she isn’t sure if that’s fair. Maybe it isn’t Hana that makes her do that, but it is Shirin who does it to herself. Maybe it is through being friends with people like Phoebe that Shirin thinks friendships need to be like that. She isn’t sure.

‘I don’t know. It was just quite sad,’ Shirin says. They’ve not spoken since brunch, though they still like each other’s pictures on Instagram, which somehow is worse than if they had no contact at all.

‘Fuck her anyway,’ Hana says. ‘Tell me more about Kian. How is it?’ Hana has an expression like a Cheshire cat, and Shirin wants to fill Hana with exciting, good news, but the reality feels to her far from that.

‘Well, he might be moving abroad soon. So, that’s great.’ Kian has told her that if he gets an arts residency placement, he will be leaving in early spring.

Hana rolls her eyes now, tells Shirin to enjoy the moment and not think about all of that. Shirin wishes she could. She wishes she could be the kind of person who falls into things head-first and thinks of the consequences later. But even if she was able to do that, it’s different with Kian; they have a history. A history her friend knows little about. It feels too big to drop it in now. To have lost Kian once before, and now to have started something again only for it to end suddenly, would tear her apart all over again.

‘What are you worried about?’ Hana asks now, as though hearing her thoughts.

It makes her jolt to awareness, out of her spiralling mind. ‘That I’ll end up falling for him, if we continue to see eachother, and get hurt when it ends. I’m not like you,’ Shirin says. This is true, at least. ‘Like, last week I went to his and we hung out and it felt so nice, so perfect. Then he painted me—’

Hana stops them again. ‘Hold up. Hepaintedyou? That’s so sexy.’

This makes Shirin smile, though she tries to mask it. ‘I mean, yeah, it was.’

‘I’m always debating whether I’d want a man who’s a rich banker or a poor but sexy artist. You’re living one of the dreams, Shirin. Enjoy it – everyone needs a fling every once in a while.’

‘But it’s too complicated. What we’re doing is very stupid. You know I get attached to people.’

It is frustrating not telling Hana exactly what happened between her and Kian. She thinks if Hana knew she might understand, but she doesn’t want to go into it. ‘Life comes at us fast. If he makes you happy, even if it’s temporary, I say you should go for it. You could die tomorrow!’ Hana says, and Shirin rolls her eyes at the cliché, but Hana continues. ‘Hecould die tomorrow. Who knows? What will remain, though, is the fact that you, Shirin Bayat, are his muse.’ Hana gives Shirin an irritating sarcastic look, and hooks her arm through Shirin’s, and it is nice to walk arm-in-arm, like old times almost.