Herne Hill Market
HERNE HILL MARKET
Now
On a Sunday morning Kian and Shirin walk down the road from Kian’s house to Herne Hill market. They rarely stay at her flat. His housemates are seldom in and, if they are, there is still enough space that they do not feel on top of each other, like they do in Shirin’s flat. The past month is a blur, though Shirin has tried in vain to make time slow. It is much harder to stop time when it’s enjoyable. They’ll go out for dinner in Soho, on a long walk and coffee on Hampstead Heath, to the pub for Sunday lunch with their friends in Herne Hill, on a night out in Hackney Wick. They find themselves drawn to each other, though there has been no conversation about what they are.
The disparity between Brixton and Herne Hill—which Kian lives between—is stark, despite them being only a twenty-minute walk from each other. Shirin often marvels at this in London; there will be old-school fish markets and butchers, and then down the road bougie coffee shops and independent bookshops. The market is just outside Herne Hill station and is bustling with people. The stalls sell food from around the world, and at each stall is a queue of people. Kian walks to his favorite coffee stall and orders two lattes, while she wanders toward the bakery stand. She gets them two large croissants, which are given to her in striped paper bags. While she waits in line she reflects on how, on the walk over here, she tried to take Kian’s hand, but he walked with a bigger gap than normal between them, his jaw tense. When the market trader calls, “Next!” he has to say it twice before Shirin notices it’s her turn to order.
Today is a crisp winter’s day, the sky cloudy. She is wearing a navy ankle-length coat, a brown scarf, and mittens to defy the cold. She meets Kian back at the coffee stall and he hands her a takeaway cup, which she eagerly brings to her face, hoping the heat from the cup will provide her with warmth. Kian, conversely, is wearing only a gray hoodie and slim-fitting tracksuit bottoms. Whenever she comments on his lack of coat, he says it isn’t that cold, that he doesn’t feel it. At night, when her feet are icy, she likes to press them against his warm legs. He protests, initially, but then relents, and he is like her own hot-water bottle that she can snuggle into, while he wraps his arms around her. It is such a privilege, she thinks, to have someone to hold at night. When she lies next to Kian she sleeps soundly. She doesn’t overthink; doom does not envelop her. This reliance, though, is concerning, considering they have only been together for a month now.
The night before, they went for dinner and drinks at a nearby Mexican restaurant. Kian seemed off then—less chatty, more somber. Shirin asked him if everything was okay and he said it was, and that he was tired from boxing earlier in the day. When he’d first told her he boxed she’d been surprised; it was never something he took an interest in, and it seems so at odds with what his passion is—preserving his hands for his paintings. He told her it de-stresses him, and that he took it up when he was in college. Just those words—the implications of it all—lingered in the air. They had stopped talking when he went to a different sixth-form college. Last night she almost asked him about it—whether he began boxing as an anger-management tool or whether it was because he felt like he needed to know how to defend himself—but she decided against it. There’s a reason they haven’t spoken about that time. A mutual agreement, though she wasn’t sure if Kian wanted to speak about it. It was easier not to ask, not to broach it at all, and pretend by doing so she was helping them both. Instead she asked him why he needed de-stressing, what it was that was bothering him.
Across from her in the restaurant, his mouth tightened. He lifted his drink and kept it by his mouth. He opened his mouth like he was going to tell her what was wrong, but nothing came out, and instead he took a long sip and afterward told her that his course is harder than he thought it would be, that he’s falling behind and needs to spend more time in the studio. In return, she said her work was busy, too, and she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to make a competition out of their work.
She wonders now, as they walk to Brockwell Park, if he was trying to say that she is the problem. They spend every other day together now—and it’s mostly at his suggestion. When they had sex last night, he buried his face in her neck as he moved, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was avoiding her eyes. Something was off.
They find a bench in the park that overlooks a group of children playing football in the distance. She leaves her croissant in the bag and sips her coffee. He doesn’t eat his either.
“I have something I need to tell you,” he says, looking to the distance, his eyes narrowed.
“You do?” she says coolly, her heart thudding.
“I got offered a residency at a gallery in New York.” He is looking down now, at his takeaway cup, though her gaze is on his face, searching it for more information than he is giving her.
“A residency?” Her own voice is distant now, trying to make sense of what he’s just said.
“I really thought I didn’t get it,” he says slowly. “They’ll pay for me to work on my art. I’ll have my own studio and a stipend to live off. What they offered me is a little different from what I thought I’d get. I thought it would be just for six months, but they offered me it for a year. It would mean I need to fly out in two weeks, though.”
She chews the inside of her mouth for a few seconds before speaking. Her hands grip her coffee cup more tightly. “That’s incredible,” she says. “Congratulations.” She knows she needs to fix her face into a smile, to not look as devastated, as taken aback as she feels. “When did you find all this out?”
“Last week,” he says. She nods, understanding now. “I have to take this opportunity,” he goes on, his voice a little cooler, harder at the edges. She looks away from him.
“Of course you do,” she says, irritated that he’d even think she’d ask him to stay, that she would ever want to hold him back.
He sighs, which prompts her to look at him. His eyes appear pained, though at the same time pitying, and she hates the thought of him feeling sorry for her. Or that, in this situation, it is she who should be the one that is deserving of sympathy.
“We were probably better as friends anyway,” she says, her words loud and ugly in her ears. They come out with such ease that she surprises herself, more so when she continues, “We knew this time would come, and, like, I’ve been so busy with work, this has been a bit of a distraction for me.” She lets out a laugh, which comes out weak, but Kian barely notices. His face looks properly wounded now, which initially makes her feel sad, but then she experiences a horrible satisfaction that they both feel stung.
What she said is loosely true though. Work is intense, though it has been seeing Kian that has de-stressed her, centered her when she went off path. When Abigail’s book was announced, it gained huge media interest, with Mariam claiming that Shirin was due a promotion imminently. Though now, sitting with Kian, thinking he’ll be gone in just two weeks, the idea of a title change means much less. It all does.
Ahead of her, she sees a golden retriever running after a tennis ball on the grass. It is the kind of thing she’d point out to Kian, who would laugh and watch in amusement, but nothing is amusing to them now.
Later that night, when they are in bed and Kian is dozing, her head on his chest, Shirin savors the moment. She can hear his heart beating, loud and rhythmic. She wishes she could bottle this moment. His arms tighten around her, and he kisses her forehead. It is such a tender gesture that she can’t help but wonder what they are doing. On the tip of her tongue are the words Don’t go but instead she presses her lips together and closes her eyes.
The next two weeks pass quickly. They are intimate every time they see each other, everywhere—in the summerhouse, in his car, in her bathroom. It is like they are making up for lost time, not only this past year, but each kiss, each caress, is what they also longed to do ten years ago.
Shirin goes with Kian to Heathrow Airport. She watches as his back is turned and he walks through security, and only leaves when he is a tiny speck that she can no longer see in the distance. A tear rolls down her cheek on the Piccadilly line home. It plops with finality onto the lapel of her coat.