Page 8 of People Change

Shirin gives it a few seconds, then picks up her half-drunk mug of coffee and walks in the direction of the kitchen. Instead of going inside, though, she continues walking around the corner towards the post room. Toby is sitting on the stepladder by an industrial-sized blue bin. He is on his phone and when he sees Shirin, and then Mariam close behind her, he gets up, asks if they’re alright and leaves his seat. Toby does not have a desk in the office; he is just expected to float around, continually dropping off and collecting parcels. Shirin feels for him, but then every time she gets a new ASOS order he will make a comment like ‘You again’ or ‘I knew this would be for you’, and then her sympathy dissipates.

Shirin peeks inside the bin and thinks how sad it is that these works, which take years to write and edit, are now in a literal bin, some of the covers bent or damaged from people lobbing them in. When she first started at Hoffman, Mariam gave her an unofficial tour of the land. The first place sheshowed her was the book bin. Tucked away by the post room, it is not officially advertised as the place where staff can get free books, but that is essentially what it is – otherwise they get pulped. They tend to pick a couple of books to take back to their desk, even though they know the likelihood of reading them is slim, because they enjoy the aesthetic of books sometimes more than actually reading them. Shirin thinks most people in the publishing and bookish world do, they just don’t like to admit it.

It is a spot – along with one of the storage cupboards – where Mariam and Shirin go to speak privately. Mariam tells her she has an important pitch meeting for a book she loves and asks Shirin to distract her from the nerves. Mariam fidgets, adjusting her hijab, and then shaking her body as if to forcibly shake the anxiety off her. Shirin cannot help but admire her make-up, despite her constant moving. Her eyeliner is always sharp, drawn with precision, her cut crease impeccable, and looks so effortless it makes one think it is easy to achieve. Shirin wears the same shimmer eyeshadow, a touch lighter than her own eyelid tone, and heavy mascara combo daily, very firmly staying in her lane when it comes to make-up.

‘Florence is staring again,’ Shirin says. She leans against the bin and the hard plastic digs against her shoulder, but she doesn’t move or adjust her stance, just lets it continue digging.

‘I think she wants to be your friend,’ Mariam says. ‘It’s actually quite sad, if you think about it.’

‘Doubtful, when we’re both competing for the same job now,’ Shirin says.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Poppy’s leaving in four months to go back to Australia, and Lilian told me they’ll be hiring a new editor soon. Last week she handed three authors over to me, which I’m assuming shows she thinks I’m ready for the next level …’

‘You’ve been an assistant editor for two years now – if anyone should get it, it’s you,’ Mariam says. ‘This is excellent news, my friend.’

Shirin waves her hand, not liking the attention being on her any longer. Sometimes she is so desperate to be seen, but then when she is, she feels her skin crawl and wants to divert the attention elsewhere. She asks Mariam how her housemate situation is going, which sets Mariam off. She tells Shirin all about her nightmare housemate, Kesha, who appeared kind and timid in their SpareRoom interview, but who since moving in leaves passive-aggressive Post-it notes all round their flat. She ruined Mariam’s dinner party on Saturday by telling them to keep it down, at 9 p.m. It is a rite of passage, Shirin has recently come to realise, to have at least one terrible housemate in a flat-share. She has certainly experienced it enough times, and now lives in a house with three other women who don’t speak to each other. She knows what they sound like climaxing – or pretending to – through the thin walls, but not exactly what their jobs are.

Shirin and Mariam disperse when Toby comes round again, realising they have been talking for a touch too long. On her way back to her desk, Shirin sees an article up on Poppy’s computer. A familiar, haunting face, looking back at her. One she constantly tries to forget about, but, due to his steady climb to fame over the years, it has become harder andharder to do so. In the picture he is blond-haired with ginger stubble, his features generic, though less pretty than they were at school, his nose much bigger, his eyes the same bright blue. He has his arms held wide, and it looks like he is onstage at the Apollo. She imagines the applause he must have received after spewing his racist and sexist jokes, all in the name of free speech. He always told similar ‘jokes’ at school, but she never thought he would become so big or inescapable.

At her desk she types his name into Google. The first news article that appears is:

WODEHOUSE PUBLICATIONS TRIUMPHS IN 10-WAY 7-FIGURE AUCTION FOR MEMOIR BY COMEDIAN ROB GRAYSON

‘Jesus,’ Shirin mutters, her hand shaky on her mouse as she closes the webpage. He is encroaching on her life, in her industry. Not only that, but he is being allowed to spout dangerous verbiage – and is being paid millions for it. Around her she can hear her colleagues chatting, but her mind is in tunnel vision. An encroaching anxiety in the pit of her stomach is threatening to overcome her – because while she escaped school ten years ago, it is coming back to haunt her more and more lately. She doubts that he’ll mention in his memoir what he did to her – and to Kian. He will be lauded, as so many terrible men are.

She picks up her phone and has this urge to message Kian, like it is something she has done in her adult life – though of course it isn’t. She remembers Jasper’s gig is tonight and thepossibility of Kian being there. What does he think to Rob’s rise to celebdom? She actively avoids discussing it with her home-town friends; they forget the wrong he has done and instead are awestruck at how a working-class boy from a ordinary Northern city has become an international comedian. They forget how racist he was at school, and how racist he is in adulthood. The reason for this is simple: they do not care because it doesn’t affect them. Back then, it only affected Shirin and Kian.

Camden

The venue smells distinctly of bleach and beer, the combination familiar and not wholly unwelcome. As Shirin walks deeper inside, her Doc Martens stick to the black floor. Along the back wall is a bar area, and a thin crowd has already formed. This surprises her for a Monday night.

Jasper is a copywriter for a department store by day, and the guitarist for an indie band by night. They were in university halls together in their first year. He is more friends with Millie and Henry, though he is always friendly towards Shirin – and everyone he comes across, for that matter.

Someone is calling her name, and she turns to find Millie in the far corner, waving at her. Shirin walks over to the group. Her pulse is quickening now and she chews on the inside of her mouth to focus on something. She keeps her gaze on Millie, her neck flushing more and more with each passing moment. Millie almost hugs her, but stops halfway, laughing. ‘Sorry, I forgot: you hate it when people hug you.’

She says this every time they greet one another. It isn’t necessarily that Shirin dislikes hugs, but she thinks they’re overused. They are intimate, and it does not make sense to her that people greet each other with hugs when not muchtime has passed since they last met. She did not hug her parents, growing up, and only when her Baba Bozorg died did her mum hug her.

Shirin laughs. It is hollow, but she knows that if she squints her eyes when she does it, no one will know the difference. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Hate it.’

She notices Millie turn her head to jokingly roll her eyes at the group behind her. She does this to stay in control of the situation, it being preferable to rejection. Shirin is the unreasonable, strange one. She finally looks to the group and her stomach flops with relief – and oddly, also, disappointment. In the group are Jasper, Henry, and a man she vaguely recognises from the party. What a waste of an adrenaline rush and nervous sweats, she thinks.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Jasper says, giving her a toothy smile. He brushes his floppy hair away from his face.

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

Millie lets out a short laugh. ‘This is literally the first one you’ve been to in years.’

‘Well,’ Shirin begins, ‘I’ve just never been able to make it before is what I mean.’

‘I get you, bud,’ Jasper says, slapping his hand on her shoulder reassuringly, before telling them he needs to go onstage to set up.

Shirin goes to the bar and considers ordering a white wine. It is not even her favourite alcoholic drink. Wine often gives her headaches and crippling anxiety the next day, but it is the cheapest option – bar beer, which she categorically cannot stand the taste of. She is feeling sorry for herself now. Sherealises that while she had been dreading seeing Kian again, a part of her had also been clinging to the idea of seeing him; as though if they spoke he could assuage the confusing emotions she’s feeling now. He’s the only one who can truly understand how she’s feeling about Rob Grayson’s book deal.

For a fleeting moment she considers going home, and leaving without telling anyone. The idea is appealing. She can say something came up, that work emailed her asking for an urgent read. She can blame her boss – and the publishing industry as a whole – for not allowing her a work–life balance. She can then get the Tube home, make pasta, and return to the comfort of her small bedroom.

‘Hey.’ The voice comes from next to her, and she only turns when there is a pointed silence, which makes her realise it is because the person is addressing her.