Page 15 of People Change

I’m sorry I couldn’t speak more. Do you want to call me tomorrow?

He sends the thumbs-up emoji in response.

Every year Hoffman has a summer party to celebrate its authors. This year it is in a basement bar space, and the stairs leading downwards are mirrored, as are the walls, with a gold banister and a chandelier. From the outside, the venue appears worn down, but within it is beautiful and decadent.

Down the stairs Shirin is met by a member of staff dressed in a sharp suit, who shows her the cloakroom, and soon afterwards she is given a tall glass of Prosecco with a raspberry in it. She did not ask for one, but takes a sip anyway, figuring that one glass will not hurt. In fact, following her call with her dad, and the sinking, guilty feeling within her, she thinks it’s needed.

Mariam catches her as she enters the main room and touches her arm lightly. ‘There you are,’ she says. ‘I was looking for you.’

‘Well, this is quite intense, isn’t it?’

Mariam’s mouth is open to continue speaking when a group of authors approaches them. One of the authors Shirin recently started working with is among them, Leila Campbell. Leila has lived in Egypt for most of her life, and her memoir has won Hoffman awards, though it has sold few copies.

Leila tells Shirin and Mariam that she is so glad there are people of colour rising up through the ranks in publishing, and tells them to continue even if it’s hard – that they are the future. They both thank her, say she is so kind, and that yes, the lack of representation is really not good enough, is it? Though all the while Shirin feels a heavier sinking within her; the conditions in which people of colour are placed in this industry are so stark, compared to their white counterparts. There is the sensethat itwillbe hard for them and they just have to be strong enough to deal with it. That they must, otherwise nothing will change from within. Normally Shirin shakes the heaviness off, but it sticks tonight, holding her down.

Later in the night the mood is merry. Shirin is also vaguely merry from the Prosecco, though she is avoiding another one of her authors, who goes by the pseudonym Georgina Barlow-Wallows. She is really called Sally Smith. Sally has written a series of books about impressive women in the Regency and Victorian eras. She is a large woman, with short highlighted hair cut just underneath her ears. Her laugh radiates around the room, and she reminds Shirin of the dinner ladies at her school – which is not an unkind comparison, because those women were lovely to Shirin. But the comparison ends with her outward appearance.

Earlier in the evening, in a group of five – Shirin, Sally and three other authors – Sally detailed her trip to Cuba over the summer. She was describing the long flight, and in her description of how awful and cramped the flight was, she mentioned a Black woman who was sitting next to her, and how her hair was ‘invading her space’. ‘So I told her to put her hair away,’ she said. ‘It was everywhere. I mean, I’m not being funny, but it shouldn’t go over to my side of the chair.’ Sally’s cheeks were pink and she was smiling, and Shirin felt so outside herself, so reminded that this is a space she most certainly does not belong in.

‘What did she say?’ one author asked, also with a slight smile on her face.

‘Well, to be honest, she kicked off, used the race card – it’s not a race thing, obviously, it’s a space thing. Anyway, I complained to the stewardess and we got upgraded to first-class, so … result!’ She grinned and the others laughed and said how lucky she was, how things like that never happened to them. They asked her what first-class was like and she said it was ‘fabulous’, and Shirin stood there, looking off past their shoulders, a second glass of warm Prosecco in hand. She was mute, and she hated herself in that moment for being mute. But it was not the time, the place, the person, to say something. In any other circumstance she thinks she would have, but here she was rendered silent. It was so at odds with her body’s reaction, which wanted to fight rather than freeze.

When she left Hull at eighteen, she thought she was leaving all of this behind her. But now she is wondering whether the publishing industry is any different from being at school. There is often this impression that the South is much more civilised than the North, but here she is at an industry party, putting up with racists. There isn’t all that much difference – and it is a depressing realisation.

Time slips further away. She is enveloped in various conversations, her glass topped up without prompt, and her face hurts from fake smiling. She is pretending to laugh constantly, so much so that she no longer thinks she can call what she is doing laughing, but rather making a strange sound at everything the people around her are saying. When she realises this, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom,where she sits in a cubicle, her face stony and tired. She sits on the toilet and goes on her phone.

She has an Instagram follow request from @KianRahimi. It has been three days since the barbecue and while she has of course Instagram-searched him since, she has resisted following him first. She goes to the request, her finger hovering, lingering over the accept button, before she taps down on it.

@KianRahimi: Hey, it was really nice to see you at the BBQ.

@ShirinInTheCity: It was nice to see you too.

She clicks on his stories, finally, because she has wanted to do that for a while. He only has one post and it’s of a book by an author Hoffman publishes – A. K. Hosseini – and he writes how much he enjoyed it.

@ShirinInTheCity: We publish his books, you know – I could get you a proof of his new one if you want.

She is not even entirely sure she can easily do it, but types it anyway. He replies almost immediately.

@KianRahimi: Seriously?? That would be awesome.

@ShirinInTheCity: No problem!

@KianRahimi: Maybe I could buy you a coffee to say thanks?

She types different responses and is supremely conscious that she is sitting on the toilet, so eventually she simply likes his message and says:Sure! x

She receives a text:

Hana:I’m on a date with a guy who just said he’s not read a book before. From, like, start to finish. I even asked him what about school, and he said he always pretended. He’s hot tho, so …

Shirin:But does that mean he wouldn’t read a book YOU wrote?

Hana:God, you’re right, but look …

She sends Shirin his Bumble profile picture, and Shirin immediately replies with:

Ok, fine, I won’t judge your decision either way.