Camden
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 toward 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 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 much time 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 recognizes 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 favorite alcoholic drink. Wine often gives her headaches and crippling anxiety the next day, but it is the cheapest option—barring beer, which she categorically cannot stand the taste of. She is feeling sorry for herself now. She realizes 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, 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, because it makes her realize the person is addressing her.
She pivots, her arm still resting against the bar, until she is face-to-face with the speaker. He is tall, South Asian, with beautiful thick black hair. She remembers, then, that he is one of Kian’s housemates—Dylan.
“Hello,” she says slowly, her eyes shifting automatically from side to side.
“You excited for the show to start?” he asks, a hint of a smile on his lips, like he is not excited for it but rather the opposite.
“Obviously—can’t you tell?” she says.
He laughs and leans against the bar before running his fingers through his hair, which comes just past his ears. She is not sure it is a look many people can pull off. His dark hair is so shiny that the light overhead reflects off it.
“Yeah, you look dead excited,” he says. “You were at our party the other week, weren’t you?”
“I was, yeah.”
“Did you have fun?”
She nods. “Your house is really nice.”
He smiles. “I mean, that doesn’t really answer the question, but sure.”
She thinks he’ll order his drink and leave now, but he continues to lean against the bar, looking at her, saying nothing, waiting for her. Impatience—because she has no interest in small talk—makes her ask, “How do you know Kian then?”
His brows furrow ever so slightly. “We went to uni together in Glasgow. I pretty much came back to London as soon as I graduated though. Glasgow was nice and all, but it doesn’t really compare to here, you know.”
She nods, like she can relate, even though she has never been to Glasgow.
“How do you know him?” he asks.
She bites her bottom lip, though not in an alluring way, more like she is chewing it off. She angles her body slightly away from him, looking out at the pub, which is now filling with more people, before answering. “I don’t really,” she lies, her voice breezy. “We went to school together, ages ago.”
Henry makes his way toward them and she can’t help but mutter, “Oh, fucking great.” Dylan looks surprised, but then Henry is before them, wearing an ill-fitting T-shirt, pint in hand.
“I wouldn’t bother trying to get with her, mate—Shirin is picky,” Henry says, winking at Shirin.
Dylan clears his throat, visibly embarrassed, and says, “We were just talking.”
Henry slaps Shirin’s shoulder, jolting her. His hand stays there and she hates it. It’s like with his touch he is weighing her down, tarnishing her in some way. She knows from the outside, though, it looks like they are friends. That’s what Millie always sees, anyway.
“Piss off, Henry,” she says lightly.
He laughs like she is joking, and Millie comes over to them and asks them what they’re talking about.
“Shirin’s love life,” Henry says. “Or lack thereof.”
“She’s just picky,” Millie says, echoing Henry. “She could have someone if she wanted. Couldn’t you, Shirin?”
She notices Dylan looking at her and thinks: Are normal people humiliated daily by their friends? “I’m not picky. I’m just not desperate,” she says. “Men are often disappointing. No offense.” She looks at Dylan for the last part.
“Not all men,” Dylan says. “Surely not all of them.”
Shirin opens her mouth to counter his comment, but Millie puts her hand between them. “I can’t be arsed for the inevitable debate that is about to happen here. Before they come on, I wanted to check you’re all on for the barbecue at mine on Saturday? For the England-versus-Switzerland match.”
Dylan says he and Kian are down to go, and Shirin’s ears prick up at Kian’s name. She is about to say she can’t come anymore, even though she has been planning on it. Then she feels this twitch of irritation, like she is being shooed out of her own friendship group. Yes, a friendship group she often finds annoying, but it is hers nonetheless.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” she says.
The lights begin to dim and a woman appears onstage, announcing that the gig is about to begin. They go and sit down, apart from one another. As she watches Jasper play the guitar onstage with his band, red spotlights overhead, their indie-rock beats radiate around the room. It is loud and swells, and people are swaying. The music is good, much better than she expected. They sing about the first time they met some girl. The bass thuds, sending vibrations through her body, forcing her to notice the music, and this moment. The guitarist strums beats that she lightly bops her head to, unthinkingly. When the lead singer says, “I didn’t know when I first saw you that you’d change my life, how stupid, how fucking foolish, considering you are everything now,” the words stick in her mind. It gets Shirin thinking about the first time she saw Kian all those years ago.