Page 3 of People Change

‘That’s her best album,’ a voice says behind her.

She jumps, dropping it. The record lands clumsily back into the box. She turns and Kian is standing in the doorway. He has put on a navy denim jacket, and she immediatelythinks he is one of few people who wears double denim well. He looks as surprised to see her as she is to see him.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The door was open.’

‘You not enjoying the party?’

‘No, I am. I just needed a bit of a break.’

He nods like he understands. Stacks of painted canvas lean against the side of the desk.

‘This is a really nice space.’ She gestures around her.

‘The landlord used to live here and was an author. This was her writing space,’ he says.

‘And you use it as a studio now?’

He nods. ‘Dylan’s parents bought him the house, and he’s been quite sound in letting me use it for my work.’

‘Of course they did,’ she says, her voice thick with derision.

Kian’s laugh is short and quick. She is struck by how different he seems now from the boy she used to skip class with, all those years ago. That boy was quiet, angry and wore his emotions plainly on his face. The Kian in front of her is so much more confident; he stands straight and laughs, so easy and carefree. Age has refined him, whereas she wonders if she has regressed. She had such passion back then, about everything. She gently chews her tongue to gain clarity, to remain firmly in the moment.

Above his desk is a painting of a woman, nude, lying on her front, her arm just covering her breasts, her hair in two space-buns. The subject is looking off into the distance, her eyes soft, as though they are about to flutter shut. Her expression is unguarded, like this is a shot between poses.Her lips are parted, like she is about to breathe out a sigh. The brushstrokes are both soft and strong in places, the paint heavy, overlapping different shades to make her olive skin, which is textured and slightly pink on the tops of her cheeks. There are pops of colour in unexpected places, blended into natural tones. Surrounding her is a meadow, with bursts of pink, red and orange flowers in the background.

His style has evolved into Impressionism. There is an ethereal quality to these portraits, quite different from his older work on his Instagram, which is bolder and sharp in colour. When she goes to her friends’ gallery launches she rarely sees art like this, though she is no real art enthusiast. Their works tends to be abstract or conceptual and she often does not get them, which makes her feel dense, because everyone around her seems to. It is not surprising, looking around now, that Kian is being funded to continue his work at one of the best art universities in the country. ‘You’re really good,’ she says.

‘Thanks.’ His reply is quick. He does not take compliments well and visibly wants to move away from this topic of conversation. That this is still the case for him – that this hasn’t changed over the years – is interesting to her.

‘You’re a proper artist now, you know, Kian. It’s very cool – accept it.’ She says this both because she means it and to make him more uncomfortable, so that they can both be uncomfortable, not just her.

He lets out a laugh again. He looks boyish, up close, more how she remembers him from school, his dark eyebrows softly framing his eyes. But now he has well-groomed facial hair, which shapes his face, creating more angles, makinghis high cheekbones more pronounced. ‘I’m a proper artist, am I?’ He shakes his head. ‘It feels pretentious to say it aloud, to be honest.’

‘Well, you are one, I’m afraid. Pretentious or not.’

She gives him a close-lipped smile, thinking she should go soon, when he asks, ‘What was up with that girl talking to you earlier?’

‘What girl?’

‘The one wearing a corset.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Hana?’

‘Yeah, her. The way she talked to you … I mean, I might be wrong, but I don’t know – it was weird. Does she always do that?’

She waves her hand in anit’s nothingway. ‘That’s just Hana, that’s how she is with everyone when she’s in a mood. She’s not always like that.’ This is true; sometimes Hana is considered and caring. Other times, when she is feeling insecure, she takes it out on the people closest to her. She has difficulty hiding the ugly parts of herself, but at least she is honest.

Kian does not look convinced, which makes Shirin defensive. It is one thing for her to have the occasional negative thought about Hana, but not other people, not when they don’t know her like she does.

‘Well, you look really good. I like your hair,’ he says.

She is still annoyed at him, so she looks at him blankly, even though his face is colouring ever so slightly. He does not backtrack, though, as she expects him to, as she would have done in his position.

In the end she shrugs, despite her now-quickening heart, which she wishes would shut up and get a life. ‘I don’t really take notice of what Hana says. I know she doesn’t mean it anyway,’ she says. The first part of what she says is a lie, but one she wants to be true. Perhaps if she says it enough times it will be. ‘You should probably get back to the party. People will be wondering where you are.’

‘Is it bad that I don’t want to?’ He is looking at his hands now, twirling the plain silver band on his right ring-finger.

It is rare to see men wearing jewellery. She is reminded of summers spent in Iran, with her Maman Bozorg taking her to jewellery shops and haggling with vendors to buy her gold. It is something that in England appears extravagant. But in her motherland, jewellery is an investment, like putting your money in stocks. Shirin keeps her jewellery in a box underneath her underwear drawer: thousands of pounds worth in her shabby bedroom. Today she is wearing a gold chain, which is textured like rope and shimmers in the light. Though it is 18-carat gold, it is such a bright gold it appears fake. Her Baba Bozorg gave it to her before he passed away.