A Comeback
A COMEBACK
When Mariam had asked Shirin if she wanted to live with her and her housemate, Fatma, it had come at the perfect time. Mariam’s nightmare housemate was finally leaving and it had coincided exactly with Shirin’s move back to London, which had made her think it was fate.
She took the Hull Trains service down to London, her journey mirroring the one she’d taken when she was eighteen, leaving for university. Her luggage in the overhead rack and behind the seats by the entrance, traveling now, as she did then, with a sense of hope and possibility. It had taken her two months to find a new job. She’d needed two weeks back home to decompress but had very quickly realized she couldn’t stay with her dad and Karen long-term. Especially when Karen’s kids visited on the weekends. She wanted her life back in London, but not the same life—a different one. She’d got an interview at a small literature organization funded by Arts Council England. The role was a mixture of editorial consultancy and project management. Shirin had heard of the organization before, though, and liked their ethics—it matched her own, which she now realizes is paramount. They have always supported underrepresented authors in London and offer discounted, accessible writing workshops for everyone. Their offices are based in Deptford, south London. She had only been to Deptford once before. Her interview was on market day, so the streets she walked through to get to the office were bustling with market traders selling everything from vintage Levi’s to fresh fish, to battery-operated robot toys. She had a good feeling about it all, which is rare for someone as cynical as Shirin.
She waited outside the offices, in a café, for half an hour before the interview. The café had a bookcase with a sign that said BOOK SWAP. HELP YOURSELF. She idly picked one up, not really looking at the cover, and returned to her table. She sipped her coffee and flicked through the book to ease her nerves. Fairly quickly she realized it was by an Iranian author. Refuge by Dina Nayeri. The cover had pomegranates scattered on the front. Another sign, Shirin decided.
Her interview was in an airy room with plants on the bookcases that lined the walls. The interviewer, Sophia, told her two shelves were dedicated to the writers in their programs who had gone on to have their books published. Sophia was a middle-aged white woman, originally from Darlington, with a very kind smile, a full fringe, and bouncy yet thin brown locks. She got straight to the point, and when Shirin answered her questions, she leaned in to listen properly. This, Shirin realized, was probably the bare minimum, but it was the first interview in which she didn’t feel like she had to put on a facade to impress the interviewer.
The inevitable question came toward the end, when Sophia asked, “And why did you leave your role at Hoffman Books?”
Shirin had of course rehearsed her reason many times in her head, though she thought if Sophia had done an inkling of research on her, she’d know why. She had planned to say Because I wanted to work somewhere more fulfilling, but instead she said, “Because they are publishing a racist.”
Sophia smiled, nodded in approval, and asked, “Is it true you were the organizer of the walkout?”
Shirin’s cheeks colored. “One of.” She corrected herself then by holding her head high, rather than diminishing something she was proud of, and said, “Yes.”
“I think that’s bloody brilliant. Go, you!”
Shirin got the job on the spot: a first in her career. She treated herself to a korma from the vegetarian Indian restaurant next door. The building blocks were set in motion for her return to London—and her new life.
Soon after, she moved in with Mariam and Fatma in leafy Brockley, in southeast London. Their house is airy and multistory, with a green-tiled bathroom that is so aesthetic Shirin cannot believe she gets to call this place her home. The living room and kitchen both have dining tables and ample room to walk around. When Shirin expressed delight at this to Mariam, her friend responded with “God, you really were deprived before, weren’t you?” The rent is more, but Shirin’s realized she forfeited so much of her happiness for cheaper accommodation that she spent most of her time away from her flat anyway, spending more money outside in the process. And, most importantly: nothing, as of yet, is broken in the flat. The key slides in like a dream. The shower is high-pressure and the hot water lasts for three showers in a row without growing cold. All the hobs are functional. Luxury indeed.
Both Fatma and Mariam are practicing Muslims. Fatma is British Turkish and works as a dentist in a surgery in New Cross. She has a strong Geordie accent, and as soon as she met Shirin she made her feel at home. It is an environment Shirin didn’t know she needed until she was in it. Every Thursday they have a movie night and order a takeaway. They have captured the delicate balance of not hanging around with each other too much but still seeing each other regularly.
Shirin finds herself asking Fatma and Mariam the questions about Islam that she never asked her parents but always wanted to. They are patient, nonjudgmental of her curiosity about a religion that her parents never fully taught her.
This time, for their Thursday movie night, Shirin invites Hana along. It is initially a strange meeting of two worlds, but quickly Hana, Mariam, and Fatma are making jokes with each other like they have known each other much longer than fifteen minutes. They’re waiting for their vegan fish and chips from Brockley’s Rock when Mariam turns to Shirin on the sofa to ask, “Whatever happened with Kian?”
Fatma and Hana, from the sofa to the right of them, look at Shirin, and then six eyes are on her.
“Nothing, really,” Shirin says.
“You don’t speak anymore then?” Mariam asks.
Shirin and Hana look at each other briefly, and then away again. With everything that has gone on in Shirin’s life, she’s barely had the capacity to even think about Kian in that way. Though, if she’s being completely honest, that’s a lie that she tells Hana and herself. She thinks about him most of the time before she goes to sleep, but they are fantasies in which he has come back to London and there are no longer 3,461 miles between them (yes, she has looked it up).
“He won’t be back in London until at least the end of the year, and I’ve decided it’s better if I don’t hold on to him anymore. For my sanity,” Shirin says.
The doorbell buzzes, breaking them from the conversation, and Shirin is the one to go get their food, successfully avoiding speaking more about it. She realizes, though, that she cannot have it all. It is greedy to want everything in your life to be perfect. Impossible, in fact, because life doesn’t work like that. To be content, to see the good in life is all that Shirin wants. What she has is enough—for now at least.