Page 2 of People Change

She nods. ‘I went to uni here, at Queen Mary’s, and stayed since.’ She pauses as though she is thinking. ‘Where’d you go to uni again?’ She knows already though, from her aforementioned stalking.

‘Glasgow.’

She nods, then says, ‘Right, nice,’ a little too quickly. She did not pace her response correctly, and there is a short silence before she fills it by blurting, ‘You’ve lost your accent?’ It’s not really a question, though she says it like it is.

He raises an eyebrow, laughs. ‘I definitely haven’t.’ The side of his mouth twitches upwards as though he is deliberating about whether he will say what he wants to next. There is a glimmer in his dark eyes. ‘Yours hasn’t toned down, though, I see.’

Despite not living in Hull for eight years now, Shirin’s accent has remained, just as strong as it was when she left. People she meets for the first time habitually comment on it, like it is a quirk of hers. Sometimes they do not understand her, sometimes it colours their perceptions of her – they see her as less intelligent because she has a soft drawl and elongates certain words. Kian’s accent, by contrast, sounds neutral to Shirin, like it has been tempered through the years.

She narrows her eyes at him.

‘It’s a good thing,’ Kian adds. ‘It reminds me of home.’

She resists the strange urge to smile at this – the urge in general to pick up where they left off, which she is realising would be very easy to do. In her fantasies – or nightmares – of this moment, Kian is cold and bitter towards her. They argue. He is not friendly, and perhaps that is because it is harder to think of him as he was all those years ago. Perhaps she has needed him to be a villain to justify the things she said. Her gaze wanders past his shoulder, towards Millie’s back as she leans into Henry, and other people Shirin does not know well, chatting together.

‘What are you doing then? Did you get a job here or something?’ she asks.

‘I got a place to do an MFA in Fine Art at Goldsmiths.’ His tone is marginally less confident and quieter when he says this. He clears his throat, covering his mouth with his fist.

Her gaze returns to his eyes and she cannot help the real smile then. ‘That’s amazing. Congratulations. I always knew you were talented.’

He looks away and presses his lips together. It is a somewhat embarrassed, uncertain expression. ‘Thanks.’ He then scrunches his nose, before adding, ‘I know some people say Masters are pointless, but I think it’ll be good for me. There’s the potential to spend some time abroad, too, which would be sick – and it was partially funded.’

‘I don’t think it’s pointless. It’s your passion. It always has been.’

Kian’s mouth is open, she thinks, to explain what he means, when Hana comes over, as though out of nowhere, sidling her way between them. She is wearing a black leather bustier and red flared trousers, her lips a wine-red to match her bottoms. Her skin is buttery smooth. Shirin has never seen Hana with a blemish, even in their late teens at university. Having witnessed Hana’s skincare cabinet, though, she knows such faultless skin takes supreme effort. It somewhat softens the blow of how grey and lacklustre Shirin’s own skin is, despite the various The Ordinary serums that she uses.

‘I didn’t know you were here yet,’ Hana says to Shirin, almost accusatory.

‘I just arrived.’

Hana looks at Kian pointedly, then back at Shirin, with an expression that reads,What’s going on here?Shirin cannot help but feel a twitch of irrational irritation then, like Hana needs to know – or be involved in – every facet of her life.

‘You said you couldn’t come,’ Shirin says.

Hana smiles, pleased with herself. Her sudden appearance is actually unsurprising, really. She likes to show up unannounced, declining invitations and then appearing suddenly.At the start of their friendship Shirin found this energising and unexpected. Now, though, she perceives Hana’s actions as indulgent, as though she always requires special attention, even at a party for people she barely knows. Shirin dislikes herself for thinking such things, now, about her best friend. She thinks there is an ugliness inside her sometimes, some kind of repressed anger that she takes out on other people in her mind.

‘I live to surprise. You know me,’ Hana says. She touches Shirin’s hair gingerly. ‘I like the colour. It’s very 2015.’ On a whim, the night before, Shirin dyed her hair a colour that Bleach London calls ‘Awkward Peach’. Hana’s words make her question her decision, given it is now 2018. She resists the urge to touch her very dry locks, which are coated in argan oil, in response. Her annoyance must show on her face because Hana backtracks and says, ‘What I mean is it looks cool.’

The doorbell rings. Kian’s eyes flick to Shirin’s, hold hers for a moment, before looking back towards the door. ‘I better get that,’ he says, leaving them.

‘So,’ Hana begins once he has left. ‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’

Just looking at Hana, so immaculately put together, results in Shirin straightening out her geometric-patterned wrap dress, which by comparison feels frumpy – like Shirin is going to a garden party, and Hana to a club. Shirin used to dress edgy, though she’d never actually use the wordedgy. She doesn’t know when that changed. She tries not to compare herself to others, but often cannot help it. Especially when she gets the feeling her friend is also doing it to her, as she does now.

Hana perches herself on the armrest of the sofa and crosses one leg over the other. ‘God, have you seen them? Could they get a room?’ she says with derision.

Shirin turns to see that Henry and Millie are kissing. His arms are around her waist, and hers are wrapped around his neck. They are the same height, which makes the kissing appear more intimate.

She does not know what to say. Ordinarily she would join in, to appease Hana, but she is too wired, her heart beating too quickly. She feels a scary mix of wanting to take flight and freeze. Seeing Kian has made her feel so unsure of herself, unsure of anything. What are the chances of him being here, in her world, with her friends, after all this time? It’s like she has reverted to being an unhappy teenager, and she needs to be alone to process it all. She knows that not even Hana, who she loves but who also sometimes annoys her, can assuage her anxiety right now. So she shrugs and says, ‘I need to pee,’ before leaving the room, allowing no time for her friend to reply.

She does a solitary tour of the house and finds herself in the kitchen, looking out onto the garden. People are smoking by the patio, and at the far end of the garden is a summerhouse. She opens her phone and sees that Uber has surge-charging and so she decides to stay.

Tonight is a balmy summer evening and the sky is black, pollution providing a mask over the night stars. She makes her way outside for some air. Voices from this party, and other people in other houses around Brixton having parties too, spill out into the gardens. Occasionally there are thesirens of ambulances and police cars, and it is only now that Shirin is alone, willing her thoughts away from Kian, that she notices them.

Unthinkingly she finds herself by the summerhouse. Phoebe, her friend from back home, has one and it has always struck Shirin as a middle-class addition to a house. The glass doors are left slightly ajar, the inside unlit. As she enters, her phone’s torch illuminates the interior of the room. She shines it around the walls to find a light switch, and the bulb gives off a soft, dim light. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to her surroundings.

Against the wall is a white corporate-looking desk with grey legs, and a clashing pine chair. The desk is bare, except for a Sports Direct mug containing pens and pencils. Boxes are stacked against the opposite wall. She peeks inside one of them. It contains various vinyl records, and atop the pile is Fiona Apple,The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do. She runs her hand over the sleeve. It is covered in a thin layer of dust, which she brushes off with her fingertips and instantly regrets, wiping her now-dirty hand on her dress. She remembers listening to ‘Every Single Night’ on repeat one summer when she was still at university, with an unrequited crush and feeling as though she might die from the lack of attention.