Page 23 of People Change

‘Ye kam,’ he said. ‘I can understand it more than speak it. My dad wants me to do a class after school to learn it properly, but I’m crap at languages.’

‘Yeah, but it’s different when it’syourlanguage, Kian.’

His stomach felt all weird when she said his name and he diverted his gaze down to the straw-like grass. He plucked a strand of it, rolled it around in his fingers, in a bid to both distract himself and look more nonchalant than he felt.

‘I take it you can speak it then?’ he asked.

‘Baleh,’ she said.Yes. She said something else, but he didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t want her to know that, so he smiled and swiftly changed the subject.

‘So do you have a watering can next to your toilet?’ he asked.

She laughed. ‘Yeah. It’s pink. Do you?’

He nodded. ‘Mine’s green. I’ve never met someone in Hull who had one too.’

‘I’m glad we can bond over this,’ she said jokingly, before moving her bag behind her and lying onto her back, using her backpack as a pillow. Kian did the same. The sky was clear, with a perfect-looking cloud just above them. He watched it slowly move across the sky, and everything was so still and peaceful that he didn’t want the moment to end.

Dulwich

Now

The wellness café they meet in was Abigail’s choice. She told Shirin it was her local café, where she goes sometimes to write. The café has dark wooden furniture and the walls and floor are pastel pink. Plants line the window sills, peace lilies and ctenanthes, some of their leaves decorated with pink lines. In the middle of the café is a large table, and creatives share the space with their laptops and flat whites. Shirin thinks this is the life she aspires to have – to work for herself on her laptop in aesthetic coffee shops. It is a source of wonder for her how people achieve this lifestyle – how they evade the nine-to-five grind with enriching, creative jobs that still cover their rent.

In her weekly catch-up with Lilian, progression was discussed – and by discussed, Shirin tacked it on in the remaining five minutes of their meeting, after putting off broaching it for the hour. Her manager said she wanted to see Shirin acquire a book with big commercial potential, to prove herself as an editor. Shirin mentioned that she’s friends with Abigail, who has been on theSunday Timesbestseller list for the four weeks since her launch party. Now, everyone wants to publish her next book. When Shirin suggested a collectionof essays by Abigail, exploring some of the themes in her novel, Lilian jumped at the idea. She said if Shirin could pull it off, it would help her case for a promotion. So here she is.

She feels herself clinging to this – that she needs it now, more than wants it. That with it she might finally live the life she has always longed for. That maybe it is the fact that she is an assistant editor that is continuing to make her so unhappy.

Abigail is seated at a corner table. As Shirin approaches, she shuts her orange Moleskin notebook and tucks her pen inside simultaneously. She is wearing red lipstick and no eye make-up, her cheeks slightly flushed. On the table is a carafe of water and two small cloudy glasses.

Shirin waves hello, and Abigail stands. They hug lightly; with people she does not know well, Shirin struggles to decline an embrace. After they greet each other and order coffees, Shirin sits straight, attempting a professional front. ‘Thanks for meeting me,’ she says.

‘No, thankyou,’ Abigail says. It is formal, and awkward, and Shirin cannot unsee Abigail at parties off her face, or them singing ‘Anaconda’, shaking their bodies at their graduation party.

‘So, as I mentioned, we’d love to work with you on a collection of essays,’ Shirin says.

She hasn’t mentioned any of this to Hana, because she knows exactly what her response will be. Only if this goes through, she decides, will she bring it up with Hana.

‘I’ve had a few publishers say they’re interested in another book, to be honest with you,’ Abigail says. She leans forward, her elbows planted firmly on the table, lifting her cappuccinoto her lips. She holds it there, looks up in thought. ‘But I’d like to work with you on it. I think it’d be fun.’ She finally takes a sip of her drink, and Shirin realises she has been holding her breath. It is embarrassing to need someone this much, especially someone who is her peer. They were in the same classes at university, went to the same parties, and now it is Shirin who needs to impress Abigail to get ahead. It is a strange, unenjoyable dynamic.

‘It’ll be great,’ Shirin says. ‘The whole team is so excited by this idea.’

Abigail leans back in her chair. Shirin notices a small hole in Abigail’s black wool rollneck, just at the shoulder. It is an odd place for a hole, and she idly wonders if it is from moths. This imperfection makes Abigail less intimidating – like she has moth problems, exactly like the rest of us.

‘My only concern,’ Abigail says, ‘or rather question, is about Hoffman. The publisher ofMy Corner Shopis an indie, and I really like their ethics – we stand for the same things. So what is Hoffman really like?’

Shirin’s head moves back reflectively; she has not expected this question and cannot think of a rehearsed answer. ‘It’s really great,’ she says, knowing that sounds empty. In this moment she is unsure how she works with words for a living.

‘You don’t find it too corporate then?’

She shakes her head. ‘No, it’s really fun and innovative.’ As the words roll out, she realises this is a lie. She does not know why, or how, it came out so effortlessly.

Abigail raises an eyebrow, though her shoulders soften. ‘Really?’

‘Honestly,’ Shirin continues. ‘It’s amazing. Hoffman – they’re amazing. It’s a really innovative publisher.’

‘You already said that,’ Abigail says. ‘Okay. You don’t have to convince me any more, Shirin. I’m really excited about this – and working with you.’

Shirin smiles and takes an unsteady sip of her water. Her hands are shaking slightly and she is not sure if Abigail notices, though she doesn’t say anything about it.