Page 44 of People Change

Now

Shirin had planned to spend New Year’s Eve as she always did – in London, not Hull. Though when she arrived at her dad’s house on Christmas Eve and mentioned that she would be returning to London on the twenty-seventh, he was aghast. He said lately she only visited once a year, and when she replied that they were not even Christian, he said that that had never stopped her from asking for Christmas presents when she was younger.

His words evoked memories of her taking her parents to Asda, picking out what she thought to be traditional Christmas food – even though she didn’t like it – because she wanted to be like her friends, to have those picturesque Christmas spreads. The reality was badly seasoned, undercooked vegetables, rice that her mum insisted they needed on the table, and a chicken she hated the sight of (this was before she turned vegetarian).

They would sit at the table and she would try and lighten the mood, but her mum and dad would never bite. Instead, they would argue. Every day they argued. She remembers her mum making fun of her dad one Christmas, and him being so embarrassed he pushed the tree over in a fit of rage, threw the mince pies Shirin had bought on the floor, stood onthem in his slippers, and said, ‘We aren’t fucking English, so can we stop pretending?’ He left the house and didn’t come back until very late. Her mum said he was probably with one of his whores, if he could still get one, ‘the bastard’. Shirin was eleven, so didn’t fully comprehend how dysfunctional this behaviour was. It is convenient that, in older age, her dad has forgotten all this.

So in addition to spending a long, uncomfortable Christmas Day with her dad, Karen and her children, Shirin stayed for the limbo period between Christmas and New Year’s Eve too. This time was spent in her old bedroom on her laptop, bingeing on different TV shows, regressing to her teenage years. She thought she’d be able to see Phoebe more, but as she is actually English, her diary was packed with plans to see various family members.

It is Phoebe’s house that she is at now. The plan is to pre-drink before going to the nightclub they frequented in their youth to celebrate New Year’s Eve. She assumes they are doing this ironically, though this has not been verbally acknowledged.

What she doesn’t expect is Kian to be the one to open the front door. She pretends to clear her throat, to cover her intake of breath. ‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hi,’ he says. He, too, is surprised to see her standing there.

She is wearing wide-leg trousers with a corset top, intended to make her waist look small, with her cleavage almost showing, which feels more suggestive than if it were fully visible. She sees his gaze on her chest. Kian notices her noticing him noticing her and he quickly looks away.

‘You look nice,’ he says in a husky voice, which he promptly clears.

She laughs, even though nothing he has said is particularly funny. ‘Thanks, you look nice yourself.’ He is wearing a thick cream T-shirt and his hair is longer now, to his ears, his locks curly and glossy.

‘I didn’t think you’d be here,’ he says.

Her eyes widen in mock-annoyance, though her heart is thudding painfully in her chest. ‘Oh, I see how it is.’

He laughs as she enters the house. ‘No, I didn’t mean that, I just didn’t know. I’m surprised is all.’

Up this close she can smell his aftershave, and it brings her back to when he was at hers, when she cried into his chest and Kian held her.

He doesn’t move away from her in the narrow hallway, and they are now inches from each other, for a moment or so, then he steps aside to let her in. She can hear the chatter coming from the living room and she thinks she would rather stay here, pretending that she is just hanging out with Kian, that this is something they do. He places his hand on her cheek. For a split second she looks surprised, before standing very still, letting it lie there.

‘You’re so cold,’ he says, like this is the most normal thing to say and do. She cannot think of words, so says nothing. He clears his throat and removes his hand. ‘How was your trip to Iran?’

‘It was good,’ she says. ‘The restorative I definitely needed before spending Christmas with my dad, Karenandher children.’

‘Ouch!’

‘How was yours?’ she asks.

‘Good, I guess. I mean, I’m very keen to go back to London now.’ He laughs. ‘Anyway, come on in. Everyone’s in the living room.’

She nods, following his lead out of Phoebe’s hallway and to their friends.

‘Why is Kian here?’ she asks Phoebe in the small kitchen.

Phoebe is mixing various liquors in a large jug to create her ‘special cocktail’. Shirin watches as she haphazardly throws in unmeasured amounts of vodka, gin, cranberry juice and lemonade. She is concentrating on her creation and does not look up at Shirin when she speaks.

‘Um, sorry, I was going to text you about it, but things got a bit manic here. He’s mates with George’s friend Connor who’s round, so he came along.’

Shirin leans against the counter. The house is stuffy and smells like wet dog, though it is well decorated. She wishes Phoebe would turn round and take the situation seriously. It’s obvious, though, that she is distracted, that this is granular compared to her own concerns. Then Shirin has a thought and is not sure how to ask, or whether she should be asking. ‘How are things anyway, with George?’ she asks in a hushed tone.

Phoebe puts a bottle of Tesco’s own vodka down, sighs, her shoulders slumping, and looks Shirin in the eye for the first time that night.

‘How’s the baby-making going, you mean?’

Shirin does not say anything, though grimaces, which says it all.

‘I don’t know if it’ll happen for me,’ Phoebe continues. ‘Trust me not to be able to.’