Tate Modern
TATE MODERN
Hana is late. Though this is not unusual, Shirin is conscious of people around her waiting too, their friends arriving and them leaving together. Nine separate people have completed this cycle, and she is still waiting. Each time Shirin texts Hana to see where she is, she says she’s five minutes away, but when five minutes have passed, she says another five minutes. And on, and on, and on.
Her maman bozorg calls her while she is waiting. Whenever they speak it’s hard to end the conversation, so Shirin lets the call ring out. Doing so elicits a pang of guilt because they keep missing each other’s calls. She has quickly found herself back to being busy at work, seeing Kian in the evenings, which makes her forget everything, including to call her grandmother back. She resolves to phone her on the weekend.
Shirin is peculiarly nervous for this meeting with Hana now. She has never been nervous to see Hana before. She realizes they have grown apart without anything particularly dramatic having happened. There appears to be a gulf between them, and it’s only made bigger now that Shirin is no longer only depressed in her job—now she feels bolstered by Kian. She is able to take a lot of the stuff at work with a pinch of salt; she cares less.
Hana was irritated to hear that Shirin had acquired Abigail’s book, though Shirin pitched it to seem as though it was less her idea than it actually was. The issue, Shirin thinks, is that their lives are too different now. Hana’s life is infinitely more carefree, akin to their student days. She continues to go out most weekends (though she will tell Shirin that she is not, or she will tell her that she is but not extend an invite). Her primary conversation relates to what party she’s been to and what event she weaseled her way into. Whereas Shirin’s primary conversation topics are work and the issues there, which while thrilling and all-important for publishing staff, for outsiders can be boring.
It is a particularly cold January evening. Despite the fur jacket Shirin wears—two sizes too big, from a vintage shop in Dalston—and multiple layers, she can feel the chill. Her ears, which habitually pop out of her hair as though to see what is going on, are red and icy. She takes her hands out of her pockets to text Hana again at the same time as she sees her approach in the distance. Hana is wearing an oversize leather coat, a beret, and pointed boots.
“Sorry, sorry,” Hana says as she approaches, though she does not offer an excuse as to why she is thirty-five minutes late.
“You’re always late,” Shirin says, in a jokey tone. Seeing Hana thaws any irritation that had been building.
“I know, it’s a chronic problem. You should know by now to be late yourself, then we’d both be on time.”
They enter the art gallery and have their bags checked upon arrival. The security guard probes Shirin’s work bag, with the empty Tupperware wrapped in a Sainsbury’s bag, using his security stick to dig to the bottom, past sanitary towels and Sharpies. He nods, satisfied. Hana comes with a mini cross-body bag, which is looked at very briefly.
They don’t have a particular exhibition they want to see; Hana said she wanted to do something free. They wander the halls, barely looking at the paintings on the walls as they speak.
“So, you were in Paris for New Year’s Eve?” Shirin says.
Hana looks at Shirin initially like she doesn’t understand what she’s saying, then in a flash nods rapidly. “Yes! God, it feels like ages ago now. Valentia’s mum has a flat in Paris and invited me along. Can you believe it? It was amazing. I really needed that break.” Shirin thinks Valentia is the one whose dad works for Chanel or Hermès. Somewhere impressive and luxurious, either way.
“That’s so cool,” Shirin says, her voice empty, though Hana doesn’t notice.
“They’re all really cool. I’m so glad I met them.”
“I’d like to meet them sometime,” Shirin says, a half fib. She has nothing inherently against rich people and nepo babies, but it is not company that she would choose to keep. She works among too many of them, anyway. This thought feels unnecessary, though she cannot muster any guilt about it.
“Yeah, maybe,” Hana says breezily. They pass a Picasso painting. Both stop for half a minute to observe, though Shirin is only pretending to observe. When did it become so awkward between them? Why do they have so little to say to each other? “What did you do for New Year’s Eve then?” Hana asks.
It was ten days ago. Shirin has since returned to work. It was strange how she had forgotten the drudgery of her commute to work, the sticky bodies against hers, the way she can smell coffee on other people’s breath. Perplexing how the mind quickly discards such memories. Though commuting hell aside, the office is quieter and much calmer in the New Year, post-Christmas. There is less urgency to every task, for now, which is a reprieve.
Shirin continues to work on Abigail’s book with Florence. Though Florence rarely responds to Abigail’s emails, so it is Shirin who is answering queries, liaising with her agent, sending edit notes on the essays Abigail submits. It is as if now that Florence has the credit and praise, she no longer needs to work on the project. This suits Shirin, who would rather not work with her, but it makes Florence’s motives so clear, so unopen to interpretation.
She tells Hana everything, toning down how much she likes Kian while heightening how terrible her argument with Phoebe was. “Um, what?” Hana raises her hand in the air between herself and Shirin and makes them stop by a floor-to-ceiling painting that is essentially painted black canvas with a tiny white dot in the middle. “I never liked her.”
“Well, you never said so.”
“I thought she was your hometown friend. I didn’t want to seem rude,” Hana says, pressing her lips together. “But I knew she wasn’t good. She always made you smaller when you were with her.”
Shirin has this urge to say, Don’t you do that? But she isn’t sure if that’s fair. Maybe it isn’t Hana who does that but Shirin who does it to herself. Maybe it’s through being friends with people like Phoebe that Shirin thinks friendships need to be like that. She isn’t sure.
“I don’t know. It was just quite sad,” Shirin says. They’ve not spoken since brunch, though they still like each other’s pictures on Instagram, which somehow is worse than if they had no contact at all.
“Fuck her anyway,” Hana says. “Tell me more about Kian. How is it?” Hana has an expression like a Cheshire cat, and Shirin feels herself smiling. She has become giddy with the mention, and she would never categorize herself as the kind of person to be giddy.
“I don’t know, I’m scared,” she says. “He’s… like perfect. I really like him. He makes me feel like myself again. I know that’s corny to say, but I guess I’m just worried if it all goes wrong.”
Hana tells her that firstly, that is incredibly corny, but also that none of this is a problem, that she should enjoy the moment, to not think of the worst thing that can happen. Shirin wishes she could. She wishes she could be the kind of person who falls into things headfirst and thinks of any potential consequences later. But even if she was able to do that, it’s different with Kian; they have a history. A history her friend knows little about. It feels too big to drop it in now. To have lost Kian once before and now to have started something again only for it to possibly end would tear her apart all over again. But what if it didn’t? What if it didn’t have to end? That possibility makes her heart soar. It’s overwhelming, how much she wants that to be the outcome. She even finds herself smiling at the thought and bites her lip to mask it.
“What are you worried about?” Hana asks, as though hearing her thoughts.
It makes her jolt to awareness, out of her spiraling mind.
“That I’ll end up falling for him, if we continue to see each other, and get hurt if it ends. I’m not like you,” Shirin says. This is true, at least. “Like, last week I went to his and we hung out and it felt so nice, so perfect. Then he painted me—”
Hana stops them again. “Hold up. He painted you? That’s so sexy.”
This makes Shirin smile, though, again, she tries to hide it. “I mean, yeah, it was.”
“I’m always debating whether I’d want a man who’s a rich banker or a poor but sexy artist. You’re living one of the dreams, Shirin. Enjoy it—everyone needs a fling every once in a while. And if it turns into something more than that, great, win-win.”
It is frustrating not telling Hana exactly what happened between her and Kian. She thinks if Hana knew she might understand what’s at stake here, but she doesn’t want to go into it.
“Life comes at us fast. If he makes you happy, even if it’s temporary, I say you should go for it. You could die tomorrow!” Shirin rolls her eyes at the cliché, but Hana continues. “ He could die tomorrow. Who knows? What will remain, though, is the fact that you, Shirin Bayat, are his muse.” Hana gives Shirin an irritating sarcastic look and hooks her arm through Shirin’s, and it is nice to walk arm in arm, like old times.
“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far,” Shirin eventually says, though she lets herself imagine a world in which she is Kian’s muse. It is a pleasing thought, and one she returns to numerous times as they make laps around the gallery.
That evening, Kian messages Shirin asking if he can come over. It is 9 P.M. and she has just taken off her makeup. The matching yellow pajama set she is wearing clashes with her bleached hair; she bought it when her hair was a natural brunette. Her housemates are in their respective rooms, as usual, her own bedroom door locked.
Through the walls on either side of her she can hear murmurings from her flatmates. One on the phone, the other with her boyfriend over, and she can hear their laughter. Jane, the one speaking on the phone now, sent her a text earlier in the day, telling her to not have her alarm so loud in the morning because it wakes her thirty minutes too early. Shirin apologized, ashamed at both waking her up and being told off. In turn, though, she asked Jane if she could not speak on the phone late at night, to which Jane replied no, because it’s her flat too. So it is confirmed that they will be actively avoiding each other even more than usual this week. Now she looks at Kian’s message again. She knows exactly what her answer will be, so her pondering is moot. A waste of time really.
Forty-five minutes later Kian is in her bedroom. Shirin has changed into leggings and a crop top to give the appearance of casualness. Kian is in navy cord trousers and a gray high-neck top. His hair is still damp from having showered at the gym just before he came here. He’s wearing his clear glasses, though when they begin kissing, Shirin removes them and places them on her bedside table. His mouth tastes ever so slightly like a strawberry protein shake. The imprint of his glasses remains on the bridge of his nose and she traces it with her fingertips, while he watches her with a doe-like expression.
Kian catches Shirin’s hand and presses his lips to her knuckles, and despite the way this makes her feel, she can sense something is up with him. The way he is kissing her is guarded, like his mind is on something else, which is why she asks, “Are you okay?”
“What do you mean?” he says, putting her hand down.
“It’s just you came over quite unexpectedly—”
“Do you not want me to be?” His voice is steady, though his brown eyes are wide, giving him away entirely.
“Of course I do,” she says, before narrowing her eyes ever so slightly at him. “You know you can tell me anything?”
He sighs, his eyes moving to a point just beyond Shirin. His jaw is tense, which worries her. “I think I told you before that as part of my course we can apply for art residencies?” he asks. She can’t really remember but nods anyway. “Well, it’d basically mean we’d get to work on our art abroad, and it’s all paid for. Some people on my course posted in our group chat that they got offered a place, which I’m assuming means that I didn’t.” He shook his head. “It’s silly. I knew the chances would be so slim, anyway, but I just feel a bit disappointed. Like it means I can’t be that good at what I’m doing.”
It’s a lot to process. She rests her arm on his shoulder, rubs it softly, though she is stuck on abroad . Rather than spiraling and letting her mind linger on thinking Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, she tells him that he is ridiculously talented, and that he doesn’t know that he hasn’t got it yet. “Even if you don’t, it doesn’t mean anything. I’m not even a fan of art, and even I can see that your work is incredible. Seriously, Kian.”
He shrugs, and in doing so shrugs her hand away from his shoulder. This clearly wasn’t his intention because he quickly grabs it, holds one of her hands in both of his so delicately, like it’s precious. “I know,” he says, clearly lying.
“Where had you applied to go?” she asks, as though the question is offhand.
“New York was my first choice. Berlin my second.”
She nods, conflicted. She doesn’t want to be happy that he may not have gotten in, because she wants him to have everything he wants. Though why didn’t he think to tell her that he might be going away? If he had, maybe she would have reconsidered starting things with him.
Neither of them says anything for a while, though Shirin barely notices this because she is doing calculations, flipping the situation over in her mind to understand it better. She barely even notices that he is still holding her hand, turning it over so he can trace the lines on her palm.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
She snaps out of her thinking then and plasters on a smile, “Nothing, I was just lost in thought.”
He begins kissing the base of her neck, and her eyes shut of their own accord. It’s so hard to concentrate, to think clearly and logically around him, especially when he is touching her, kissing her like this.
She pulls back. “Aren’t you worried we’re making our friendship complicated?” she asks slowly, finding some comfort in successfully avoiding his gaze.
Kian catches her eye and holds it, and, with that, her resolve cracks. “I can’t think about that now—we shouldn’t think about that.” He takes hold of both her hands. “All I know is that right now I want this—you. I feel so good with you, Shirin.”
Her name on his lips does things to her, which prompts her to ask, “How long have you wanted me?”
“Since I saw you at my house party. With your pink hair and cute dress,” he says, looking down at her now, making her heart beat quickly.
“Not before then?” she says, testing waters she needn’t test, wanting to see how far she can go.
He only half takes the bait though, and lets out a small laugh. “You know I fancied you at school,” he says. “Everyone knew that.”
At this she frowns. To her this was never clear. She says as much to him now.
Kian shakes his head in dismay. “It was a weird time. I was so distracted and angry about my brother and everything at home, but I definitely fancied you then. I could never tell if you liked me back though. And I didn’t want to ruin our friendship if you didn’t. Our friendship was everything to me then. But now… I wish I had said something, done something.”
A pang of uneasiness passes through her. “I felt the same,” is all she can say.
His eyes darken and his lips part ever so slightly. “About which part?”
“All of it.”
Round and round in her head are the implications of what he’s just said. That he’s always wanted her. And if she had known… Rather than indulge in the past, though, Shirin gets up and stands over Kian, who is sitting on the edge of the bed. She puts her hands on his shoulders and climbs on top of him, so she is straddling him. He watches her as she takes his hand and puts his thumb in her mouth. His eyes flutter shut and he rocks against her. Soon their clothes are removed one by one; she reaches over for a condom and then he is inside her. She pushes her body down each time he thrusts upward, and each time they meet she cannot hold back her moans. He holds her close against him, their breaths mingled together. He tells her he’s only ever wanted her, and she says she is his. He asks her to repeat this over and over again.
After, he stays the night and holds her in the dark. She thinks she might love him but doesn’t say it. His hand is wrapped around her waist and she clutches it.
“I struggle to fall asleep,” she tells him.
“What do you think about?” he asks.
She sighs. “Everything I’ve done wrong, or just bad things.”
He pauses, doesn’t say anything for a beat or two. “What bad things?”
It’s easier to speak candidly in the dark, facing away from him. She shuts her eyes. “That day we got suspended. The way I was pushed around. How often that happened back then.”
She keeps her hands on top of his and he squeezes them. “The way you were treated was really fucked-up. It wasn’t fair. They’d say it was abuse if it happened now, you know,” he says, his voice low.
She frowns. Abuse feels dramatic, like they didn’t do it to everyone who was different. She says this to him and she feels Kian shaking his head behind her.
“Let yourself process it, Shirin. You deserve to.”
“I don’t know how,” she confesses.
“It might take time, but I’m here for you,” he says. “Talk to me about it.”
His body against hers is comforting and solid, and she leans into him. “Thank you,” she says.
Inhaling his scent, she resolves that they’re in too deep to go back. So, she chooses, for once, to stay in the present, and to enjoy what she has with Kian now.