Page 56 of People Change

‘I don’t know how,’ she confesses.

‘It might take time, but I’m here for you,’ he says. ‘Talk to me about it.’

His body against hers is comforting and solid, and she leans into him. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

Inhaling his scent, she resolves that they’re in too deep now. Either way, she is going to be hurt, it’s just a case of it happening now or later. Because she is human after all, she chooses later, to enjoy Kian now.

Herne Hill Market

On a Sunday morning Kian and Shirin walk down the road from Kian’s house to Herne Hill market. They rarely stay at her flat. His housemates are seldom in and, if they are, there is still enough space that they do not feel on top of each other, like they do in Shirin’s flat. The past month is a blur, though Shirin has tried in vain to make time slow. It is much harder to stop time when it is enjoyable. They’ll go out for dinner in Soho, on a long walk and coffee on Hampstead Heath, to the pub for Sunday lunch with their friends in Herne Hill, on a night out in Hackney Wick. There is no conversation about what they are, because they both know what they are doing is stupid. They find themselves drawn to each other, unable to stop whatever this is.

The disparity between Brixton and Herne Hill – which Kian lives between – is stark, despite them being only a twenty-minute walk from each other. Shirin often marvels at this in London; there will be old-school fish markets and butchers, and then down the road bougie coffee shops and independent bookshops. The market is just outside Herne Hill station and is bustling with people. The stalls sell food from around the world, and at each stall is a queue ofpeople. Kian walks to his favourite coffee stall and orders two lattes, while she wanders towards the bakery stand. She gets them two large croissants, which are given to her in striped paper bags. While she waits in line she reflects on how, on the walk over here, she tried to take Kian’s hand, but he walked with a bigger gap than normal between them, his jaw tense. When the market trader calls, ‘Next!’ he has to say it twice before Shirin notices it’s her turn to order.

Today is a crisp winter’s day, the sky cloudy. She is wearing a navy ankle-length coat, a brown scarf and mittens to defy the cold. She meets Kian back at the coffee stall and he hands her a takeaway cup, which she eagerly brings to her face, hoping the heat from the cup will provide her with warmth. Kian, conversely, is wearing only a grey hoodie and slim-fitting tracksuit bottoms. Whenever she comments on his lack of coat, he says it isn’t that cold, that he doesn’t feel it. At night, when her feet are icy, she likes to press them against his warm legs. He protests, initially, but then relents, and he is like her own hot-water bottle that she can snuggle into, while he wraps his arms around her. It is such a privilege, she thinks, to have someone to hold at night. When she lies next to Kian she sleeps soundly. She doesn’t overthink; doom does not envelop her. This reliance, though, is concerning, considering they have only been together for a month now.

The night before, they went for dinner and drinks at a nearby Mexican restaurant. Kian seemed off then – less chatty, more sombre. Shirin asked him if everything was okay and he said it was, and that he was tired from boxingearlier in the day. When he’d first told her he boxed she’d been surprised; it was never something he took an interest in, and it seems so at odds with what his passion is – preserving his hands for his paintings. He told her it de-stresses him, and that he took it up when he was in college. Just those words – the implications of it all – lingered in the air. They stopped talking when he went to college and she to sixth form. Last night she almost asked him about it – whether he began boxing as an anger-management tool or whether it was because he felt like he needed to know how to defend himself – but she decided against it. There’s a reason they haven’t spoken about that time. A mutual agreement. Instead she asked him why he needed de-stressing, what it was that was bothering him. Across from her in the restaurant, his mouth tightened. He lifted his drink and kept it by his mouth. He opened his mouth like he was going to tell her what was wrong, but nothing came out, and instead he took a long sip and afterwards told her that his course is harder than he thought it would be, that he’s falling behind and needs to spend more time in the studio. In return, she said her work was busy, too, and she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to make a competition out of their work.

She wonders now, as they walk to Brockwell Park, if he was trying to say that she is the problem. They spend every other day together now – and it’s mostly at his suggestion. When they had sex last night, he buried at his face in her neck as he moved, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was avoiding her eyes. Something was off.

They find a bench in the park that overlooks a group of children playing football in the distance. She leaves her croissant in the bag and sips her coffee. He doesn’t eat his either.

‘I have something I need to tell you,’ he says, looking to the distance, his eyes narrowed.

‘You do?’ she says coolly, her heart thudding.

‘I got offered a residency at a gallery in New York.’ He is looking down now, at his takeaway cup, though her gaze is on his face, searching it for more information than he is giving her. ‘And what they offered me is a little different from what I thought I’d get. It’ll be for a year and it would mean I need to fly out in two weeks.’

She chews the inside of her mouth for a few seconds before speaking. Her hands grip her coffee cup more tightly. ‘That’s incredible,’ she says. ‘Congratulations.’ She knows she needs to fix her face into a smile, to not look as devastated as she feels. Despite knowing this was coming, it still comes as a shock. ‘When did you find out?’

‘Last week,’ he says. She nods, understanding now. ‘I have to take this opportunity,’ he goes on, his voice a little cooler, harder at the edges. She looks away from him.

‘Of course you do,’ she says, irritated now that he’d even think she’d ask him to stay, that she would ever want to hold him back.

He sighs, which prompts her to look at him. His eyes appear pained, though at the same time pitying, and she hates the thought of him feeling sorry for her. Or that, in this situation, it is she who should be the one that is deserving of sympathy.

‘We were probably better as friends anyway,’ she says, her words loud and ugly in her ears. They come out with such ease that she surprises herself, more so when she continues, ‘We knew this time would come, and, like, I’ve been so busy with work, this has been a bit of a distraction for me.’ She lets out a laugh, which comes out weak, but Kian barely notices. His face looks properly wounded now, which initially makes her feel sad, but then she experiences a horrible satisfaction that they both feel stung now.

What she said is partly true though. Her work is intense, though it has been seeing Kian that has de-stressed her, centred her when she went off-path. When Abigail’s book was announced, it gained huge media interest, with Mariam claiming that Shirin was due a promotion imminently. Though now, sitting with Kian, thinking he’ll be gone in just two weeks, the idea of a title change means much less. It all does.

Ahead of her, she sees a golden retriever running after a tennis ball on the grass. It is the kind of thing she’d point out to Kian, who would laugh and watch in amusement, but nothing is amusing to them now.

Later that night, when they are in bed and Kian is dozing, her head on his chest, Shirin savours the moment. She can hear his heart beating, loud and rhythmic. She wishes she could bottle this moment. His arms tighten around her, and he kisses her forehead. It is such a tender gesture that she can’t help but wonder what they are doing. On the tip of her tongue are the wordsDon’t gobut instead she presses her lips together and closes her eyes.

The next two weeks pass quickly. They are intimate every time they see each other, everywhere – in the summerhouse, in his car, in her bathroom. It is like they are making up for lost time, not only this past year, but each kiss, each caress, is what they also longed to do ten years ago.

Shirin goes with Kian to Heathrow Airport. She watches as his back is turned and he walks through security, and only leaves when he is a tiny speck that she can no longer see in the distance. A tear rolls down her cheek on the Piccadilly line home. It plops with finality onto the lapel of her coat.

Team Updates

When Shirin returns home from Heathrow she struggles to enter her flat. The key won’t turn. She knows she needs to jig it to the right side twice, before pushing hard to the left. But this time this method doesn’t work, and it’s only on her fifth go, when she is muttering and swearing, ‘For fuck’s sake, can something just go right for once?’ that it clicks open. Her housemate Jane is coming down the stairs in her pyjamas as Shirin enters. ‘It’s a hazard,’ she says. ‘If someone was running after us and we had to get in quickly, we wouldn’t make it. We’d be killed and dragged away.’

Shirin looks at her, not knowing exactly what to say to that. In the end, she says nothing. Her housemate trudges into the kitchen, and Shirin drags her feet up the stairs to her bedroom. When she checks her phone, she sees a disjointed email from her mum, which informs her that Maman Bozorg is in hospital with pneumonia.

The following Monday she receives an email with the subjectTeam updatesfrom Allegra. She clicks on it idly. They’re regularly sent these emails; someone is always leaving, joining, going on maternity leave or getting promoted.Usually in the PR and marketing teams, which are constantly in flux. Her heart beats out of time, though, when she sees the name in bold and skims the body of the email:

We have exciting news to announce:Florence Ainsworthhas been promoted to editor, effective immediately. Florence has shown herself to be an invaluable member of the editorial team, with innovative ideas and a can-do attitude. Notably, her acquisition of Abigail Underwood – the Windmill First Novel Award-winner and the Women’s Prize-longlisted author – is such a massive book for us, and is in line with our mission to be more diverse and upmarket in the books we publish. We are excited to see more acquisitions from Florence. She will be handling many of Poppy’s authors. Please do join me in congratulating Florence!

At 10 a.m. Shirin and Lilian have their one-to-one catch-up. They always use the full hour, because Lilian is too busy for Shirin to ask quick questions throughout the week, and often they are things that only her manager can answer, so she stores them up in a list in her notebook.