Dulwich
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 windowsills, 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—meaning 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 the Sunday Times bestseller list for the four weeks since her launch party. Now everyone wants to publish her next book. When Shirin suggested a collection of 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 Moleskine notebook and tucks her pen inside simultaneously. She is wearing red lipstick and no eye makeup, 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, thank you, ” 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.
“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 cappuccino to 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 realizes 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 roll-neck, 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 of My Corner Shop is 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 realizes 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. I’m really excited about this—and working with you. I’ll talk to my agents and they’ll be in touch with you soon.”
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.
“I’m talking as a friend here, though. Are you happy there?”
“Of course,” Shirin says, though she is not sure if this is the truth anymore.
When she returns to the office, Lilian calls Shirin into a meeting room for a quick chat. Her heart beats uncomfortably at the words “a quick chat” and she imagines all the possible reasons she might be being fired, from halfheartedly completing an admin task for a book to bitching about the company to Mariam. They go to a tiny meeting room that people use for private phone calls. Lilian leans against the table, so Shirin stands opposite her, hands clasped together.
“Just a quick one,” Lilian says. “How’d it go with Abigail?”
Her muscles relax then, and it is jarring to go from this dread to plastering on an “easy” smile. A small voice asks her if she’s even happy that she isn’t being fired, but she dismisses it as ridiculous.
“Good,” Shirin says. “She said she’d like to do it.”
Lilian smiles and it doesn’t touch her eyes; it rarely does. “Brilliant. I was hoping you’d say that. I think you should pitch the project in our acquisitions meeting next week. I also wanted to quickly let you know that Florence will be working with you on this, so you’ll present together.”
Shirin’s eyebrows furrow ever so slightly. It is not like she is being paired with someone more senior to guide her, or more junior to assist her. It makes little sense for them to work together because Shirin and Florence are at the same level, both in competition for a promotion. That and the fact she thoroughly dislikes Florence and spends most of her time avoiding her stares. “Oh?”
“I think it’d be good for you to have someone to help you with it. It’ll make it less work for you, as I know you’ve got a lot on.”
Shirin nods and they leave the meeting room. Her steps are slow to her desk. It doesn’t feel right to her that she came up with an idea for a book and used her connections to secure the author to then have to share it with Florence. How will this show her as being ready for the next stage? Won’t it show she can’t do it alone? And won’t it benefit Florence too?
She sits back at her desk, looking at her screen, but isn’t processing any of her emails. Her mind is whirling. It is a strange feeling. She has never been the type of person to demand credit for her work, but she sees the way editors around her are praised for their ideas and is confused about why she can’t get the same treatment. Why Florence is brought into exciting projects, whereas Shirin is only really brought into conversations about diversity and inclusion. There is, she is realizing, an imbalance between what Shirin and Mariam are expected to do, compared to their white counterparts. She thinks she must have known this, but it has never been quite so discernible before. Or maybe she wasn’t paying attention.
In the afternoon, once Florence has been briefed that she will be working with Shirin on the project, Shirin begins to see what is happening more clearly. Without discussing it with her, Florence uses Shirin’s original pitch email that she sent to their editorial team and sends it to the wider company, saying she would love to discuss this exciting exclusive proposal in their acquisitions meeting next week. She mentions Shirin in passing in one line, deeper into the email, and signs off with her own name.
Colleagues from the wider team—ones Shirin has never had the chance to be seen by before—reply to the email, saying it’s incredible they’ve secured Abigail exclusively, that this will be such a big acquisition for them.
The email from the managing director, Allegra, is what really tips Shirin over the edge: Brilliant work, Florence. Looking forward to discussing.
She is left sweaty and angry and, beyond all, speechless at her desk. She looks through the gap between their monitors and catches Florence’s eye. Florence smiles; it is an excited, team-player smile, like she is unaware. And Shirin might think she really is, but then she remembers the industry they’re in, and how attention to detail is literally their job. Florence is not oblivious, and neither is Lilian—it is Shirin who is the fool.
That evening, Shirin jiggles the key into the front door lock—it consistently jams and she has to lift it up as she rotates it at just the right angle for it to open. Once inside, she goes to her bedroom, removes her backpack and jacket, and heads straight to the bathroom, where she takes a long, hot shower. The temperature is a touch too hot, but she likes the feeling of the water being uncomfortable, like dull needles jabbing against her skin. It gives her a renewed alertness when she steps out of the shower, her skin pink. She gets into her pajamas and bounds down the stairs to make pasta. None of her housemates are home yet, though her movements are reflexively quick to avoid bumping into anyone.
She boils more pasta than she thinks she should, and when it is finished she drains it and adds half a can of baked beans and cheese to a pan. As she heats the ingredients together on the stove, the cheese melts pleasantly into the sweet tomato sauce, turning it a soft orange color. Her cheesy-bean pasta is a dish reserved for comfort; when she consumes it, it’s akin to being hugged—albeit with the caveat that it is by someone she wants to be hugged by. She adds a sprinkling of ground black pepper, like that might make the meal more sophisticated.
She has been looking forward to this moment all day.
With her steaming bowl in hand, she trudges up the stairs to her room. She shuts her door, opens her laptop, puts a Netflix show on, and gets into bed with her meal. She chooses a TV show she is not invested in, for background noise. Her life would be much more depressing, she thinks, if she did not have that noise. Silence is too much of a reminder of what we are, that we will all die, that she is alone in this big city with not many people who care much about her. She is not sure if such thoughts are entirely true, but they creep into her mind more and more lately. Perhaps because, since the author party, she has been more sporadic in taking her antidepressants. She thinks maybe allowing these thoughts in is better for her, rather than blocking them, leaving her feeling nothing at all. Or maybe that’s not quite true—it’s not nothing, that heaviness in her heart that she cannot explain.
Ten minutes later, once she has finished her food, she puts the empty bowl on her bedside table and nestles her head into her pillow, her hair still damp from the shower. She stares at her laptop screen, at the characters and their lives, with all of their friends and relationships. The laughter prompts annoy her because it is not that funny a show. She lies like this for an hour before reaching for her phone. She texts Hana.
Shirin: What are you doing at the weekend?
Hana replies almost immediately.
Hana: Having a quiet one I think
Shirin: Wanna do something?
Hana: I can’t I have no money
Shirin: We can do something free?
She sees Hana typing, for what feels like too long. It is long enough for Shirin to feel embarrassed that she is almost begging her friend to see her. It never used to be like this. When they lived together, it would be Hana who arranged things for them to do.
Hana: Yeah maybe
Hana: God Abi is relentless with her book. She won’t stop going on about it on her Insta stories, I’ve had to mute her lol
Shirin has remained strong in not telling Hana about her meeting with Abigail. Of course she hasn’t. Hana would only call Shirin a traitor and give her a hard time about it. She puts her phone down and looks up to the ceiling.
Her phone pings again. She lifts it up to see. When she sees who it is from, she drops her iPhone directly onto her face. It hurts. She curses, scrambling to retrieve her phone and bring it to eye level once more.
@KianRahimi: Hey
She clicks on the notification to open the message. Three dots indicate Kian is typing, so she waits. This goes on for a while, until the dots disappear, and he doesn’t say anything else.
@ShirinInTheCity: Hello
She has the urge to lock her phone, but only because she finds this thrilling and overstimulating for her small brain, so she does not know what to do with herself.
@KianRahimi: Thanks again for the book. I hope I didn’t seem weird or anything yesterday
@ShirinInTheCity: You didn’t seem weird. Why would you say that?
She knows exactly why he would say that, but she types quickly, so as not to let herself overthink this. She realizes she wants him to say something like he did the night before, even though it makes her uncomfortable.
@KianRahimi: Ok good. It dm. Did your meeting go ok?
@ShirinInTheCity: It did actually. I mean, I kinda felt set up by my manager. I did all the work on this project only for it to be given to someone else for them to get the credit lol
She is of course not laughing or smiling as she writes this.
@KianRahimi: Damn. That’s rough.
@ShirinInTheCity: Sorry, it’s boring work chat
@KianRahimi: It’s not boring at all. You can talk to me about this stuff.
@ShirinInTheCity: I just always thought life would be different once I got my dream job, but it doesn’t really make a difference, does it?
She almost deletes the message, but there is something cathartic about pouring your heart out to someone over DM and not being able to see their facial expressions, their pity, or lack thereof. She clings to her phone, sees the three dots flashing as he types.
@KianRahimi: I’m so sorry Shirin
@ShirinInTheCity: You’ve not done anything lol
@KianRahimi: But it sounds shit. I was really hoping you’d be happy. You deserve to be.
Something about that last message renders her teary-eyed. It takes her by surprise. And yet there is a familiar discomfort within her of being seen and laid bare, of being pitied. She can’t take any more, so she likes his message and puts her phone on Do Not Disturb mode. Pulls her Kindle out from her bedside drawer, to begin some reading for work. She reads the same sentence numerous times, but she is too pent up. She is about to slide further into bed and turn her light off, despite it still being early. Her polyester-blend sheets are scratchy against her skin, and she writhes around, trying to get comfortable. Inevitably she checks her phone. Kian hasn’t said anything else.
She lets out a held breath. Then she looks at her mailbox. Her mum has finally replied to one of her emails, a week later. She tells Shirin not to get her hopes up about a promotion, that she always gets ahead of herself. The email is cordial, bordering on blunt—with no exclamation marks or emojis, like Shirin’s—and ends with her asking Shirin if she can get birth control under her name to send to her cousin in Iran, who can’t get it due to Iran’s sanctions. Shirin locks her phone. They’ve never had a close relationship, though it worsened when Shirin moved out of Hull. The small moments that showed her mother cared for her didn’t translate well in a long-distance relationship, especially since her mother moved to Tehran. Now it’s almost like she forgets she has a daughter at all.
From her bedside table Shirin retrieves her packet of sertraline. She has one week’s worth left. She can feel herself spiraling, and yet there is this urge to stop taking them. It is like someone has their hands over her mouth, and because she is quiet, it is assumed she is okay. That is what her drugs are like. They muffle the pain. They make it quiet but it’s still inside her. She is still struggling. She weighs the blister pack in her hand. She thinks if it lands in the bin she will stop taking them, and if it misses she will continue to do so. It is such a stupid thing to do and yet she is committed to it now. She thinks she is leaving it in God’s hands, even though she knows that isn’t how it works.
She shoots and, against the odds, she scores.
In exchange, she reaches into the drawer for one of many packets of Night Nurse. She pops two tablets out of the packet, holds them in the middle of her palm. For a moment she gazes at the two large capsules. Each one is two-tone, white and blue. She puts them both in her mouth and takes a long sip of water, swallowing them down.
She turns the light off and waits for sleep to take her.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
And eventually, when she is asleep, it is not Kian she dreams of, but Rob Grayson. He has broken into her house in Hull, and she is there alone. When she hears the front door click shut, she knows it is him, as you often do in dreams. He follows her into the living room and she runs through the side door into the kitchen, her feet slipping on the laminate flooring in the process. He is far enough away from her that she thinks she can get away, but his voice is in her ears.
Paki.
Disgusting.
Slut.
I will tell everyone what you are.
She thought she had forgotten how thick his Yorkshire accent was, but here it is: loud and with a drawl, just like he sounds in his comedy sketches. He reaches for her, and she feels herself being pulled from side to side theatrically, like a rag doll. He throws her against the countertop but she manages to take hold of it rather than let her body slam into it. On the table is a kitchen knife with a green handle and she grabs it quickly, raises it in the air to protect herself, but when she turns to Rob she is too late. In his hand is a rolling pin and it is about to hammer down directly onto her skull.
She jolts awake, her body damp with sweat. The moon shines in from the crack in her curtains and she has to turn her lamp on to calm her wildly beating heart.
Her face is wet. She has been crying.