We Used to Be Magic
Author: Bea Ingalls
Date: 2025-01-30 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Young Adult
Description: What if the universe wants them to be together, but they're too messed up to notice? A gorgeous cinematic 'Brits in New York' Love Story that'sperfect for fans of Better Than the Movies, Emily Henry and One Day. 'I'll come back.' I tell him, squeezing his hand. 'Of course I will.' 'You have to. You don't want to offend the universe after it put in so much work to get you here.' 'Right.' I smile. 'Except I thought you didn't believe in that stuff?' 'Yeah, well, life happens. You happened.' Rookie model, Audrey, is navigating the dizzying bright lights of New York for the first time as Ezra - no
Publisher: Orion Children's Books

www.hachettechildrens.co.uk

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

EZRA

AUDREY

EZRA

AUDREY

EZRA

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EZRA

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

COPYRIGHT

For Mum and Dad

EZRA

‘OH,’ MAGGIE SAYS, EYES WIDE. ‘YOU’RE HERE.’

‘… Yes,’ I reply. ‘I was invited. You invited me.’

‘I know. I’m glad you came.’

‘You sound it.’

‘I’m a little surprised, is all,’ she offers, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear. Her engagement ring glitters accordingly, a diamond the size of a hazelnut. It somehow matches her heart-shaped face and dove-grey dress – makes sense, visually.

‘Are you going to let me in?’ I ask, and she blinks, like she’s forgotten that I’m standing in the doorway. Warm light and muffled noise spill out from behind her.

‘Of course,’ she says after a beat. ‘Come in.’

Her lobby is narrow, the party just beyond it. A coat rack beside me is laden with carelessly thrown garments. It looks like a bizarre sort of tree, a thin trunk struggling to support a luxurious mass of cashmere and leather.

‘It’s just – the dress code is semi-formal,’ she says, hovering. ‘It said so on the invitation.’

‘Hence why I’m wearing a blazer.’

‘A corduroy blazer. And there’s a mark on the collar.’

‘Yeah, I don’t know what that is,’ I tell her, pulling it out to inspect. ‘It was there when I got it.’

‘It’s second-hand?’

‘Vintage, if that’s more acceptable.’

‘How about you borrow something of Tom’s? He’s got a grey wool one that’s a little big – I think it’ll suit you.’

‘Seriously?’

‘I mean – if you would.’

‘Is it that deep? Is this party so painfully tasteful?’

‘No, but it means a lot to me,’ she says stiffly. ‘Which is why I’ll also ask you to avoid getting drunk, please.’

‘But the legal drinking age in New York is twenty-one!’ I gasp. ‘We might be English but the law is the law, Mags. It’ll be lashings of ginger beer for me.’

I’m joking, obviously, but Maggie’s expression doesn’t flicker. Instead, she bows her head, twisting her ring around her finger, and her silence is enough to wound me. As demeaning as it is to be bossed around by my older sister at the grand old age of eighteen, my resistance was only ever playful.

‘Fine,’ I say quickly, embarrassed. ‘No drinking. New jacket. Whatever you want.’

‘Just – nothing like at my birthday, okay?’

Maggie’s twenty-sixth birthday was about two weeks ago. We went to a Mexican fusion restaurant in SoHo and I guess I had one too many grapefruit margaritas – I puked in a urinal and it was pink. The vomit, I mean. Not the urinal.

‘I’ll keep it classy.’ I nod.

‘Dad’s already here, by the way. Caroline too – Romy’s coming later.”

‘Guess it’ll be a nice surprise for them to see me sober and upright.’

And Maggie offers a brief smile, though we both know I’m not really joking.

Unsurprisingly, Tomas’s biggest jacket is still too small for me. Struggling to find clothes that fit comes with the territory of being six foot four – that and the shitty jokes about it. I tug at the sleeves as I wander the party, trawling for a familiar face. I probably wouldn’t have come if I’d realised that this was going to be a party-party as opposed to a smaller, more familial affair – the kind of thing where my absence would be conspicuous. But clearly the opposite is true: Maggie’s beautiful apartment is teeming with people I’ve never seen before in my life.

‘Champagne?’

I turn to see a guy about my age wearing a crisp shirt and tie combo, smiling faintly, proffering a silver tray of sparkling flutes. There’re a few others like him floating around with canapés, because of course this thing is professionally catered. Maggie’s not really a pizza and paper plates kind of person.

‘Sure,’ I say, taking one. ‘Thanks.’

Having a drink isn’t the same thing as getting drunk, and maybe I need to be a little less sober in order to be convincingly enthused about being here. This’ll be enough to soften the edges until I leave, which’ll be soon. Honestly, I doubt anyone’ll even—

‘Ezra.’

I still, panic flaring at the familiar voice. My first instinct is to hide the glass, which is stupid. I take a deep breath instead, forcing a smile before I turn to face him. He’s smiling too, which probably requires similar effort.

‘Dad,’ I manage. ‘How are you?’

He looks the same as he always does – tired and well-dressed, his jet-black hair swept away from his face. Maggie or Caroline or anyone else not on his payroll really ought to tell him that if he insists on dyeing it, it’s time to transition to a vaguely credible colour. At least he’s retained most of it, boding well for my future hairline.

‘Good.’ He nods. ‘Good to see you. All well?’

I notice his gaze scanning my face as he speaks, catching on my less-than-perfect nose. The doctor that set it post-break did a pretty good job but it’s still a little crooked, a small bump of cartilage at the bridge.

‘Yeah. All good,’ I reply. ‘Good’ is the only adjective that either of us know, apparently.

‘Settling into the new place okay?’

‘Yeah, it’s great. Thank you.’

Those words taste a little bitter in my mouth, but I don’t really get to be self-righteous when he’s bankrolling my existence. I couldn’t afford a subway fare without him, let alone a one-bedroom apartment in Midtown.

‘Great,’ he echoes. ‘That’s great. Caroline said she’d helped you pick out the furniture.’

‘Right, yeah. Have you seen her tonight?’

‘She went to get some air, I think,’ he replies, a frown tracing his features as his eyes drop to my cigarettes, not-so-conspicuously stuffed into the jacket pocket. He knows that Caroline and I both smoke, occasionally, but given that he himself smoked like a chimney for two decades before pivoting to green juice and jogging, I find the chagrin a little jarring.

‘Right, well – there’re a few things I’ve been meaning to mention to her,’ I lie, sensing the best chance I might get to jettison this conversation.

‘Sure. And maybe later, we could have a proper chat.’

‘Yeah. Sure,’ I say, surprised. He nods and claps a hand on my shoulder in response, a possible stab at paternal warmth. I offer another smile in lieu of reply, knowing full well that I’ll have left this party long before ‘later’ rolls around.

I find Caroline on the fire escape, alone and wearing the same blue dress she dons for every formal occasion. Her neck looks impossibly long, her dark, shaggy hair grazing her jaw as she turns to face me.

‘Nice jacket.’

‘Oh, this old thing?’

She smiles, stubbing out the remnants of a cigarette. I take one of my own and Caroline lights it for me with a paint-stained hand, the flame briefly illuminating our faces. I nod in thanks as I inhale, resting my elbows on the metal railing that stands between me and certain death. The traffic below is sluggish, a river of light snaking its way between buildings. I’m not sure that there’s such a thing as darkness in this city. Or silence.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Caroline says. ‘Especially not looking so dapper.’

‘Always happy to exceed everyone’s crushingly low expectations. Why’s Romy not here?’

‘Working. She might swing by later, depending on how crazy the dinner rush is.’

‘I wouldn’t bother. I have no idea who any of these people are.’

‘Obviously. They’re Maggie and Tomas’s friends, which means they either work in PR or … do whatever Tom does.’

‘We should bail. This is mind-numbing.’

‘It’s an engagement party, Ezra. Were you expecting balloons and a clown?’

‘Let’s head downtown. We haven’t hung out properly in ages.’

‘We’re staying. At least until the toasts are done.’

‘Toasts? Are you making one?’

‘As much as I love to share personal anecdotes in front of large crowds, I thought I’d let Dad take the wheel on this one,’ she says dryly. ‘Have you two spoken tonight?’

‘Briefly. He stared at my nose and concluded with the deeply ominous suggestion that we have a “proper chat” later.’

‘Ah.’

I frown. A single syllable and yet it sounds unnervingly matter-of-fact. Like she knows something I don’t.

‘Ah?’ I echo.

Caroline looks at me sideways, unsmiling. ‘He’s going to try and give you a job, obviously. You’ve been dicking around for months, now – I’m only surprised that he hasn’t tried to wrangle you into the office sooner.’

‘Fuck,’ I mutter, realising that she’s right. ‘Fuck.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Well – I’ll just have to think of some excuse, won’t I? Tell him that I have a debilitating phobia of photocopiers.’

‘Except it’s not an entirely terrible idea, is it?’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I think a job might be good for you. Don’t you get bored, doing nothing all day?’

‘I don’t do nothing.’ I retort. ‘I read. Watch movies. Walk around the city.’

‘All day?’

‘It was good enough for Greta Garbo.’

‘Touché. Just don’t think you won’t get cut off eventually.’

‘You want to bet?’

‘Nah. I’d feel bad, taking your pocket money.’

I snort. Caroline turns to face me properly, leaning back against the railing.

‘Listen,’ she says seriously. ‘They’re always hiring at the restaurant. If I say the word, Romy could get you a job as a busboy.’

‘A what?’

‘A waiter, basically.’

‘Right.’ I nod. It always throws me when Caroline and Maggie use Americanisms. They’ve both retained their English accents, more or less, but I sometimes wonder if they still feel English. Caroline was about twelve when we left. Maggie was fourteen. I was seven, and remember the least. But I went back – was sent back, thanks to Dad’s ‘well-meaning’ intercession. And they stayed here.

‘It’s hard work,’ Caroline continues. ‘There’s no way it’ll buy you anything even close to independence. But showing a little initiative might get Dad off your back.’

‘Might make for a good chapter in my memoirs, too. Help humanise me a little.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Sure,’ I say impulsively, taking a drag of my long-neglected cigarette. ‘Why not?’

‘All right. I’ll talk to Romy tonight and let you know.’

‘How is Romy?’ I ask. ‘Like – in general?’

Caroline’s eyes narrow. Maybe she can tell I’m thinking about the fact that Caroline and Romy are approaching a one-year anniversary, outstripping all of Caroline’s previous relationships by a good six months.

‘She’s good,’ Caroline says. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just making small talk.’ I shrug. ‘I’m told it’s the done thing.’

‘Allegedly. You ready to head back in?’

‘In a minute. Go on without me.’

‘Ezra. Come on.’

‘What?’

‘You’re so obviously planning on waiting until I’m back inside to sneak off.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ I admit, laughing. ‘But I can guarantee that nobody else will notice.’

‘Maggie will.’

‘Nobody will care, then.’

‘Come on, Ezzy,’ Caroline says lightly. ‘Put your quarter-life crisis on hold for one night. You might even have fun.’

‘You’re not even trying to sound convincing.’

‘You can watch me have fun, then. And for the record, I like your nose.’

‘What?’

‘That thing you said earlier about Dad staring at your nose,’ she says. ‘Personally, I think it looks good a little bit wonky. Suits you.’

I open my mouth only to close it again, failing to conjure a witty retort. Caroline sees this and smiles, and there’s something about the way it colours her whole face that reminds me of Mum. It’s like a blow to the chest.

Fuck it. Promise or no promise, I need another drink.

AUDREY

‘WE’RE DOING A FRESH, VERY DEWY LOOK TODAY. HIGHLIGHTER, gloss, fluffy brows … sound good?’

‘And concealer?’ I say hopefully. The make-up artist laughs – her name is Nicole, and despite having met her approximately thirty seconds ago, I’m obsessed. She doesn’t look any older than me but she’s devastatingly cool, gravelly-voiced with salt-white hair, ornate tattoos and a dramatic hourglass figure.

‘That’s a given,’ she confirms, silver rings flashing on her fingers as she squeezes foundation on to the back of her hand. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken,’ I murmur, lowering my gaze as she starts to sweep a brush across my face. ‘I didn’t sleep so well last night.’

I also didn’t realise how bad my dark circles were until I was plonked down in front of a painfully well-lit mirror to have my hair done. I really, really don’t want to walk this runway looking like a Halloween decoration.

‘Nothing a little colour correction can’t fix,’ Nicole says lightly, dabbing the offending areas with an orange-y cream. ‘This your first Fashion Week in New York?’

‘Um – first Fashion Week, actually.’

‘Wow. Who are you signed with?’

‘AVW Models. I mean – in New York, at least. Bradshaw-Slater back in England.’

‘Heavy hitters.’ She whistles. ‘You heading to London next week?’

‘Uh-huh. Not sure about Milan and Paris. It’s all a bit … up in the air.’

‘I get that.’ She nods, moving in with the concealer. ‘My schedule this week is a nightmare.’

‘Are you doing a lot of shows?’

‘Plus private bookings. What about you?’

‘Oh, uh – I’ve got a few lined up,’ I say, not wanting to jinx myself by admitting the actual number. ‘My agent warned me that they might not all pan out.’

‘Sure. You homesick yet?’

I blink at her reflection, less startled by the question than the realisation that my answer is no. I haven’t had the chance to be. Castings take place all day and all over the city, and it’s my responsibility to hit up as many as humanly possible. I only ever stop to scarf down a street pretzel or double check my directions, and when I get back to the model apartment, I’m usually too tired to shower, let alone pine for the BBC.

‘Not yet,’ I manage. She smiles knowingly, proffering a small tube of mascara. I take it from her, nonplussed.

‘Most girls prefer to do it themselves,’ she explains. ‘Just a tiny bit. Upper lashes only.’

‘Cool.’ I nod, hoping that she won’t notice my trembling hands. This show’s call time was 6 a.m. and the sheer feat of regaining consciousness that early makes me nauseous. I was in such a daze when I left that I got on the wrong subway train – then, in my rush to get off, I left my book behind. It was a paperback that I’d picked up at the airport called The Lonely City, which felt apt, I guess.

Anyway. I figured I’d find some food when I got here but an assistant grabbed me for a refitting the moment I arrived, and I’ve been feeling shaky ever since. I manage to apply the mascara without any mishaps, at least, but when I turn to hand it back to Nicole, I see that she’s flagging down a flushed-looking girl with a ‘VOLUNTEER’ lanyard around her neck.

‘Can you grab us a pastry or something? And a black coffee?’ she asks. The girl nods seriously, and zips off.

‘The pastry is yours but the coffee is allll mine,’ Nicole says mildly, turning back to the mirror and picking up a pot of blush. ‘The last thing you need right now is caffeine.’

‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely. She meets my eye.

‘You’ve got to look after yourself,’ she tells me. ‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Eighteen,’ she echoes. ‘So you know it’s up to you now, right?’

I press my lips together and nod, attempting to look determined. I don’t want to make obvious to everyone else what Nicole so clearly suspects– that I’m entirely, hopelessly, out of my depth.

Four months ago, a stranger walked up to me, handed me a piece of card and changed everything. I was in London to visit a university that I wasn’t sure I wanted to attend – I wasn’t sure about uni at all, actually, so I guess it felt like the universe was intervening on my behalf. Now I’m on the other side of the planet, getting paid to wear beautiful things. It’s unreal. A crazy, consumerist fairy tale, and I want so badly for it to somehow become my real life. But it doesn’t feel real, and I worry that that’s because I’m not actually any good at this. That I never will be, and very soon everyone is going to realise that they made a terrible mistake.

‘Hey,’ Nicole says softly, tugging me back to reality. I meet her eyes, which are startlingly blue, and she smiles. ‘If you’re here, you’re here for a reason,’ she says. ‘Okay?’

Ten minutes later, I’m repeating those words in my head like a mantra. I’m here for a reason. I’m here for a reason. I’m—

‘Jesus Christ.’ The girl next to me groans. ‘These shoes are killing me. I’m a size eight and these are sixes.’

I glance over and sure enough, her feet are spilling out of the strappy sandals she’s wearing. I’m lucky enough to be wearing too-big boots with a handful of tissues stuffed into the toes, but still, I find it mystifying that in an industry where our measurements are more important than our names, we’re so rarely given shoes that fit.

‘They’re fine,’ the stylist says dismissively. ‘You’ll only be wearing them for five minutes.’

The girl scowls. The stylist doesn’t notice, too busy fussing with the voluminous bow collar of my dress. It’s burgundy silk, paired with a tight black belt to match the boots. There’s a leather trench coat draped over my shoulders and heavy gold earrings dangling to my neck. I’m wilting under the weight, and the second that I finish my circuit of the runway I’ve got to strip it all off and dive into a velvet three-piece suit in approximately one minute flat.

I think I might have fainted if Nicole hadn’t made me eat. The belt, the stress, the heat – it’s swelteringly hot in here, here being an old warehouse overlooking the Hudson River. They chose a sparse, industrial setting to contrast with the opulence of the collection, apparently, but it’s miles away from my next show in Bowery, which starts in an hour’s time. I have no idea if I can get there in time. Or what happens if I don’t.

‘You’re done. Go get your picture taken,’ the stylist says, pointing me towards a photographer. Said photographer is tall and wan with pale brown hair, artfully mussed. He says nothing as he waves me into a group shot with three other girls, none of whom I recognise. We all bunch together, though, cheesing like we’re best friends.

‘Okay,’ the photographer says eventually, an apparent dismissal. Next thing I know, a woman with a clipboard has taken my arm to guide me towards the line of girls beside the stage. She consults said clipboard, places me between two of them, then walks off without a single word.

It’s weird, being treated like an inanimate object. I can’t imagine I’ll ever get used to it.

‘Audrey.’

I turn, startled to hear my name, and see Marika, her long black hair in a ponytail just like mine. I’m convinced that I look like an egg with my hair slicked back but with Marika it only emphasises the height of her cheekbones, the shine of her flawless ebony skin. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever met – that I’m ever likely to meet. She’s also my roommate for the week.

‘Are you heading to Bowery after this?’ she asks, which is typically direct. Marika doesn’t really do small talk. It’s one of the few things I know about her.

‘Bowery, yeah. Are you?’

‘Yes,’ she says, like it’s obvious – which I suppose it is, given the context. ‘We should share a cab.’

‘Sure!’ I say brightly. Cabs are expensive, but they’re covered by my agencies right now, along with my other expenditures. I’m not sure exactly how much I owe them; plane tickets to New York aren’t cheap, and neither is rent, or comp cards – the glossy A5 printouts of my headshot that I have to carry everywhere. But neither of my agents ever seem particularly bothered about the money, assuring me that it’s all ‘an investment’. An investment in me, I suppose, which is nice. Alarmingly loaded, yes, but mostly nice.

‘Okay.’ Marika nods. ‘Meet me out back?’

‘Sounds good. Thanks.’

Marika flashes me a brief smile, which is unexpected. As is her offer. We’ve been sharing a room for a week now and she’s mostly kept to herself, which is totally fine – it’s not like I’m such a social butterfly either, and as much as I want her to like me, I know there’s no forcing it. Attending five schools in six years taught me that lesson the hard way.

‘Hi, can I get everyone’s attention?’ a clear voice suddenly calls out, and everyone backstage falls silent. They stay silent, too, because Miranda Browning has spoken.

I know next to nothing about high fashion, but I know Miranda Browning. Just about every celebrity on the planet has worn one of her designs to an awards show at one point or other, and then there are the iconic Browning bags. It’s a simple design, but Miranda transformed them into the ultimate status symbol by only producing a finite amount each year and gifting a select few to whoever happens to be dominating pop culture at the time. Actresses, activists, influencers, politicians – the official list of recipients is reported breathlessly, analysed intently. The rest trickle down to the highest bidders.

All this and she’s barely forty. It’s kind of staggering, honestly.

‘So, this is it!’ Miranda says brightly. ‘We’re finally here, and I just wanted to take this moment to thank you all. This show represents the hard work of every single person in this room, and I’m so, so proud.’

She’s standing at the top of the stairs that lead to the stage and smiling down at us like a benevolent queen in a simple black jumpsuit, her auburn hair held loosely in a claw clip. I know she probably can’t see me but I find myself smiling back all the same.

‘I also want to tell you girls that you shouldn’t be afraid to let your personality shine out there,’ she continues, turning towards us. ‘My entire career, everything I do – it’s all about celebrating women. Uplifting them. When they wear my designs, I want them to feel brave and beautiful and powerful. Every woman deserves that.’

I hear Marika make a small scoffing noise, then – almost like laughter. I glance over, surprised, only to see that her expression is perfectly blank. I quickly avert my gaze, wondering if I imagined it.

‘Thank you,’ Miranda concludes, looking misty-eyed as she clasps her hands together. ‘This is my fifteenth Fashion Week and it means every bit as much to me as the first. Really. Thank you so much.’

She bows her head, backing away as everyone starts to applaud, myself included. The atmosphere is so buoyant that I almost forget to be nervous until sparse electronic music starts to pour from the speakers above.

‘Places!’ someone yells as the lights dim. Marika has disappeared, retaken her place in the line. A hush falls as we’re chivvied forward, the air thick with anticipation.

The girls at the front are disappearing, which means that it’s time. I suck in a breath and swing my arms, tipping back my chin. This is the first real fashion show I’ve ever walked in, and it couldn’t be bigger. All morning I’ve been half-expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me that there’s been a mistake. But I’m still here. And maybe like Nicole said, it’s for a reason. But even if it’s not, in thirty seconds, I’ll be out on that runway, a hundred cameras flashing in my face and immortalising this moment for ever. My face, these clothes, this gorgeous, dizzying city – all inexorably connected, now and for ever.

I’m here.

And that simple, irrefutable fact makes me feel a little more solid, somehow. I hold it in the forefront of my mind as I start to walk, the stage lights leading me out of the dark.

EZRA

I WAKE UP IN PAIN. MY HEAD IS THICK WITH IT, DULL AND NEEDY. I’d roll over and go right back to sleep if it weren’t for my phone, hidden from sight and ringing at a truly obnoxious volume. I groan, fumbling for it under my pillow – Romy is calling. Weird. Weird enough that I have to answer, unfortunately. I force myself into an upright position, dimly realising that I’m fully dressed as I raise the phone to my ear.

‘Good morning,’ I croak.

‘Morning? It’s gone twelve.’ Romy laughs. She sounds especially American when she’s on the phone – borderline valley girl.

‘Figure of speech,’ I reply smoothly. ‘What’s up?’

‘Caro told me about your talk last night. We’re actually understaffed right now so it’s amazing timing, but you’ll need training before the dinner rush. Can you be here in an hour?’

Ah. It’s all coming back to me now. The party. The balcony. Caroline offering me a job at Romy’s restaurant. In my defence, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

‘Or earlier, if you can manage,’ Romy continues. ‘It’s Fashion Week so we’re slammed with reservations. I’m actually kind of desperate, so …’

‘Yeah, I mean – I’d love to help out. Really. It’s just – I think I’m coming down with something,’ I tell her, clearing my throat. ‘I woke up feeling like hell.’

‘Poor baby. Have you taken any Advil? Always works for me when I’m hungover.’

I huff and flop back on to the mattress, defeated. She knows me too well, unfortunately.

‘What about food?’ I sigh. ‘I’ll be hungry by the time I get there.’

‘There’ll be food, Your Highness. It’s a restaurant.’

‘Hm. Am I getting paid?’

‘That’s kind of the point of a job, yeah. Listen – I have to go but thank you, Ezra. Really.’

‘Thank Caroline,’ I retort, but she’s already hung up. I drop my phone and shut my eyes, wondering if puking mid-shift is a sackable offence.

The extent of the damage becomes apparent as soon as I’m vertical. I almost pass out in the shower and have to sit down, hot water raining against my sore shoulders as I rest my head on my knees. I have no idea how many glasses of champagne I knocked back at Maggie’s party before slipping out and taking the subway downtown. There’s a place in Chelsea that’s lax about ID and always has movies showing on the TV behind the bar. It was Jaws last night, and by the time they blew up the shark it was just me, the bartender and some old guy with a yellow beard wearing a cap that said RETIRED AND LOVING IT!

I don’t really remember what time I got back here. It doesn’t normally matter – my go-to hangover cure is sleeping for as long as I want, then heading down to the Korean restaurant on the corner to try and fill the void inside of me with tea and dumplings. But now I’ve got to get my life together and get to Chelsea within the hour, lest Romy murder me with one of her fancy knives. She might look like sunshine, all freckled and smiley and California-blonde, but she didn’t get to be head chef in a fancy Manhattan restaurant by virtue of being adorable. She’s fully capable of fucking me up if I leave her in the lurch today.

I roughly towel myself off, ruffling my hair as I scrutinise my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. It’s getting long again. It grows fast – so fast that I used to have to cut it myself when I was at school. The results were reliably awful until Edie eventually offered to give it a go, and she was actually pretty good at it. Then again, Edie was good at everything.

I get dressed quickly and gulp down some water before heading out. It’s a clear, cold day – the kind of weather I’d enjoy if it didn’t hurt to be alive right now. I decide to take the subway instead of walking, if only to take advantage of the lack of natural light. I might be on time, actually, which is a novelty. I haven’t needed to be punctual in months.

Well. I probably should have shown up to Maggie’s party a little earlier, now I think of it. I just didn’t figure that she cared too much about me coming, though that’s not to imply that she doesn’t care about me. She’s a great sister. Better than great. Like, when we were younger and Mum and Dad worked all the time, Maggie was always the one who walked me home after school. Only in hindsight did I realise what a boring chore that was to saddle a teenager with – I know that I wouldn’t have put up with it, but Maggie did. She helped me with my homework, too. She did hers at the same time, sitting opposite me at the kitchen table. It used to drive me nuts when she told me off for slouching or reached over to check my answers without me even asking, but they’re good memories. Caroline might have been more of an ally, but I missed Maggie just as much while I was away.

She was at college when I was packed off to boarding school, supplementing straight As with a string of summer internships. By the time she graduated she’d already been deluged with job offers, and now she works at a fancy PR agency, getting paid a comical amount of money to – to do whatever it is that she does, I suppose. Precocious, sure, but no one’s surprised. Maggie’s had her shit together since before she could walk.

Anyway. I’m at the station, now – it’s quiet, so I glide straight through the barriers. The train I need is grinding to a halt just as I reach the platform, which feels like a good omen. There’re plenty of seats, too, and someone’s left a book on the one next to mine. I glance around the carriage to see if anyone looks like they’re going to claim it, but apparently not. I pick it up, turn it over in my hand. The Lonely City – bleakly appropriate – so I wedge it into my coat pocket. I’ll give it a good home.

I lean back, stretching my legs slightly. I should probably be nervous – I’ve never had a job before, so I don’t know what to expect. Maybe it’ll imbue me with a newfound sense of purpose and the rest of my life will automatically fall into perfect order. More likely, I’ll be so useless that Romy fires me within the week, but either way it’s something to do.

Something that I hope Caroline tells Dad about before I have to.

AUDREY

‘HEY THERE!’ OUR SERVER CHIRPS, PONYTAIL BOBBING AS SHE bounces up to our table. ‘How are we all doing?’

‘Oh, just great!’ Imogene beams, leaning towards her. ‘Could we get these plates cleared?’

‘Sure thing! Was everything okay?’

‘Amazing,’ Imogene enthuses, tossing her honey-coloured hair over her shoulder. ‘And can we get some more water for the table?’

I stifle a yawn and glance away. It’s gone ten but this place is still brimming with people, all apparently very happy to be eating this late at night. The food is great, admittedly, and the restaurant itself is beautiful: raw plaster walls softened by hanging greenery and pendulous golden lights.

‘Audrey, sweetheart,’ Imogene says, resting a cool hand on my arm. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Oh, fine,’ I manage. ‘Just zoned out for a moment.’

Probably because I’ve been awake for eighteen hours and on my feet for most of them. No need to point that out to Imogene, though. She’s my agent in New York, and pretty much every aspect of my life here is guided by her perfectly manicured hand. What I wear, where I go, who I see; I live in anticipation of her instructions. Not that I resent it. Everyone she’s ever introduced me to has gushed about how lucky I am to have her – aside from being amazing at her job, she also happens to be gorgeous, stylish and a beacon of relentless positivity. Imagine a Disney princess in a leather trench coat, drafting an email on her phone while hailing a cab to the opening of an organic wine bar – that’s Imogene.

‘Are you sure?’ she presses, voice low. ‘You’ve been quiet all night.’

‘I know. I’m sorry,’ I tell her, abruptly chastened. Imogene used to model herself, and not that long ago – she knows so many important people in this industry, and a lot of them are currently sitting around this table. It’s an incredible opportunity to network and I’m totally squandering it.

‘No, don’t be sorry!’ Imogene says emphatically, eyes wide. ‘I’m worried, is all.’

‘Don’t be,’ I say quickly. ‘I – I think I’m just coming down from the day if that makes sense? It was a lot – amazing, but a lot.’

I walked five shows total. Imogene was at one of them and sent me pictures of myself stomping down the runway in a chainmail dress and buffalo boots, hair wet with gel. I recognised the outfit before I recognised myself.

‘I get it. But you did a great job, sweetheart. And you look stunning tonight.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile, adjusting the strap of my dress. It’s skimpy, silver and belongs to Marika. I packed light, and she deemed the lone black dress in my suitcase to be ‘sad’. Harsh but fair, and this one is undeniably pretty. Designer, too, which means it was probably gifted after a shoot or a show. We get paid in clothes, sometimes. It was an exciting prospect before I realised that modelling has overhead costs.

Another server appears to start clearing our plates then, and I lean back in my chair as he reaches over to take mine, resisting the urge to let my eyelids droop. It’s embarrassing, how exhausted I feel. All I can think about is getting back to the apartment, crawling under the covers of my unfamiliar bed …

‘Should we order cocktails?’ someone pipes up and my fantasy of a full night’s sleep recedes a little further into the distance.

Forty minutes later and the evening has devolved into hushed, frantic gossiping about people I’ve never met. We’re no closer to leaving and I’m actively resisting the urge to rest my head on the table. Marika looks just as fed up, but we’re seated at opposite ends of the table so I can’t even openly commiserate with her.

‘I’m heading outside for a sec,’ I tell the girl next to me, pushing out my chair. Everyone else is deep in conversation and I figure that some cold air might help wake me up.

‘To smoke?’ she replies, her voice husky and French-accented.

‘Uh … yeah,’ I reply. I’m not, obviously, but maybe it’s weird to go and stand outside for any other reason?

‘There is an area,’ she says conspiratorially, gesturing towards the far end of the restaurant. ‘They do not like it when you smoke out of the front.’

‘Oh. Thank you,’ I reply, realising that she’ll think I’m an idiot if I go out through the entrance now. Smoking area it is, and no one seems to notice me leave. But as I make my way to the back of the restaurant, I realise that maybe I ought to have asked for more detailed directions. There’s a door, but there’s also a small metal staircase. Neither has any signage to indicate where they lead.

I peek through the door and see a hallway, narrow and nondescript with a fire door at the end. I don’t want to hover and make it obvious that I have no idea where I’m going, so I slip through. No one stops me, no alarms sound, so I think that I might be in the right place. When I step outside, I find myself at the top of a small set of steps leading down into an alley, fenced off and well-lit with a row of bins—

‘Are you lost?’

—and a guy, sitting on an upturned crate, watching me. It’s the server who took our plates earlier. And he’s English. I wasn’t expecting that.

‘Maybe,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Is this the smoking area?’

‘Technically. There’s a rooftop bar that you might prefer.’

‘Oh. Is that up the stairs?’

‘… Yeah,’ he says, and I realise then that I just asked this guy if the roof is upstairs.

‘Right.’ I nod, feeling my face heat. ‘Makes sense.’

‘Or you could pull up a crate,’ he offers. ‘Up to you.’

I falter, trying to visualise the alternative. A rooftop bar means that I’ll be surrounded by people who are older and cooler than me – drunker too, probably, and maybe friendlier than I’d like. Then again, it’s not like hunkering down in an alley with a stranger is so smart. But he does work here, so …

‘Is it okay if I just … lean?’ I ask, gesturing vaguely to the building exterior. It feels like a sensible compromise. The door is still open, plus my shoes are spiky enough to double as a weapon if needs be.

‘Sure. It’s an alley for all.’

He gets to his feet then, clearing the stairs in one bound. I’m startled until he proffers a packet of cigarettes, looking at me expectantly.

‘Oh, um – thank you,’ I manage, hesitating slightly before taking one and putting it between my lips. I guess I did come here asking about the smoking area, and I’m not sure how to justify my presence otherwise. But the waiter is looking at me strangely, brow slightly furrowed.

‘Are you – do you actually want that?’ he asks, and I blink at him, taken aback again.

‘The cigarette,’ he clarifies. ‘I mean – do you smoke?’

I take it from my mouth then, feeling heat flood my face.

‘Um … not particularly,’ I manage, startled by the fact that he’s apparently psychic. ‘I don’t – I have smoked, if that’s what you’re asking, but—’

‘Whoops,’ he says easily, tucking the packet away again. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.’

‘No, I – that doesn’t mean I mind if you smoke,’ I say quickly. ‘Like – you can have this one, if you want.’

I offer the cigarette back to him, realising too late that it was in my mouth approximately ten seconds ago. He takes it, though, smiling faintly as he flips it between his fingers. The end of it is smudged with my lipstick. The wrong end.

‘Oh,’ I say, awkwardly gesturing at it. ‘Bit of a giveaway that I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, right?’

‘That and your general aura of vitality,’ he replies, smiling as he slips it into his pocket. ‘I mean – I figure a lot of models do smoke, but—’

‘How did you know I’m a model?’ I interject, surprised.

‘Educated guess. You’re tall, clearly not from around here …’

‘I could say the same about you.’

‘And it’s Fashion Week,’ he concludes. ‘Though if that’s all it takes then maybe I should give it a go.’

‘Is it something you’re interested in?’ I ask, resisting the urge to look him up and down. He’s wiry as well as tall with a cutting jaw and an endearingly crooked nose. I could definitely imagine him sloping down a runway in some fashionably-distressed ensemble, scowling the way that the male models always seem to. All of this to say he’s cute, basically, but I’m pretending that I haven’t noticed to lessen my chances of getting flustered.

‘It’s tempting.’ He nods. ‘But leave behind the glitz and glamour of the service industry? I don’t know.’

‘If you’re implying that modelling is glamorous, I promise you it’s not.’

‘Said the girl in the silver dress.’

‘This dress isn’t even mine!’ I protest hotly, surprising myself. Surprising him too, I think – his grin widens, exposing a pointed incisor.

‘That wine your table was drinking is a hundred dollars a bottle,’ he tells me. ‘What do you have to say to that?’

‘That I’m not drinking it. And I’m definitely not paying for it.’

‘Is this a Cinderella scenario?’

‘Mm-hm. The carriage is out front.’

‘Better get moving, then. You’re about to miss your midnight window.’

‘I’m aware,’ I say, and I’m smiling too now. ‘Painfully so.’

‘Ah. Early start tomorrow?’

‘Uh-huh. I suppose you get to lie in, working here.’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve only had this job for twenty-four hours.’

‘For real?’

‘Yeah. But I’ve already been told that I’ve got a good handspan for trays, so I’m pretty sure I’m crushing it.’

‘Wow. Why are you here, then?’

‘This city or this restaurant?’

‘The city, I guess. I mean – you’re from England, right?’

‘More so than not.’ He nods, expression shifting slightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, abruptly realising I’ve overstepped. ‘That’s probably personal.’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ he says, meeting my eye. ‘I just—’

‘Ezra!’

We both start, turning in unison to see a woman in chef whites. My first thought is how pretty she is, tan and lithe with sun-streaked hair drawn back into a stubby ponytail. My second thought is that I really hope she’s not about to yell at us.

‘Your break ended five minutes ago,’ she tells the server – Ezra, apparently. Thankfully she seems more exasperated than angry.

‘My bad,’ he says lightly. ‘Gimme a sec?’

‘You’ve had several,’ she says, before glancing at me. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ I say, my voice suddenly small. ‘Um – sorry. I took a wrong turn.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she tells me, gaze sliding back over to Ezra. She cocks an eyebrow, and for the first time I see his cool composure slip, a dull flush rising in his cheeks.

‘Duty calls, then,’ he says briskly. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

‘You too.’ I nod. ‘Um – I’m Audrey, by the way.’

‘Audrey,’ he echoes, hovering. For a moment I think he’s going to say something else but instead he just ducks past me, disappearing into the building and out of sight. The chef follows and I’m left alone, then.

Alone and feeling a whole lot more awake than I did five minutes ago.

EZRA

‘SO, EZZY,’ CAROLINE SAYS LIGHTLY, SPEARING A STRAWBERRY with her fork. ‘What’s this I hear about you canoodling with a model last night?’

‘ “Canoodling”?’ I laugh. ‘Seriously?’

‘I obviously didn’t use the word “canoodling”,’ Romy interjects, rolling her eyes. ‘But Caro asked me how your first shift went – I thought it was worth mentioning.’

‘And she was right.’ Caroline grins. ‘Spill, please.’

‘Is this why you invited me over for breakfast? To grill me for details?’

‘It may have been a factor.’

‘Wooow,’ I drawl, as if I have any right to be outraged. Honestly, the only reason I bothered to trek over to their apartment was because I wanted to eat whatever Romy was cooking. It turned out to be cinnamon French toast with a walnut crumble and summer berries, so entirely worth a little light interrogation.

‘So?’ Caroline prompts. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Audrey,’ I say, getting to my feet and picking up the empty cafetiere. ‘Who wants more coffee?’

‘Don’t deflect! Did you get her number?’

‘I might have done, had your lovely girlfriend not interrupted us.’

‘You’re not getting paid to flirt,’ Romy says flatly.

‘You haven’t paid me at all, yet.’

‘Did you get a surname at least?’ Caroline cuts in. ‘We can totally find her with a surname.’

‘Nope. Sorry to disappoint,’ I reply, and admittedly I’m a little disappointed too. I mean – I’m not deluded enough to think that a few minutes of conversation amount to a meaningful connection, but it’s been rattling around in my head ever since. Honestly, I’m not totally sure what did stop me from asking for her number. Romy’s presence? Fear of rejection? A tragically misplaced sense of loyalty to Edie?

Anyway, I didn’t. And then they left, not long after, so it’s all irrelevant now. Done.

Romy is on her phone when I set the down the fresh coffee. Caroline is peering over her shoulder, obviously engrossed.

‘What’s so interesting?’ I ask, retaking my seat.

‘Romy thinks she can find her.’

‘Find who – that Audrey girl, you mean?’

‘The reservation was made by an agent with AVW Models,’ Romy explains. ‘She comes in all the time.’

‘We’re going through their roster,’ Caroline adds. ‘Though maybe you should come and look. You probably remember her face better than Romy.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Of course not! This way you can find her socials, maybe drop her a DM.’

‘I don’t use “socials”. And as nice as it is that you guys are so invested in my social life—’

‘Oh, there she is!’ Romy suddenly cries, and I feel a flicker of anticipation despite myself. Romy proffers the phone and – yeah. It’s her, looking serious in a pared-back headshot. Her dark hair is parted neatly and her pale face is bare, dusted with a scattering of freckles that I didn’t notice last night. Her eyes are dark too, and intent. It’s as though she can see me through the screen.

‘Definitely her?’ Caroline asks.

Yep,’ I say, handing the phone back. ‘That’s the one.’

‘No surname, though,’ Caroline says, pulling a face. ‘Sorry.’

‘You tried.’ I shrug, attempting to look unbothered. Even if they had tracked her down, it’s not like I would have done anything about it. Not unless I somehow figured out a non-creepy way to go about it.

‘I’m bummed.’ Romy sighs. ‘She seemed sweet. And you don’t have any friends here.’

‘Jesus.’ Caroline laughs. ‘Kick him while he’s down, why don’t you?’

The topic is mercifully dropped after that. I hang around, though, because I like spending time at Caroline’s. It’s cluttered in the best kind of way, the living room doubling as her studio. There are half-finished canvases propped against every wall, a stool and easel beside the TV. She perches there, furtively sketching me while I sprawl across the sofa, watching old episodes of The Nanny and pretending not to notice.

My mind is still stuck on last night. Thanks to Romy and Caroline, every errant thought I have somehow circles around to that girl, Audrey. I just – I wish I could have spoken to her a little longer. I think I might have made it weird when she asked me why I was here in New York – I can’t remember what I said, but I guess I reacted like I was offended because she started to apologise. I wasn’t, though, it’s just the question itself knocked me off kilter, though the answer should be simple – my family is here. But it doesn’t feel simple, and I might have elaborated had we not been interrupted. Might have told her that I’d spent the bulk of my teenage years at boarding school in England, and didn’t know I’d be moving back here until my dad sent over the details of the Manhattan apartment he’d bought for me to live in.

Yes, bought – just another notch in his property portfolio, I guess, because he acted like it was no big deal. I’d assumed that moving back to New York would mean moving in with him, but that was stupid, really, because we hadn’t lived under the same roof for any prolonged period since I was thirteen. Whenever I stayed at his apartment during the holidays it always felt as though we were in an unspoken competition to spend the least amount of time there. It shouldn’t have surprised me that he wouldn’t want me there indefinitely.

All of that would have been a significant overshare, though, and discounts the fact that I thought Edie would be coming with me. She’d flipped out when I told her about the apartment – at the time I was feeling pretty stung by Dad definitively kicking me out of the nest, but she acted like I’d won the lottery. Then she practically begged me to let her come to New York and move in with me, which was hilarious. I was so painfully, pathetically in love with her that she needn’t have even asked nicely

But then Edie changed her mind. About me, about the apartment – about everything. So that’s that, and I need to figure shit out on my own. The job is a start. A social life would be nice too, but the prospect of actively seeking out friendship is excruciating. There’s this great Susan Sontag quote about how moving into the world like that feels like a moral fall, which is dramatic, yeah, but I get it. I’m all too aware that most people are repulsed by any palpable sense of need, especially in a city like this. I can live with being lonely.

I can live with most things, I think.

I continue to.

AUDREY

‘SHOULD WE TOUCH ON AREAS FOR IMPROVEMENT? BECAUSE I think we could be doing a lot more with your social media.’

Imogene reaches for her tablet, angling the screen forwards to present me with – with myself, basically. ‘Look. Do you see what’s missing?’

‘Not really,’ I admit, at an embarrassing loss.

‘It’s you,’ she says emphatically. ‘Where are you?’

I blink at her, wondering if she’s joking. I’m splashed all over that feed. I’ve posted pictures from every photoshoot I’ve ever done – there’s not a lot, granted, but I only started the account a few months ago. I deleted my old one, mortified at the thought of anyone I knew seeing the modelling stuff. I also conclusively ended multiple friendships in the process – given all the school-hopping, social media was the lone, tenuous connection between me and a lot of people.

Anyway. Imogene puts down the tablet, then, leaning forward.

‘People want to know that you’re an actual person,’ she explains. ‘They want to see your life. Your personality. So, you need to try and get into the habit of taking pictures all the time, even if it seems like what you’re doing is boring. Even if you’re just hanging out at the apartment.’

I nod, privately wondering if she’s ever seen our apartment. It’s conveniently located above a laundromat, but that’s about the only thing I can say in its favour. I don’t like to spend any more time there than I have to due to the weird smell, near-total lack of natural light and potential cockroach infestation.

‘Did no one in your London team cover this with you?’ Imogene continues, tilting her head. ‘Leanne?’

‘She definitely mentioned it.’ I nod. Leanne is my agent back in England, responsible for ‘discovering’ me four months ago. It was a distinctly surreal event. I was eating lunch in a Pret when this tiny, white-haired woman in a bright pink suit popped up beside me and asked me if I’d ever modelled. I just stared at her with a mouth full of falafel wrap until she produced her business card and told me to look her up. Everything seemed to happen very quickly after that.

‘Sure. You guys didn’t have much time together.’ Imogene smiles understandingly. ‘And your walk and your conduct are super polished, which I’m sure was her priority. But followers matter more than they probably should these days.’

‘I’ll sort it.’ I nod. ‘Thank you. Really.’

‘It’s what I’m here for, sweetheart. Do you want a coffee?’

‘I don’t know if I have time,’ I admit. I had to wake up obscenely early to get here before my first show of the day – my hair is still half-damp from the shower, face bare and shiny. But Imogene looks perfectly fluffed and glossy in a tweed co-ord, her winged eyeliner utterly flawless. I have no idea how she does it.

‘You do. I’ll send Kady now,’ she says decisively, reaching for her phone. I glance around as she starts typing, her nails clacking against the screen. Imogene’s office is just as perfect as she is, white-walled, candle-scented and softly lit. There are big shiny plants in every corner and a pink neon sign mounted behind her desk that reads DON’T DREAM IT. I guess the implication is that you BE IT instead, but it always reads as vaguely threatening to me.

‘Have you got any questions?’ Imogene asks then, eyes still glued to her phone.

‘Yeah, um – I was actually wondering what’s going on with London,’ I tell her, straightening in my chair. ‘Just so I know when I need to be packed by.’

‘London,’ Imogene echoes. ‘Yeah. I think we should put a pin in London.’

‘A pin?’

‘You’ve made incredible traction here. My instinct is to capitalise on that.’

‘Oh. Um – wow,’ I say, taken aback. Imogene lowers her phone.

‘I’m going to discuss this with Leanne, of course,’ she says seriously. ‘Right now, this is all hypothetical.’

‘Right. Okay.’

‘Are you happy to stay a little longer?’ Imogene asks, brow crinkling.

‘Oh, yeah!’ I say quickly. ‘Yeah. I just – I thought that London Fashion Week was a big deal, so—’

‘It is.’ She smiles. ‘So we’ll see, okay? Either way, this is a good thing. I promise.’

A good thing. I think about that as I take the subway uptown, plugged into my headphones as the carriage rattles around me. I mean, I trust Imogene, but I don’t know how to feel about staying here any longer than planned. Honestly, I don’t know that I’m physically up to it. Or mentally. By every possible metric, I feel burnt out. It’s like I’ve been running on sheer adrenaline ever since my plane hit the tarmac at JFK, but I figured that I could catch my breath when I was back in London. That things would feel more normal there. But now that London might not be happening …

Everything is so big here. So loud, so much. I’m chronically sleep-deprived, constantly starving – meals are always snatched, hasty affairs, and my current dependence on instant noodles may well be putting me at risk of scurvy. My feet are blistered from heels, my hair fried from heat styling, and don’t even get me started about my skin. But … I’m not unhappy. That’s what’s weird – as hard as it is to get out of bed in the mornings, once I’m upright I’m raring to go. I like that I always have a place to be, and that those places are usually incredible. It makes me feel important. Cool, embarrassingly.

I liked that waiter, too – the one I met the other night. I looked for him once I was back inside the restaurant and thought I caught a glimpse of him heading into the kitchen, but he never re-materialised at our table. If I stay then I might see him again, I realise, my heart lifting at the thought. Imogene might take us back there, and—

God, but what are my parents going to say? They’re in Sussex at the moment, working on a ramshackle little cottage near the beach. It’s all ridiculously scenic, and a small part of me would like to believe that they’ve finally found a forever home. I know better, though. In six months’ time they’ll have fallen in love with some other beautiful ruin, sold up and hit the road with all our meagre possessions in the back of the van. That’s been the drill for the past six years. We move in, we fix up, we move on.

It wasn’t always like this. When I was a kid, Mum and Dad both worked full-time, and I’d spend most afternoons at my grandma’s house. It was small and immaculate, same as her – I never saw her without lipstick and earrings, and she reapplied perfume every time she stepped outside. She used to let me wear it too, and I still remember the feeling of her soft, cool hands cradling mine as she gently dabbed the glass stopper of the bottle against my wrists. A lot of the memories are fuzzy, now, but not that scent. Every so often I catch it out of nowhere and it knocks the wind out of me.

I didn’t know how to make sense of it when she died. I only knew that I missed her a lot, and that Mum must have missed her too because she’d started spending all her time at Grandma’s house instead of going to work. Suddenly I was spending my afternoons watching her and Dad pull up carpets and tear down wallpaper, and it stopped looking and smelling and feeling like Grandma’s house. The loss took shape, settled in my chest.

It seemed to make Mum feel better, though. Once the house was sold, she and Dad sat me down and asked me if I’d like for us all to spend more time together as a family. I said yes, though I didn’t really know what I was saying yes to. I might have answered differently otherwise.

It’s been good in some ways, I suppose. We did all get to spend a lot of time together, and helping them out has equipped me with a decent amount of DIY know-how – I managed to boost my popularity in the apartment yesterday by fixing a broken showerhead. I’m also great at packing, so it’s prepared me for this lifestyle, weirdly, though I’d be lying if I said I’d never resented them for it. I understand that renovating houses is what they love, but I’m pretty sure that I would have loved being a normal teenager, living in just the one place. To have something other than the two of them to hold on to.

I know a lot of parents treat their kids like extensions of themselves, but not mine. They never bothered me about homework or extracurriculars, about my friends or lack thereof. Never tried to force me to into getting driving lessons or a part-time job – just gave me an allowance for helping with renovations. They were happy enough about my exam results and the universities I got into, sure, but when I first showed them Leanne’s business card, it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly I was facing pursed lips and folded arms, navigating stilted conversations about ‘making good choices’.

This was mostly from Mum, actually. She’s been consistently weird about the whole modelling thing – Dad was sceptical at first, but now he thinks it’s great that I get the chance to see the world and earn money at the same time. But Mum hasn’t budged from her perch of disapproval – because she thinks it’s frivolous, maybe? She’s always been totally ambivalent towards fashion. She lives in overalls, owns exactly two ‘nice’ dresses and only wears lipstick to funerals. Still, none of that explains why she can’t just pretend to be proud of me.

I shift in my seat, ignoring a twinge of sadness in my chest. If they’re not happy about me staying on in New York, then – then too bad. I get to make my own choices now, and it’s not like there’s anything waiting for me elsewhere. They made sure of that.

EZRA

IT’S ON A THURSDAY THAT THE MESSAGE I’VE BEEN DREADING finally arrives.

Hello Ezra. Hope you’re well. Are you free for lunch this afternoon? Dad.

I read it twice, absent-mindedly chewing my cheek. The haphazard rota that Romy and I worked out means that I have today off, and I’m currently lounging on my sofa with a dog-eared copy of Middlesex. I put it to one side, quickly tapping out a message to Caroline.

did you tell dad that i’m working at the restaurant??

My phone buzzes less than a minute later.

And deprive you of the pleasure? Of course not :))))))

I sigh and get to my feet, composing a new message as I head towards the bathroom.

sure thing dad. where did you want to go?

Two hours later I’m showered, shaved and sitting in a well-lit restaurant near Dad’s office. He’s predictably late, which gave me the opportunity to order and pay for a vodka soda at the bar. I don’t particularly care that it’s only midday, but that doesn’t mean that I want it to show up on the bill.

‘Sorry, sorry!’ Dad says brusquely, looking distinctly harried as he appears from behind me, pulling out a chair. ‘Meeting ran over – have you been waiting long?’

‘No,’ I lie. He nods and picks up a menu, scanning it for a second before putting it down again.

‘In a rush?’ I venture.

‘Sorry,’ he says, offering a sheepish smile as a waitress approaches our table. I gulp down a mouthful of my drink, already irritated. He’s literally been here for thirty seconds and he’s already gearing up to leave – what was the point?

‘Hey there! What can I get you guys?’ The waitress beams, looking to him.

‘I’ll do the wood-fired chicken with the grilled sprouts on the side, thanks. Ezra?’

‘Uh – could I please get the pancetta and provolone focaccia?’ I say, silently reeling over the fact that this place is charging twenty dollars for what essentially amounts to a ham and cheese sandwich.

‘Sure thing. Any drinks?’

‘Some more sparkling water. Thank you,’ Dad says, and my eyes dart to the waitress. She saw me at the bar. She knows that I’m not drinking sparkling water. But she says nothing – just smiles and glides away, and that’s something that I do admittedly like about fancy places like this. The food might be expensive, but the discretion is free.

‘So,’ Dad says. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Not much,’ I say, straightening in my chair. ‘I got a job.’

‘Oh,’ he says, eyebrows shooting upwards.

‘Yeah, uh – at the restaurant where Romy works,’ I continue, attempting to hold my nerve. ‘As a waiter. Like – clearing and setting tables. It’s not for ever, obviously—’

‘No, uh – no, I’m sure.’

‘It’s something to do, though.’

‘Right.’ He nods. ‘Well – that’s great. And it’s what I wanted to discuss with you today, actually.’

‘Yeah?’ I manage, feigning surprise.

‘Yes, well – it occurred to me that you might be at a bit of a loose end right now. I wondered if you’d be interested in coming into the office to help out.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘I know you don’t think that what I do is very interesting, but experience in an office is a useful thing to have under your belt. Maggie can attest to that.’

‘Maggie and I are different, though.’

‘I know,’ he says after a beat ‘So – have you given any thought as to what you might want to do?’

‘Oh, with the rest of my life, you mean?’ I laugh. ‘Uh – no. Sorry to disappoint.’

‘I don’t expect you to have it all set in stone. Just – I’d hate to see you directionless.’

‘Right,’ I say, glancing away. It’s an odd sentiment, coming from a person who didn’t really see me at all these past five years. What does he expect? I’ve been bouncing back and forth over the Atlantic Ocean for as long as I can remember, so is it any fucking wonder that I’m lacking in ‘direction’?

‘Caroline mentioned that photography was a hobby of yours,’ he presses, and I resist the urge to sigh.

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I mean – there was a darkroom at school. It was something to do.’

The art department there was a sprawling, 1970s-era monstrosity on the edge of the school grounds, and given the number of disused classrooms, it quickly became my favourite place to kill time whenever I didn’t particularly feel like being in a lesson. Eventually a teacher called Mr McDougal found me out, but instead of detention he gave me a camera – a battered little point and shoot. He taught me how to develop pictures, too, though that was the extent of our mentor/mentee dynamic. He preferred watching movies in the back office to teaching, but he did usher me into becoming the unofficial photographer for school events, meaning that I finally had a legitimate reason to skip classes.

‘They had the darkroom when I was there, too,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t suppose it’s changed much.’

‘Probably not,’ I reply flatly. That was how Dad justified the whole boarding school thing, apparently. He went to the same one, so he figured that it was a good idea to send me there when I started ‘acting out’.

‘She said you had a good eye for it,’ he continues. ‘Caroline, this is.’

I shrug. Caroline used to be into photography as well, so I emailed her to ask for advice when I was just starting out. A few weeks later I got a parcel – she’d sent me a restored vintage Leica and a boxful of film. After that I started including scans of my photos in the emails I sent her – only the best ones, the ones I thought she might like. I didn’t realise she’d been blabbing about it to Dad, though.

‘You know, NYU has a great photography programme,’ he adds, leaning forward. ‘I have a friend who lectures there. I’m sure she’d be happy to look over your portfolio.’

‘I don’t have a portfolio.’

‘Then it could be something to work towards. How long do you think it would take to put one together?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say curtly. ‘I guess I’d have to ask Caroline.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ he says, sounding so genuinely enthused that I immediately feel like a piece of shit. This is one of the (many, many) reasons why I avoid spending time with Dad – I hate the person I seem to morph into whenever I’m around him. A bored, stroppy teenager, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at everything he says.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to idolise him – Mum too. They both worked near-constantly, Dad at his office and Mum teaching Classics at a university just out of the city. It was actually something of a novelty when either of them were home, so Maggie, Caroline and I used to shamelessly vie for their attention. And they knew that, I think, which is why we all had our own ‘thing’ with them. For Mum and me, it was the cinema. With Dad it was museums, and he patiently saw me through every pre-adolescent fixation. Dinosaurs first, then space, ancient Egypt and a brief geodes phase. We spent so many weekends hitting up the Museum of Natural History that most of the security guards knew me by name, and even after the geodes lost their appeal, things were pretty good with us until things got bad with Mum. And then she was gone, and …

What little I do remember I don’t care to dwell on, but the point is, he wasn’t around. There were accounts to close, people to tell, a funeral to plan – death is a logistical nightmare, it turns out. Still, it always kind of felt to me like he was relieved to have an excuse not to be around us. He had enough of his own grief, I suppose, and he didn’t want to deal with ours too.

Anyway. Our food arrives not long after that, which is a relief. We don’t have to talk while we’re eating, and the sandwich is good – not twenty dollars good, but good. Dad asks for the bill within a minute of me putting the last bite into my mouth, and I get another awkward shoulder pat goodbye outside the restaurant before he leaves.

I feel weirdly unsettled on the walk back to my apartment. I can’t shake it off, and within ten minutes of getting in the door I find myself on my knees, digging through the box of old school junk that I keep under my bed. I finally find my Leica inside of an old sock, shaking it out and turning it over in my hand. There’s something reassuring about the weight of it. NYU is never going to happen, but throwing a few pictures together to appease Dad doesn’t seem like too difficult a task.

It’s weird, but I’ve never used it in New York. I never took it back with me during the summer break, which I suppose was because I didn’t really feel like looking too closely at the city. After Mum died, it seemed obscene that it could all look the same. The city’s apparent indifference to her absence was maddening, and I used to imagine myself installing commemorative plaques in all of her favourite places. I wanted everyone, even the people that had never met her, to remember that she was here. To know that she drank coffee in this bakery and graded essays on this bench and loved this one painting so much that she came to see it on the last Sunday of every month.

But I didn’t, obviously. I haven’t even commemorated her here, in my apartment. Caroline offered me some old photos to frame when I was moving in but I said no, I didn’t want any. I felt bad about it and I still do, but I won’t change my mind. I still haven’t figured out how to remember the good without immediately getting sucked down into the bad, and having pictures around – that would mean more remembering than I’m generally equipped to handle. Because it doesn’t ever hurt less, it turns out. Just less often.

I pack everything up again and slide the box back under my bed. The camera too. I don’t really feel like looking at it any more.

AUDREY

‘AND DID SHE SAY HOW LONG YOU’LL BE STAYING?’

‘Indefinitely, I guess.’

‘Right. When was the meeting?’

‘Wednesday. But she messaged to confirm it last night.’

‘Right,’ Marika says again, absently tapping a spoon against her yogurt bowl. ‘Okay.’

I take a tentative bite of my toast. It’s Friday morning, we’re in our sad little kitchen and this has been the best opportunity I’ll probably get to tell Marika that I won’t be leaving New York with her. I’m still not totally sure if she cares but we’ve spent a lot of time together this week. She even woke me up after I slept through my alarm this morning.

‘Well – good luck in London,’ I say, offering a smile. ‘I’m sure it’ll be amazing.’

‘I’m not going to London either,’ she replies. ‘And I thought I knew what it meant, but now I’m not sure.’

Then she abandons her bowl and spoon with a clatter and strides off. I hesitate for a second, then stuff the rest of the toast into my mouth and follow her down the hall. When I reach our room she’s in the process of getting undressed, peeling off her pyjama top and tossing it in the laundry hamper. Is she angry? Upset? I literally can’t tell.

‘So … are you staying in New York?’ I venture hesitantly. She nods, shimmying out of her jogging bottoms.

‘Yep. Imogene told me yesterday.’

‘Oh,’ I say, sinking down on the edge of my bed. Or bunk, rather – the room is so small that we practically sleep on top of each other. There’s also a chest of drawers, a full-length mirror and a paper screen in the corner, but Marika doesn’t bother to use that. In fact, all of the girls in the house seem pretty relaxed about nudity. It doesn’t bother me, but I can’t muster the same nonchalance. I was a late bloomer, my growth spurt preceding puberty by a full year – I can still remember tearfully begging my mum to buy me a padded bra after overhearing some particularly bitchy comments in a school changing room. It was a long time ago, I know, but I’ve never quite been able to shake off the way it made me feel.

I’m very aware that no one wants to hear the model talk about all of the times she didn’t feel pretty. I know that having a thin body is all too often treated like some kind of achievement in and of itself, but towering over all of the girls (and a lot of the boys) at school was miserable. After I shot up, I took to wearing the thinnest-soled shoes I could find and hunching into myself, standing with one knee bent, hip sagging. I was always ‘the tall girl’ as well as ‘the new girl’, and because I was quiet, people seemed to think that I was stuck-up. The thought of trying to court other people’s friendship was mortifying, so I just kept to myself until someone else made the effort to engage. Then I’d slowly assimilate into their group – trying to mould myself into the type of friend I thought they wanted, which I know sounds psychopathic. But everyone self-edits sometimes. I’ve seen so much of it here – jaded, languid girls transforming into Miss America the second they step foot into a casting.

Still, I feel a little distant from myself sometimes. I know that I’m just as much a person as anyone else – flaws, icks, fixations and all – but it doesn’t always feel that way. Maybe because no one else knows those things about me. No one really knows me, period, and sometimes when it’s late at night and I’m lying awake in my bed, I pretend otherwise. I imagine that there’s someone in my life who remembers my coffee order, my shoe size, my star sign. Someone who wants to hear about the shows that make me laugh, the books that make me cry and that one recurring dream where I’m trying to catch up to someone, someone important, only I can’t see their face and I can’t move fast enough to reach them. I try to run but it’s like wading through treacle, and when I call, they don’t hear me. I never get to them in time. I never find out who it is.

‘Sorry if it’s coming across like I’m annoyed about this,’ Marika says suddenly, tugging a T-shirt over her head before turning to look at me. ‘I’m not. I’m just trying to reconfigure things.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say quickly, startled out of my sad little reverie. ‘I mean – I don’t know what to make of it either.’

‘I’d assumed that Imogene had a specific job for me,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘One big enough to justify missing London. But now I’m not sure.’

‘She still might,’ I reply. ‘She kind of alluded to something like that.’

‘I wish she was going to be at the gala tonight.’ She sighs, putting her hands on her hips. ‘She’s definitely chattier about these things in a social setting.’

‘The gala?’ I echo, mystified. Marika’s gaze turns sharp. ‘The Waverly Gala. Don’t tell me you forgot.’

Oh God. I forgot.

‘You need a dress,’ Marika continues intently. ‘A gown, really. It’s black tie.’

‘I know,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ll swing by a department store once I’m done with shows.’

The Waverly Gala is a big deal – one of the last hurrahs of New York Fashion Week before everyone hops on a plane to London. In my defence, ours were last-minute invites. Imogene told us that there’s a handful every year, offered to agencies so they can ‘fill empty chairs with pretty faces’. We’re insanely lucky to be going, given how many important people will be there – Imogene’s only skipping it in favour of her sister’s thirtieth birthday, which I think says a lot about her.

Marika will fit right in, I’m sure. She’s only been modelling full-time for a year but she carries herself like she’s already a household name. I’ve seen people fall silent mid-sentence when she enters a room, abandoning conversations just to turn and stare. Plus, she works so hard. When I mentioned that Imogene pulled me up about my social media, she showed me all of the apps she uses to manage hers – apps plural, because there were about ten of them.

I might have been wrong, thinking that she didn’t like me. Maybe she’s just so focused on her career that everything in the periphery is blurred.

It doesn’t take long for me to get dressed. When I emerge from behind the screen, Marika is already shrugging on a dusky pink biker jacket that’s a lot cuter than my olive-green bomber, and we head out together. We’re walking in the same show this morning, sharing another ride. I hang back as she glides towards the kerb, marvelling at how even when hailing a cab, she looks impossibly graceful – neck swan-like, her outstretched arm angled like a dancer’s.

Imogene promised me that staying in New York was a good thing. I’m realising now that if Marika is staying too, it can’t mean anything else.

I feel lighter as a cab skids to a halt in front of us, buoyed by that thought.

EZRA

‘BABE, I DON’T UNDERSTAND YOU AT ALL.’

Mac sounds troubled by this. Seeing as we’ve known each other for less than a week, I’d argue that he needn’t be.

‘Like, you’re rich rich,’ he continues. ‘And don’t even attempt the “my parents are rich, not me” shtick, because that’s bullshit.’

‘Noted.’

‘So explain to me why you’re toting around dirty dishes for minimum wage? I need this job to live – what are you getting out of it?’

A good question. It warrants an honest answer, but I’m not sure what that answer is.

‘Structure, maybe?’ I venture.

Mac snorts. ‘I can think of better things to structure my life around than waiting tables.’

‘Fair point,’ I concede, stubbing the remnants of my cigarette against on the crate I’m sitting on. Mac is perched on another – we’re in the back alley behind the restaurant, and he’s chain-smoked three in the time it’s taken me to finish one. Mac’s deal is as follows – he’s nineteen, he’s been working in the restaurant for six months and he originally moved to New York to attend Juilliard, which he’s informed me is the best performing arts school in the world. The only hitch is that they won’t let him in – not yet, anyway. He recently applied to audition there for the second time, the tenacity of which is more impressive to me than getting in on the first attempt.

‘Romy’s girlfriend is your sister, right? What does she do?’

‘She’s an artist.’

‘Her and half this city. Specifically … ?’

‘Paintings. Oil portraits.’

‘She any good?’

‘Yeah,’ I say honestly. ‘Really good, actually.’

‘Why aren’t you doing something like that, then? Creatively fulfilling but low stakes.’

‘Please don’t labour under the assumption that I possess artistic talent.’

‘God – you know that you sound exactly like that dude from Pride and Prejudice when you say shit like that, right? That accent is something else.’

‘Something other than American, yeah.’

‘I bet girls love it. And boys. You dating anyone?’

‘No,’ I say simply.

‘That’s all I’m getting? Okay. A little mystery is cool.’

He stubs out his own cigarette and stands, then, running a hand over his tight, bleached curls. His tawny skin glows in the midday sun, his septum ring catching the light – Romy has cheerfully informed me that roughly three-quarters of the waiting staff here are in love with Mac, a fact that he seems all too aware of.

‘Hey – what are you doing tonight?’ he asks suddenly, turning back to me.

‘Nothing,’ I reply, realising too late that ‘nothing’ might be a commitment to ‘something’.

‘A friend of mine messaged me about a catering gig tonight,’ he tells me. ‘They’re looking for extra hands, if you wanted to tag along.’

‘Oh. Sure.’

‘You don’t sound sure.’

‘No, I’m up for it. I just thought you were going to suggest going out or something.’

‘There’s always a party afterward. We lift bottles, head back to someone’s apartment. And not that you need it, but these things are always cash in hand.’

‘It’s just holding trays, right?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t matter that I haven’t been doing this long?’

‘Probably not,’ Mac says after a beat. ‘But I’d lie, if they ask.’

The restaurant is half empty by the time that Mac and I get back from our break, and we set about clearing the post-brunch carnage. I’m tasked with hand-washing the delicate champagne flutes we serve mimosas in, their paper-thin edges smudged with expensive lipstick.

‘Looks like you made a friend.’

I glance up to see Romy leaning against the side of the sink.

‘Don’t you have work to do?’ I ask, carefully rinsing a soapy glass. ‘Potatoes to peel? Onions to chop?’

‘I’m the chef de cuisine, Ezra.’

‘Am I supposed to know what that means?’

‘It means that I’ve done my time peeling potatoes and chopping onions.’ She smiles. ‘You could, though.’

‘Sure thing. Let me just pop to culinary school for a year or so and then I’ll get right on that.’

‘You don’t need to go to culinary school to work in a kitchen. I sure didn’t. As long as you’re eager to learn and willing to work hard—’

‘See, you lost me at “work hard”.’

‘You might be good at it.’

‘Nah. Thanks, but – I don’t think it’s for me.’

‘Then what is?’

‘When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know,’ I say – a little too curtly. Romy cocks her head and I drop the sponge in the sink, turning towards her.

‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, meeting her eye. ‘Just – my dad grilled me about doing fuck-all with my life yesterday. I’m still a little touchy about it, apparently.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No. Thank you, though.’

Romy nods. I’m grateful that she isn’t the type of person to offer vague, cheering platitudes like, you’ll land on your feet, or, I’m sure he means well. But she’s looking at me like there’s something else she wants to say.

‘What?’ I finally blurt out.

‘Nothing,’ she says smoothly. ‘You’ve got something on your face.’

And then she dips her hand into the washing up and claps a handful of suds into my face. I blink in disbelief, letting out a splutter of laughter as she saunters off.

I’m guessing that that was the point.

AUDREY

‘ARE YOU SICK?’

I start, glancing up – Marika is standing in front of me, hand on hip, face stony. I’m perched on the edge of a sink, phone in hand. I didn’t even notice her come in.

‘Sorry?’ I reply, startled. It’s a pretty blunt opener to a conversation, even for her.

‘I just can’t imagine why else you’d be holed up in the toilets,’ she says flatly. ‘Especially seeing as I personally know a dozen girls who would have killed to be invited here tonight.’

‘Well – I don’t feel great,’ I offer weakly. Marika scoffs, turning towards the mirrors and popping open the clasp on her bag.

‘I haven’t eaten refined sugar in a week, I’m averaging four hours of sleep a night and I’m pretty sure there’s blood in my shoes,’ she retorts. ‘Join the club.’

I open my mouth, but before I can even attempt a rebuttal a glamorous-looking attendee in a gold dress crashes through the door and stumbles into a stall, gagging. Marika and I both wince at the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting tile.

‘Are you okay?’ I call out tentatively. The reply, a muffled ‘Fuck off,’ is punctuated by more gagging.

I guess this kind of thing is inevitable at any event with multiple free bars. They cleared out an entire hotel for tonight, this incredible old building in the heart of the city, which we’re free to drift around as we please. It’s overwhelmingly beautiful, which is maybe why I’m a little overwhelmed.

‘Whatever,’ Marika mutters, leaning in to her reflection to touch up her lipstick. ‘I’m not here to give you a pep talk. I just think it’s really weird that you’re deliberately wasting this opportunity.’

‘I mean – I have tried,’ I point out. ‘We’ve been here for hours. I’ve talked to so many people – people I don’t even know—’

‘That’s the point, yeah.’

‘But it’s embarrassing! They’re all famous or important or way older than us.’

‘You’re a pretty girl, Audrey. People are inclined to like you before you even open your mouth.’

I pull a face, embarrassed. Marika shuts her bag with a snap.

‘Forget it, ’ she says. ‘Have you had a drink? Like, a drink drink?’

‘I’m eighteen. Don’t you have to be twenty-one to drink over here?’

‘Allegedly. Do you want a drink?’

‘Uh – sure.’

‘Right. Let’s go, then.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt out. ‘You’re always looking out for me and you totally don’t have to—’

‘I know,’ Marika says curtly. ‘But I’m not sure why I bother, because you clearly don’t care about any of this.’

‘I care,’ I reply, startled. ‘I totally care.’

‘Not enough to guarantee that you’re on time. To wear the right things. Talk to the right people—’

‘I’ve only been modelling for a few months!’

‘And yet you’re here in New York already,’ she says dryly. ‘Congratulations.’

That shuts me up. I drop my gaze, chastened, and Marika sighs and puts her bag down.

‘Listen – I’ve been doing this for almost two years, and this is my first Fashion Week outside of London – I have a lot to prove.’

‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m trying to prove things too. I deferred university for this. I don’t – it’s all I have, right now.’

‘I can understand that,’ she says after a beat. ‘I used to dance, before this. Ballet.’

‘Wow,’ I say, surprised. ‘You gave it up to model?’

‘When I was sixteen my bike got clipped by a car,’ she replies smoothly. ‘I got thrown and broke three bones. Important ones.’

I wince at the mental image. Marika attempts a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes.

‘Yeah, well – I was wearing a helmet, at least, which is why I’m stood here having this conversation with you. And people always told me that I should model, so I went down to bunch of agency offices as soon as I got the casts off. Seeing as I sacrificed everything for dance, I figured the only way through it was to throw myself into something else with the same level of commitment.’

‘And … are you happy?’ I venture. ‘Now, I mean? Modelling?’

‘Yeah,’ she says, after pausing for a moment. ‘There are a lot of similar aspects, actually. Good ones. Not just the racism and the body-shaming.’

She turns to look at me then, gaze intent.

‘You can see why I’m a little touchy about you treating this like some huge obligation, right?’

‘I can,’ I tell her seriously. ‘You’re right. It’s immature, and – and I’m sorry. For me and for – for all of it.’

‘Forget it,’ she says briskly, smoothing her hair. ‘Let’s go. Drinks.’

And as if on cue, the girl in the stall retches again.

‘A drink, then,’ Marika deadpans. ‘Singular.’

The ballroom seems a little darker when we return, bodies tangling together under the low light of the chandeliers. I notice eyes swivel to track our path – specifically Marika’s. She’s literally glowing in a white silk gown that dips low in the back, its long skirt fluttering behind her. My own dress is more restrictive, a shimmering column of midnight-blue sequins with a high neck and a slit up the leg. An especially lovely sales assistant found it for me in the clearance section after I breathlessly explained my situation, along with shoes and a bag and someone in the beauty department to do my make-up. And – it’s weird, but even though Mum and I have never bonded over dresses and make-up, there was something about the warmth of attention that made me miss her so badly that I got all choked up about it in the fitting room.

Anyway.

‘Could I get two glasses of Prosecco?’ Marika says, leaning against the glossy surface of the bar. The bartender nods, giving her this huge, goofy smile before turning away to fetch our drinks.

‘He’s cute,’ I offer. I think that Marika and I might be friends now, and this is what friends do. But she glances back at him as if she hadn’t even noticed, her expression perfectly blank. I guess it tracks that romance wouldn’t so much as resemble a priority in her eyes.

‘Hey – Marika!’

We both turn to see a girl in a floaty black dress with a shaved head and huge eyes approaching us. I’ve seen her at castings and shows but never met her – her name is Lola, I think. Or Lily?

‘Lila.’ Marika smiles. ‘Hi. I didn’t know you were here tonight.’

‘Same!’ she enthuses, her voice a soft Scottish burr. ‘How are you?’

‘Good, yeah. This is my roommate, Audrey. Audrey, Lila. We know each other from London.’

‘It’s nice to meet you.’ I smile.

‘Oh, you’re the other girl they chose! Congratulations, both of you!’

‘For what?’ I ask without thinking, wondering if she’s confused me for someone else. Her smile falters.

‘The campaign?’ she says hesitantly.

‘Oh, the campaign,’ Marika echoes. ‘Of course.’

‘So you do know!’ She laughs. ‘Phew! For a second I thought I’d totally put my foot in it!’

‘No, of course not. But nothing’s official yet, so …’ Marika raises a finger to her lips and Lila laughs, mirrors the gesture. I just stand there, utterly lost.

‘How did you find out?’ Marika continues, lowering her voice conspiratorially. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, that is?’

‘Oh, a friend of mine interns at Miranda Browning. She’s seen the concepts and it sounds amazing. I’d be too jealous to function if I hadn’t just booked an editorial that shoots in Bali.’

‘Bali, wow. Can’t wait to see it.’

‘Thank you! I’ll be seeing you guys around, then?’

‘Definitely,’ I manage. ‘Have a great night!’

‘You too!’ she says, winking at Marika before bouncing away. I turn to her, incredulous.

‘What just happened?’

‘What happened is I’m excellent at bluffing,’ she says quietly. ‘Holy shit.’

‘She said campaign. Like an advertising campaign?’

‘Yep,’ Marika says, handing me my glass – they apparently materialised while we were distracted. ‘She also said Miranda Browning.’

I take it from her with both hands, feeling dizzy. Even Marika looks a little stunned, eyes wide and glassy.

Deep down, a part of me was really scared that I might fizzle out after Fashion Week. That I wouldn’t book any jobs, and everyone would slowly realise what a waste of time and money it was to take me on. But an advertising campaign with Miranda Browning – God, I could literally throw my arms out and twirl across this ballroom like Julie Andrews. I’m that sincerely, stupidly thrilled. But all I can think to say is:

‘We’re going to be in magazines.’

‘Yep,’ Marika says. Then she takes a sip of her drink – or at least I think she does. Maybe she’s just trying to hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, threatening to betray that she’s just as wildly, painfully ecstatic as me.

EZRA

IT’S HER. HOLY SHIT, IT’S HER.

‘What are you staring at?’ Mac asks, sidling up beside me. I quickly avert my eyes – not quickly enough, apparently. His face splits into a grin.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Sequins or silk?’

‘Sequins. I mean – her name is Audrey.’

‘No way. You know her?’

‘Barely,’ I say, glancing sideways to check she’s still there. ‘We met at the restaurant. She’s a model.’

‘That makes sense. She—’

‘She’s tall and has a perfect face, yes. I’m aware.’

‘Babe, you’re rattled!’ Mac laughs, looking absolutely delighted. ‘Is this a crush?’

‘Fuck off,’ I say hotly. ‘I just didn’t expect to see her again.’

I’d hoped, though, and pretty desperately at that. Imagined scenarios where we bumped into each other again – maybe at the restaurant, but ideally somewhere more neutral, like a coffee shop. Definitely not at some fancy event where she’s dressed like a goddess and I’m the guy doling out canapés. God, this is humiliating. And what happens if I bowl right up to her and she doesn’t even remember me? Or worse – she does remember but pretends not to? I might self-combust.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mac prompts, nudging me. ‘Get on over there.’

‘And say what? “Bruschetta”?’

‘As ice-breakers go, it’s not the worst you could do.’

‘Forget it.’

‘No – here,’ Mac says, taking my tray from me. I watch as he tips the remaining food on to his own and stacks the two.

‘Voilà. You’re free to go.’ He smiles.

I eye the tray, unconvinced. ‘That’s an allergen clusterfuck now. Mine were gluten-free.’

‘Babe. Stop stalling.’

‘I’m not, I just – it’s too weird,’ I say decisively. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why? She already knows you’re a server. And if she blows you off because of it, bullet dodged. What have you got to lose?’

‘This job?’

‘Oh no, this job!’ He gasps, eyes wide with mock horror. ‘This shitty, one-time job that’s practically over already! How will you support your wife and children?’

‘Very good. Have you ever considered acting?’

‘Ha ha. If you don’t go over there, I will.’

‘No!’ I say quickly. ‘No, just – I need a moment. I need a cigarette.’

‘Okay, that’ll lose you the job,’ Mac begins, but I’m already walking away. Call it self-preservation, call it nicotine dependency – next thing I know I’m blowing smoke out a window in the staff toilets, regretting just about every life choice I’ve made leading up to this moment.

I feel stupid. I look stupid, clad in the stupid shiny waistcoat and bow tie that the servers have to wear. Speaking of which, I hate being a server. It’s worse here than in the restaurant. The people are drunker, louder, ruder – I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve had fingers snapped in my face tonight. Plus, the ones that do deign to speak usually do so to comment on my height, sometimes with a very real undertone of aggression. Literally – multiple guys have glared up at me like I’m being tall on purpose, purely to fuck with them. Also, this one woman got uncomfortably touchy-feely with me, squeezing my (admittedly pathetic) bicep as she leant forward to take something from the tray.

No wonder Mac gave me grief for treating a job like some kind of hobby, especially when I can bail at any time. I’ve only been doing this for a week and already I feel thoroughly demoralised, so much so that I’m apparently willing to throw away a pretty stunning second chance. I think I’ve been subconsciously looking for Audrey ever since I realised that this was some kind of fashion event, but the odds of her being here are ridiculous. And what if Mac hadn’t asked me to work this gig with him? What if I hadn’t said yes?

I don’t believe in fate, though I get why some people do. The idea that even the worst parts of life are divined by some grand, cosmic plan is reassuring. The reality of it being a sum of choices, most of which we don’t even know we’re making – it’s terrifying. Especially to people like me who neither like nor trust themselves.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how I might have sidestepped every bad thing that’s ever happened to me with a different decision. But what if I’m about to sidestep something good?

‘Hey,’ I say breathlessly, appearing behind Mac. ‘Sorry. You were right, I’m an idiot.’

He turns to look at me. The crowds are slightly sparser; I rushed back but it looks like things have continued to wind down in my absence. Mac told me that they usually send the servers home early at these things – beyond a certain point, everyone except the bartenders and cleaning crew become surplus to requirement.

‘I’m always right,’ Mac says matter-of-factly. ‘You’re too late, though. They left.’

My stomach drops – literally, and I abruptly feel like I might vomit all over the gleaming parquet floor.

‘That’s the bad news,’ Mac continues. ‘The good news is that I invited her and her friend to the afterparty.’

‘You – for real?’ I say, unsure if he’s fucking with me. He’d better not be – I might try and strangle him with his little bow tie, otherwise.

‘You’d choked and they were leaving.’ He shrugs. ‘I stepped up.’

‘And they’re coming? They said they’d come?’

‘I think so. Your girl gave me her handles so I could DM them the address. She’s sweet.’

‘I know,’ I say, my relief briefly eclipsed by a surge of jealousy. I’m aware that Mac is objectively cooler and better-looking than me, but that hasn’t mattered before now.

‘Her friend, less so,’ he continues, grinning. ‘I was into it.’

‘And did you mention me?’

‘Nah. I didn’t feel like explaining all that.’

‘When can we leave, then?’ I ask, glancing around. ‘Are we heading straight there?’

‘Well,’ Mac says. ‘That’s another thing. No one’s actually offered to host an afterparty yet, so I figured …’

He trails off. Realisation dawns, and suddenly bow-tie strangulation is back on the table.

‘No,’ I say. ‘No way.’

‘Ah, hear me out! One, you have your own place. Two, you’re not working tomorrow—’

‘It’s not happening.’

‘Three, you’re obviously obsessed with this girl—’

‘I don’t even know her—’

‘But you want to, right? And if you go now, you’ll have a head-start to get your place together. Get cups, ice, whatever – I’ll do the rest, don’t worry about it! And I’ll cover for you! There’s literally no downside to this.’

‘I can think of several,’ I retort, but his smile widens. I’ve clearly caved, and I’m not proud of how little persuading it took.

‘We’ll see. Your apartment is normal, right?’

‘Sure. Minimal taxidermy and just the one cursed painting.’

‘You’re literally my favourite person in the world right now,’ he says seriously, placing his free hand on my shoulder and gently steering me towards the exit. ‘You won’t regret this.’

I can tell that he believes that, at least. And in spite of knowing better, maybe I do too.

AUDREY

WE’RE IN THE BACK OF A CAB WHEN MY PHONE BUZZES.

‘It’s that guy from earlier,’ I tell Marika. ‘He’s sent the address to his party.’

‘Let me see,’ she replies, reaching for my phone. I lean over and watch as she taps on his profile. It’s a colourful mish-mash of food, local scenery and selfies. Reassuringly normal.

‘It’s not his party,’ she says, scrolling. ‘There’s no way this guy lives in Midtown.’

‘Maybe it’s a friend’s place,’ I offer.

Marika looks at me sideways, passing my phone back. ‘Did you fancy him? Is that why you want to go?’

‘No!’ I say hotly. ‘But he seemed nice, right?’

‘ “Seemed” being the operative word here.’

‘Okay, well – I won’t go if you don’t. I just thought it might be fun.’

‘You and I have different ideas of fun.’

‘Parties aren’t fun?’

‘Not house parties. They were tragic at school, they’re tragic now.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I admit.

‘You’ve never been to a house party?’

‘Well – one, actually. Once. It turned out weird. I kind of fell out with the girls that invited me, so …’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly, glancing out of the window. It’s embarrassing, talking to Marika about school. I don’t want her to know how crushingly unpopular I was.

The sixth-form college was the last school I ever joined. I was sixteen – my parents had agreed that we’d stay in the same place while I finished up my A-levels, and I was excited about the prospect of making some actual friends. There’d be other new kids, I figured, making me less of an anomaly. And for a while, everything actually went amazingly. I was partnered on an English Lit project with a pretty, syrupy-voiced girl called Becca, and she more or less adopted me. I started spending all my time with her gaggle of friends, who were, for lack of a better word, popular. I wish I’d been enlightened enough not to care about all that, but I wasn’t – I loved it. Because they’d deemed me worthy of attention, people started paying me attention. It changed everything. Suddenly I was striking and mysterious instead of gangly and awkward. Even the fact that my clothes were boring and I didn’t wear make-up was a bonus, because they loved to dress me up. And I wanted so badly for them to like me, even though they didn’t always seem to like each other that much.

I was stupidly excited when they invited me to that party. The house was big, the music was loud and I was wearing a borrowed, too-short dress that I felt ridiculously self-conscious in until I was about three drinks deep. That was around the time when a boy called Hugo from my biology class spoke to me for the first time – a big deal, seeing as I’d been nursing a crush on him since our very first lesson together, when he held the door open for me on my way in. We’d never spoken, but he sat a row in front of me and sometimes when I answered a question he would look over his shoulder at me and smile, and I’d feel myself melt into a puddle. ‘How come you’re so smart?’ he asked me that night. I don’t remember what I answered, but I do remember a curl of his soft, dark hair brushing my forehead when he leant in to kiss me.

It wasn’t my first kiss. There’d been other schools, other boys, other crushes. If a class was particularly boring, I’d sometimes pick someone within my eyeline and just decide that I liked them. Every so often they’d reciprocate, and I remember those interludes as stilted but sweet, nervous, pursed-lip pecks and scribbled love notes passed between sticky hands. Things evolved as I got older and the general enthusiasm for that kind of thing grew, but it never stopped feeling at least a little bit performative until Hugo. It was the first time I’d ever felt eclipsed by the enormity of my own desire, self-preservation slipping through my fingers as easily as silk.

He asked me if I wanted to find an empty room, and I did. He asked me if it was okay if we sat on the bed, and it was. And it was okay when his lips met mine, my dress riding up as we sank down on to the mattress – better than okay, it was good, and we only stopped because I somehow felt like I should want to. Everything was happening so fast, I explained, and he nodded and smiled and asked if I wanted a drink of water. I said yes, and as soon as he was gone, I started smiling so hard I thought my face might break, because in that moment my life was so, so beautiful. The boy I liked liked me, and he was kind, and he was handsome, and we were going to be boyfriend and girlfriend and spend the rest of the school year arm-and-arm in hallways, at parties, on weekends …

Except we weren’t, obviously. It quickly transpired that one of my new ‘friends’ had staked a prior claim on Hugo’s heart, and the fallout commenced that very night.

It was so awful that I still feel sick just remembering it, and though I tried to apologise, they either didn’t believe that I hadn’t known or they didn’t want to – given the dramatic mileage they got out of hating me, I’m inclined to think the latter. Either way, I was persona non grata for the rest of my academic life, spending the majority of that year in the library. Hence my near-perfect grades – so, silver linings, I guess.

I don’t know if Hugo ever looked at me in class again. I stopped answering questions and kept my eyes on my work.

‘Can you wait here for us?’ Marika says, and I snap back to attention to see her leaning towards the driver and handing him a neatly folded note. ‘We’ll be five minutes, tops.’

‘Will we?’ I ask, startled. We’re back at our apartment already – I hadn’t even realised.

‘Well, yeah,’ Marika says matter-of-factly. ‘If we’re going to a party then we need to change. I’m not about to let some drunken moron spill beer down this dress.’

‘You want to go? Really?’

‘It might be fun.’ She shrugs. ‘Probably not, but …’

‘Thank you.’ I smile, and she waves her hand like it’s nothing. It’s not, though. We both know that it’s not.

The address is a neat, red-brick building, probably old and definitely fancy. By the time we reach the apartment door I feel a little lightheaded, either from nerves or the four flights of stairs we had to scale to get here. Doubt is creeping in now. I can hear music coming from inside – voices, laughter. What if I feel like just as much of an impostor in there as I did in that ballroom?

‘You good?’ Marika asks, and I nod stiffly. Too late to back out now.

She raps on the door, three sharp knocks. I straighten, wishing I looked even half as cool as she does right now in her tight, flared jeans and retro-cool halter top, hair brushing the small of her back. My black dress feels pretty drab by comparison, but there’s no point agonising over it now. Instead, I attempt some positive visualisation. This is going to be fun, I decide. I’m going to have a good time. I’m going to meet new people—

And then the door swings open and my mind goes completely blank. It only takes me a second to place the familiar face in front of me, but when I do, no words come. What’s there to say?

‘Hey,’ the waiter says. I just stare, briefly meeting his gaze as his eyes flit between us. I can’t tell if he’s recognised me or not because his expression doesn’t flicker. But it’s him. Ezra. I’m almost totally sure that it’s him.

‘Hey. I’m Marika, this is Audrey,’ Marika says, oblivious to my mental turmoil. ‘Your friend Mac invited us.’

‘Mac, right. I’m Ezra. Uh – come on in.’

We step inside. It is him. That’s what the chef called him. God, this is so weird, made weirder by the fact that he apparently doesn’t remember me. I have to say something—

‘Hey, you two made it!’

I turn, and despite having met him approximately one hour ago I feel a strange surge of relief at Mac’s approach. He’s grinning in a pair of loose black overalls, a tangle of silver necklaces at his throat.

‘You sound surprised,’ Marika replies.

‘I thought you might have something better to be doing – I guess not. Lucky us.’

‘Well, the night is young,’ she says coolly. ‘We’ll see.’

Mac’s smile widens. They’re the same height and he holds her gaze steadily, head cocked as though there’s an unspoken challenge between them. It might not be an unwelcome one, either.

‘You can’t go,’ he says, still grinning. ‘Whoever brought speakers is using them to hold us hostage to this godawful playlist. I need help staging a hostile takeover.’

Marika glances at me, a silent you good? I reply with a tiny nod, seeing as there’s no way to silently communicate that the stranger she’s about to leave me with isn’t actually a stranger.

‘Fine,’ she says, eyes cutting back to Mac. ‘If only because I have excellent taste.’

He laughs and offers his hand. She ignores it but follows him anyway, and Ezra and I watch as they slip out of sight. A beat of silence, then – ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I must be making a horrible second impression.’

‘I – you do remember me, then!’ I splutter, turning to look at him. Or up at him, specifically. Without my heels he’s a full head taller than me.

‘Yes,’ he says, a grimace tugging at his mouth. ‘There was a very limited window to say something before it got weird. I missed it, obviously.’

‘But you didn’t even look surprised,’ I manage. ‘I mean – this is such an insane coincidence.’

‘Yes and no. I mean – it was when I saw you at the gala thing—’

‘You were there?’

‘Yeah, uh – I was working it. I saw you at the bar just before you left – I wanted to say hi but it felt weird.’

‘Weirder than this?’

‘No. I can’t imagine anything feeling weirder than this.’

‘So … Mac. Did you ask him to invite us here?’ I ask, confused.

‘No! I mean – I told him I knew you but I didn’t ask him to do anything.’

‘And you didn’t know that I was going to be there? At the gala?’

‘I – no. I swear to God, I’m not stalking you.’

‘I actually have no reason to believe that,’ I point out – half-joking, but he looks stricken.

‘I know.’ He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Just – in my defence, you looked like a celebrity and I was wearing a sweat-stained waistcoat. And not even my sweat, so – just an extra dimension of gross there.’

The tips of his ears are pink, I notice – he’s genuinely flustered. And so am I, but more so by his justification. The initial shock is wearing off, and I’m borderline giddy about seeing him again. I’d imagined it, hoped for it – even considered dropping by the restaurant under some made up pretence, like a lost earring. But I couldn’t get past how pathetic that felt, given the very real possibility that he’d forgotten about my existence the moment I left his line of sight.

‘You must think I’m pretty superficial,’ I tell him, attempting to play it cool.

‘No, uh – I just happen to have a very fragile ego. Huge, but fragile.’

I laugh, and notice his shoulders sag ever so slightly. Is he relieved that I haven’t run away screaming? Should I have? This is a very chaotic scenario, and Mac definitely could have spared a minute to outline exactly why he was inviting us to this party. Then again, it probably would have taken longer than a minute – maybe he didn’t want to hinder his odds of seeing Marika again.

In any case, I’m here now. And in spite of the weirdness, I don’t want to leave.

‘Drink,’ Ezra says suddenly, his eyes lighting up like he’s just solved an equation. ‘I mean – would you want a drink? Can I get you one?’

‘A drink sounds good,’ I say, and he smiles, obviously relieved by the diversion as we move towards the kitchen area, where a truly staggering amount of alcohol occupies a marble island. Speaking of which – this apartment is really nice. The ceiling is high, the floors dark, glossy hardwood. It’s old, probably pre-war but open-plan, a hallway leading out of the kitchen/living area. There’s not much in the way of decoration, though. Just a lone, half-dead plant and a few stacks of books, piled haphazardly against the walls. I want to look at the titles, if I get a chance. Then maybe snoop around to try and deduce exactly how someone who works in a restaurant could afford to live here.

‘What can I get you?’ he asks.

‘Uh, Prosecco?’ I venture. Ezra nods, and I watch him as he deftly selects a bottle, pouring with a steady hand. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and faded jeans, damp hair tucked behind his ears. He must have showered sometime before we got here and he smells like shampoo – it’s weirdly intoxicating. God – get a grip, Audrey.

He pushes a cup towards me. I take a small sip. It’s a little sour but I take another, hoping it’ll steady me.

‘So,’ Ezra says, watching me over the rim of his own drink. ‘Do you want to tell me again how modelling isn’t glamorous?’

‘Oh.’ I smile, remembering. ‘I’ve lost ground on that argument, haven’t I?’

‘A little. Any more black-tie events in the diary this week?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘All right. Good to know.’

‘Is it?’

‘Depends. When are you leaving the city?’

‘Um – not as soon as I thought, actually. Probably not for another week or so.’

‘Let me know if you want to hang out, then. I’ve been told I’m an excellent tour guide.’

‘Really?’

‘No. Want to hang out anyway?’

I laugh, feeling slightly hysterical. He’s just so … I don’t even know. Is there a word for feeling like you might have made someone up?

‘Yeah,’ I manage. ‘I mean – sure. Let’s do it.’

‘Cool.’ He grins. ‘Should we toast, then? To me overcoming social ineptitude?’

‘Surely we should toast to cosmic intervention?’ I point out. ‘This is a big city. The odds of us crossing paths again were ridiculous.’

‘You believe in stuff like that?’

‘You don’t?’

‘Nope. But Bigfoot is real, and I’ll die on that hill.’

‘What about manifesting?’

‘Manifesting. See, I’ve heard of that …’

‘Thinking about the things you want until they come true, basically.’

‘Did you manifest all of this, then? Is that why you’re always in a sparkly dress and I’m always holding a tray?’

‘Wow. There’s that ego again.’

He laughs, throwing his head back. I made him laugh, and it’s such a good feeling that I have to take another sip of my drink to hide the big, stupid smile threatening to overtake my face. I’m usually so weird and stilted with people I don’t know – I can barely manage small talk, let alone witty repartee. But the same thing happened the night we met – it was like I was talking to someone I’d known all my life. And I really, truly cannot get over the odds of us meeting again.

I’m suddenly gripped by this overwhelming sense of significance. Like somehow, this night was always going to end with him.

‘How about we toast to hanging out?’ I say then, straightening slightly. ‘Normal, non-cosmic plans. No sparkles.’

‘Sparkle-free zone.’ He smiles, knocking his cup against mine. And there’s just something about the way he’s looking at me all of a sudden – I feel my cheeks heat, dropping my gaze as I drain the remnants of my drink.

I think I liked it better when he was the flustered one.

EZRA
hey audrey, it’s ezra. i was wondering if you’re free this weekend. if you are, then

No. Too formal and weird. I delete what I’ve written and start over.

hi audrey, ezra here. it was really great to see you last

God, no. I try again.

morning. what are your feelings about food, and potentially eating some with me? me being ezra.

Fuck it, I think, and hit send before I lose my nerve. Then I tuck my phone into my jeans and get back to cleaning.

When I woke up this morning my apartment was littered with trash, every flat surface was sticky and someone had puked in the kitchen sink. And yet, I’m pretty damn chipper. Last night was better than I had any reasonable hope to expect and it ended with Audrey’s name at the very top of my phone contacts.

We talked all night – or for as long as she was there, at least, which was nowhere near as long as I would have liked. And she is, for lack of a better word, lovely. I don’t even remember the bulk of what was said, just how easy it was. It felt like the verbal equivalent of a Fred and Ginger routine – that’s how in sync we were.

Still, I’m trying not to overthink it, hence the energy I’m devoting to wiping down these countertops. Audrey might not reply right away, if at all. She’s busy, I figure, and—

Then my phone buzzes in my pocket and I scramble for it so quickly that I almost drop it.

Positive :) Are you free now?

I grin, dropping the sponge and wiping my hands on my jeans. Sod the countertops. I’m getting brunch.

‘This is so good. Oh my God.’

‘You like it?’

‘Yes! God – I can’t believe I used to think that goat’s cheese was gross.’

‘Accepting past mistakes is an important step toward personal growth.’

Audrey takes another bite of her bagel in lieu of reply, holding it with both hands like she’s scared someone might take it away. Maybe she’s all too aware that I ate mine in about six bites, though in fairness, it was very fucking good.

We’re at this record-shop/deli/coffee place downtown, one of Caroline’s favourite haunts. It’s too far out of the way for me to come here often but I wanted to dazzle Audrey with my urbanite know-how by taking her somewhere cool. I doubt it’s worked but she seems happy. I know I am, sitting opposite her at a wobbly metal table on the pavement outside. I’m still grappling with how surreal this all is, actually. Last night feels like a dream – I still don’t believe in cosmic whatever, but there was a definite vibe of unreality that I haven’t quite shaken off. Of course, that fact that she looks like she does isn’t helping. It’s a clear, blue-skied morning, and in the daylight, I can see her smattering of freckles, the coppery tint to her dark hair. She’s probably noticing how unkempt my eyebrows are.

‘There’s goat’s cheese gnocchi on the menu at your restaurant,’ she says then, delicately dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘I really wanted to try it.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Well, everyone else had ordered salad, so …’

‘Oh, you were the salad table! I cleared your plates!’

‘The salad table?’

‘Uh-huh. The kitchen loved you. Easiest service of the night.’

‘Good to know.’

‘Sorry.’ I grin. ‘Come back sometime and Romy’ll make you that gnocchi. Extra cheese and everything.’

‘Romy – is she the chef I met?’

‘Uh-huh. And my sister’s girlfriend.’

‘Oh, you have a sister?’

‘Two. How about you?’

‘Just me,’ she says – a little sadly, maybe? I don’t know her well enough to tell, yet.

‘Must have been quiet.’

‘Uh-huh. Apart from all the construction noise.’

‘The what?’

‘My parents fix up houses. It’s their thing.’

‘Oh, that’s cool. Like a hobby, or … ?’

‘Like a job.’ She shrugs, looking embarrassed. ‘We live in them while they renovate. I know it’s weird.’

‘They were probably around a lot, at least.’

‘Sure. I’d have rather had sisters, though.’

‘Take mine.’

She smiles, but I think this conversation might have gotten too personal too soon. I mentally fumble for a segue.

‘Do you like the city?’ I manage – clunky but salvageable.

‘Oh, totally. I haven’t done anything touristy, though.’

‘Maybe we can see if they have bagels at the Empire State Building, next time.’

‘Is it worth it? The view?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never been.’

‘Seriously? How long have you lived here?’

‘Uh – on and off, like … ten years, almost?’

‘On and off?’

‘Yeah. We moved here when I was, like, seven. I did boarding school for a bit, though, and that was back in England. Now I’m here again.’

‘Really? I used to be desperate to go to boarding school!’ she gasps, eyes wide. ‘I always pictured myself in this huge, beautiful library, working at one of those big long desks while it got all pink and dusky outside.’

‘Wow. That’s an extremely nerdy fantasy.’

‘You’re the one who actually went!’

‘Not by choice.’

Her expression shifts then, her brow creasing. ‘Oh. Really?’

Ah. We’re getting too deep again, only this time I’m the one in the emotional firing line.

‘It’s not much of a story,’ I say. ‘I skipped school a few times. Too many, it turned out.’

‘So … you got sent away?’

‘It sounds very Dickensian, when you put it like that.’

‘Sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘I wasn’t trying to sound judgy. I mean – it’s not as if my parents are so perfect. They can’t always find the kind of project they want in the same area so we move a lot. I used to think I was fine with it, but I don’t know any more. Maybe not.’

‘Are you still living with them?’

‘I guess so,’ she says after a beat. ‘Maybe I’ll move out permanently if the whole modelling thing works out.’

‘But it’s going well so far, right? I mean – you’re here.’

‘I think so. The whole thing just kind of … happened. But I care about doing a good job, even if it’s only for a little while.’

‘That’s cool. Cool to have something you care about.’

Audrey doesn’t reply to that – she’s looking at her phone, frowning at the screen.

‘Um … sorry,’ she says haltingly. ‘I just got a message from Marika.’

Marika, her friend from last night who spent a good chunk of the evening eyeing me suspiciously. I liked her.

‘Everything okay?’

‘No. I mean – yes, but I have to go,’ she says, glancing up at me with big, stricken eyes. ‘Our agent wants to see us, apparently – last minute. I’m sorry, I—’

‘No worries. Where’s the meeting?’

‘Her office. It’s close to Madison Square Park – is that nearby?’

‘It’s walkable. You know the address?’

‘Uh-huh. I mean – I’ll recognise the building when I see it. I’m not great with orientation, but …’

‘Want me to come with?’

‘Would you? I mean – you don’t have to.’

‘I’d like to,’ I say honestly. She smiles, obviously relieved.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘This is so annoying. And you’re being so cool about it, which – thank you.’

‘Were you expecting me to flip a table or something?’

‘You could reasonably be annoyed!’ she laughs.

‘You followed through on the plans,’ I point out. ‘We’re just condensing them.’

‘You’re a secret optimist. Noted.’

‘Open misanthrope, actually. Maybe jot that down somewhere so you don’t forget.’

‘Mm-hm,’ she says, still smiling. I feel the corners of my own mouth twitching to echo it and have to look away, up at the cloudless sky.

AUDREY

‘SO?’ IMOGENE PROMPTS.

‘I don’t even know what to say,’ Marika tells her, voice wavering. ‘This is incredible.’

God, she’s good. If she ever gets bored of modelling then she could definitely be an actor.

‘It’s amazing,’ I say sincerely. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

‘Well, you won’t be waiting long!’ Imogene beams. ‘All the creative legwork has been done. Telling you two was more or less the last step.’

Turns out that the emergency meeting was almost worth having to abandon the nicest morning I’ve had in ages. Lila was right. The Miranda Browning campaign is happening. Marika and I are featuring in it. It’s all real.

‘Do we know who the photographer will be?’ Marika asks.

‘Yes, and it’s a great choice – Julian Mars. He’s an up-and-comer so you may not have heard the name.’

‘I know him,’ Marika says. ‘He was shooting backstage at Miranda’s show.’

I blink at her, surprised. If she’s talking about the messy-haired guy who was taking pictures of us then he’s pretty young to be helming such a huge campaign. He didn’t look that much older than us – mid-twenties, maybe?

‘That’s him!’ Imogene enthuses. ‘What Julian does … it’s super-organic. Vibrant, but gritty.’

‘Sounds cool.’ I smile.

‘Very.’ She beams back. ‘This campaign marks a step in a newer, younger direction. And he wants to shoot the two of you beforehand.’

‘Together?’

‘Individually. To get a sense of how you work independent of each other.’

‘But it’s not a casting, right?’ Marika interjects.

‘No.’ Imogene laughs. ‘You’ve booked the job, but there is one more thing.’

Imogene looks to me, then, leaning forward.

‘Audrey – they love your look almost as much as I do. The brows, the freckles – it’s so fresh. The only slight issue is your hair.’

I force a smile, bracing myself. I’ve seen enough reruns of America’s Next Top Model to know what’s coming next.

‘The brown is gorgeous, obviously, but they want to amplify the contrast between your hair and Marika’s,’ she continues. ‘So – totally your choice, of course, but how would you feel about going blonde?’

Blonde. I falter, trying and failing to imagine what that would look like.

‘I know, it’s a big change,’ Imogene says gently. ‘You can take the day to think about it.’

Thinking about it won’t change the outcome, though. I know she said it’s my choice, but there’s no way that I can say no. I would risk losing a life-changing opportunity and being labelled ‘difficult’ in one fell swoop. My career would be over before it’s even begun.

‘Blonde sounds great,’ I manage. ‘I’m totally down for that.’

I can always dye it back, I reason. Besides, maybe it’ll be a whole new era for me – my own personal bleachella.

‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ Imogene smiles, already reaching for her phone. ‘I’ll make the appointment now.’

Marika and I leave not long afterwards. We’re silent in the elevator down to the lobby – the AVW offices are on the tenth floor of this beautiful, white-brick monolith, which is maybe part of why meetings there always feel so intense.

‘See you later, then,’ she says, slipping on her sunglasses the second that we’re outside.

‘Oh. You’re not coming back to the apartment?’

‘I have plans,’ she replies, already striding away.

I head off in the opposite direction, mentally kicking myself. All in all, the meeting only took twenty minutes. Maybe Ezra would have waited for me, if I’d asked. I check my phone on the off-chance that he’s messaged – he hasn’t, but there’s one from my mum. Ah. Given the drama of these past few days, it‘s been easy to ignore the fact that she’s long overdue a phone call. I just – I find it kind of hard to talk to her at the moment. Aside from all the questions that I don’t know how to answer, it has a tendency to make me feel like total shit.

I wait until I’m on a quieter street to dial her number, lingering under the shade of a tree. It rings three times, then—

‘Hi, Dree!’ Mum exclaims, and tears spring to my eyes without warning. I can picture her so clearly – she’s probably leaning against the kitchen counter right now, overall-clad, a cup of tea in hand. The tea is awful here. I’d tell her as much if I didn’t think she’d use it as yet another justification as to why I should fly home immediately.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I manage. ‘How are you?’

‘We’re great! Let me put you on speakerphone and get your dad.’

I glance upwards, blinking hard. There’s a brief, muffled exchange, before –

‘Hi, Bean!’

‘Hi, Dad!’ I say brightly, hoping he won’t notice the quiver in my voice. ‘How’s the house going?’

‘Well, the bathrooms are a nightmare. The damp is out of control – I’ve had to tear down half of the walls, and the pipes—’

‘She doesn’t want to hear you talk about plumbing!’ Mum cuts in. ‘When are you coming home, Dree?’

‘That’s actually why I’m calling – it’ll be later than we thought. I booked a job. A big one, so – yeah. Exciting.’

‘Oh,’ she says. That’s it – oh. That’s all I get.

‘What kind of job?’ Dad interjects. ‘I mean – it’s to do with clothes, I assume?’

‘It’s an advertisement campaign. For Miranda Browning.’

‘Ah. And she … makes clothes?’

‘Uh-huh. It’s a big brand. You might see me in a magazine.’

‘Wow.’ He laughs. ‘That’s great, Bean. You’ll let us know when that happens, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

A beat of silence follows. I’m all too aware that Mum is yet to elaborate on ‘oh’, so – ‘The shoot is going to be soon. I’m dyeing my hair for it.’

‘Your hair?’ Mum says abruptly. ‘Your hair is lovely the way it is.’

There we go.

‘It’ll look good. They know what they’re doing.’

‘Who’s they? Leanne?’

‘Imogene. But I’m sure Leanne knows—’

‘Don’t let them push you around, Audrey. It’s your hair and you get to decide what to do with it. No one else.’

‘I’m not,’ I say hotly. ‘I want to do this.’

‘How’s the apartment?’ Dad asks suddenly. ‘Have you made friends with the other girls?’

‘Yeah. They’re all really nice. So’s Imogene. You don’t have to worry about me.’

‘Of course we do,’ he says. ‘That’s our job.’

I can hear the smile in his voice and suddenly I can see him as clearly as I can Mum, paint-flecked and rumpled, shoulders stooped as he hunches over the phone, a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

‘I know,’ I say hoarsely, fighting a lump in my throat. ‘I’m sorry I’m bad at calling.’

‘We know that you’re busy. A text will do, Bean. Whenever you can, okay? It doesn’t matter what time.’

‘And you are looking after yourself, aren’t you?’ Mum adds, voice strained. ‘You’re being smart?’

‘… Yeah,’ I say, not sure what she means by that last part. ‘I’m good.’

‘Good. We love you, Dree,’ she says quietly.

‘Love you too,’ I blurt, and quickly end the call just as a tear spills down my cheek. I exhale, roughly wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Coming to New York by myself was by far the most adult thing I’ve ever done. Weird, then, that I’ve never felt like more of a kid.

EZRA

‘I DON’T BELIEVE YOU,’ CAROLINE SAYS, THROWING BACK THE door with a hand on her hip. ‘Who turns up to someone’s apartment unannounced in this day and age?’

‘Yet you don’t seem surprised to see me.’

‘I have a peephole.’

‘Oh. I didn’t think anyone actually used those.’

‘I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts.’

‘Fair enough. Can I come in?’

‘Seeing as you’re already here.’ She sighs, wiping her hands on her overalls. ‘I was in the middle of something.’

‘I can see that,’ I reply, approaching the easel in the living room. There’s a half-finished portrait of Romy propped up against it, all in shades of blue. ‘Looks good.’

‘I thought you were working today,’ she says, shutting the door.

‘Nope,’ I reply, flopping on to the sofa.

‘But you’ve booked next Friday off, right?’

‘My birthday.’ I suddenly remember. ‘Right.’

‘What do you want to do to celebrate?’ she asks, sinking into the armchair opposite. ‘A meal? It can be low-key.’

‘I haven’t celebrated a birthday in years,’ I remind her. ‘I’m good. It’s good. Let’s just leave it.’

‘Okay.’ She nods. ‘Take some time to think about it.’

‘I just said no.’

‘And I’m saying yes. What a conundrum.’

‘I’m starting to regret coming here, actually.’

‘And you’re about to regret it more.’ She grimaces. ‘I’ve got news.’

I bolt up in my seat, immediately alarmed.

‘Don’t freak out,’ Caroline says quickly, putting her hands up like I’m a spooked horse. ‘Everyone is fine. But I spoke to Maggie this morning—’

‘Is she okay?’

‘What did I literally just say?’

‘Okay, but can we skip the exposition and get to the point? You’re freaking me out.’

‘Fine.’ She sighs. ‘It’s Edie. She’s in New York.’

I stare at her blankly. Of all of the disastrous scenarios that my brain had so helpfully proffered, none involved Edie. Why would they?

‘Edie,’ I finally manage. ‘Like – Edie, Edie?’

‘Your Edie.’

‘She’s not my anything,’ I say quickly, getting to my feet. ‘And – that doesn’t make sense.’

‘She’s working as an intern for one of Maggie’s marketing friends. Maggie saw her last night, at this event—’

‘That’s ridiculous. How would she even know what she looks like? How would you?’

‘She was in basically every picture you sent me for three years, so …’

‘Oh, great. You showed them to Maggie as well as Dad. Now everyone knows my business and Dad’s on my back about fucking photography of all things—’

‘That’s not what we’re talking about,’ Caroline says curtly. ‘And don’t fucking swear at me.’

I screw my eyes shut, pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s a weird reflex I’ve somehow picked up – I do it when I’m stressed, angry, or both. So – often, basically.

‘Sorry,’ I say finally. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I just – I don’t know what to do with this.’

‘That’s okay,’ Caroline says after a beat. ‘Do you want a hug or something?’

‘A drink,’ I say weakly, sinking back into the sofa. ‘A drink, please.’

Edie, Edie, Edie. Before I decided that she was the love of my life, I knew Edie as the smartest person in our English class. Her defining traits were a semi-famous sister and long, ash-blonde hair that she wore in a braid every day until the grey January morning that she arrived back at school with it cut to her chin. Much later, she told me that it was because she’d watched The Royal Tenenbaums over Christmas break and developed an obsession with Gwyneth Paltrow’s character. She had the haircut and the stoicism down – the school dress-code forbade her from wearing a tennis dress and heavy eyeliner, but she could emulate Margot’s smoking habit, albeit furtively.

That’s where I came in. I used to stock up on cigarettes when I was back in the city, approaching college kids outside bodegas and letting them keep the change if they bought me a pack. Then at school I’d trade them for other contraband items, including books subversive enough to have been banned from the school library. I gave Edie four for her battered copy of We Need to Talk About Kevin. It would have warranted two, ordinarily, but she was pretty and I was predictable. And I liked how serious she was, how spiky. Every smile felt like something earnt.

She hated smoking, as it turned out. But she liked me, and that was the beginning. The end was just over four months ago.

‘Here,’ Caroline says, plonking a coffee down on the table before settling back into the armchair with one of her own. Not the kind of drink I’d had in mind, but I take it anyway.

‘Have you spoken to her at all?’ she asks. ‘Edie?’

‘Since she kerb-stomped my heart? No.’

‘I have to ask – she’s not stalking you, is she?’

I snort.

Caroline leans towards me, gaze intent. ‘I’m serious, Ezzy. There’s no way this is a coincidence.’

‘She’s here in spite of me, not because,’ I admit. ‘She used to talk about moving here, after school. I thought that that had more to do with me than the city, but –’

‘Oh, Ezzy.’

‘It was a fantasy,’ I say flatly. ‘Kid stuff.’

‘Well – not on her part, clearly,’ Caroline points out, grimacing slightly. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Suffer, I suppose. And request that you make this coffee Irish.’

‘How about lunch instead?’

‘I’m okay, thanks.’

‘Right, well – I hardly think that day-drinking is going to improve the situation. Especially not on an empty stomach.’

‘Better try it, just to be sure.’

‘Do it yourself, then.’ She sighs. ‘I’m going to put on a movie.’

‘Don’t you need to get back to painting?’

‘Later,’ she says, picking up the remote. So I get up, clutching my cup too tightly and marvelling at how badly this hurts. It’s unbelievable – just when I thought I’d gotten used to the Edie-shaped gap in my life, she reappears. I could turn a corner and run right into her.

I find the whisky without much fuss, top up my coffee and return to the sofa, balancing it on my chest as I incline my head towards the television. Caroline’s put When Harry Met Sally on – my favourite film, though I tell people that it’s Vertigo. She knows that.

‘Great choice,’ I say mildly. It’s the closest thing to a thank you that I can muster. Caroline just nods, eyes fixed on the screen – her version of you’re welcome.

AUDREY

‘I THINK I’M DYING,’ I GASP, DOUBLING OVER. ‘I CAN TASTE BLOOD.’

‘That’s because there’s pressure on your lungs right now. Your red blood cells are leaking into the air-sacs—’

‘Not helpful,’ I manage, fumbling for my bottle. Marika consults her phone as I gulp down water. She looks immaculate, of course, emanating health in a neon-blue unitard. I don’t think she’s even broken a sweat.

‘We’ve only gone a half-mile,’ she tells me. ‘When you said that you “literally never” exercise, I figured you were being hyperbolic.’

‘Then I wouldn’t have said “literally”.’

‘Noted.’

I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my hoodie, breathing raggedly. When Marika suggested a morning jog in Central Park, I was honestly just happy that she wanted to hang out with me. I did try and warn her that I’m not very fit but she waved it off – optimistically, it seems.

‘Can we walk after this?’ I plead. ‘Just for a little bit?’

‘Fine. But we’re doing this again tomorrow – your stamina is terrible. No wonder you nap all the time.’

‘What’s wrong with napping?’

‘Nothing, if you’re a toddler. Come on.’

And she’s off again. I suck in a breath, start shuffling after her down the wide, sun-dappled path – as gruelling as this outing has been, the beauty of the park isn’t lost on me. It’s too early in the year for autumn colour so the trees are a lush green canopy above our heads, the morning light filtering through the leaves. It’s hard to believe that all this nature can survive in a city so dense.

‘Do you do this at home?’ I ask, hoping that she’ll slow down if we’re talking. Mercifully, she does.

‘At a gym, yeah. There’s nowhere like this where I live. I’d just be breathing in exhaust fumes.’

‘In London, right?’

‘Uh-huh. With my parents.’

‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘I’d figured you lived with other models.’

‘Nope. No sense renting unless I have to. Not like here.’

‘… Here as in New York? Are you planning on staying longer?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. But we’ve only been here two weeks and we’ve booked a major campaign. You do the maths.’

‘But – it’s a whole other country.’

‘That’s not necessarily a negative. Besides, I’m sure you could come up with a few good reasons to stay. One in particular, maybe. A tall one.’

I blink at her.

‘With a crooked nose,’ she adds, smiling slightly as she jogs on.

‘His nose is not that crooked,’ I splutter, flustered. ‘And whatever you’re insinuating – it’s not like that.’

‘Mm-hm,’ she says, and I can tell that she doesn’t believe me. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have told her the story of how Ezra and I first met, or the series of events that led to us meeting again. It turned out to be really difficult to explain and I ended up rambling on about him for absolutely ages in the cab on our way back from the party. No wonder she read into it.

‘Besides,’ I add, attempting to sound self-righteous, ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

‘Says who?’

‘Well, there was the Patrick Bateman reference.’

‘That was really more about his apartment. You have to admit, it’s weirdly bare.’

‘Only because he hasn’t been in the city long.’

‘Or it’s usually covered in plastic sheeting …’

‘… You’re not really bolstering your argument here.’

‘It’s a joke.’ She smiles, nudging me slightly. ‘I don’t actually think he’s a serial killer.’

‘You told me that pepper spray is legal here. Twice.’

‘Well, that’s just worth knowing,’ she says airily. ‘Safety first and all that.’

‘What about you?’ I counter hastily, suddenly eager to move the conversation along. ‘You’ve made friends over here, right?’

She must have. She’s taken to disappearing for hours at a time with zero explanation, and always in a very cute outfit. Then again, Marika could make tracksuit bottoms and a flannel shirt look like haute couture.

‘Nice change of subject,’ she replies dryly.

‘I don’t have anything else to say about him! We’re hanging out. It’s nice. He’s nice.’

‘Were you with him yesterday?’

‘Yeah. I mean – we got breakfast, but I had to bail early for the meeting with Imogene. I haven’t heard from him since.’

‘Well, you left first. That means you should be the one to reach out.’

‘That’s what I thought!’ I exclaim, weirdly relieved. ‘I almost messaged but then I started to overthink what I’d written.’

‘Show me,’ she says, stopping dead and holding out her hand.

‘Uh – sure,’ I say, reaching for my phone. I hand it over and she studies the screen intently – the message I almost sent to Ezra is sitting at the bottom of our conversation, which I really hope Marika doesn’t scroll up and read – there’s nothing explicit, obviously, but I’d feel exposed all the same.

‘It’s a little wordy,’ she says finally. ‘Can I give it a go?’

‘… Okay.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she murmurs, tapping rapidly at the screen. ‘I’m good at this. Here.’

She hands it back. I read the new message, only to realise that she’s already sent it.

What are you doing tonight?

‘Marika!’ I splutter.

‘It’s better,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Trust me.’

‘What if he doesn’t reply?’ I ask, my chest knotting at the thought of it.

‘Then he’s an idiot. Bullet dodged.’

And before I even have time to process the nicest thing Marika has ever said to me, my phone buzzes. I blink at the screen in disbelief. He’s replied. He’s replied already, and –
whatever you want

‘Oh,’ I say. Marika peers over at the screen.

‘Not even a minute.’ She smiles. ‘You’re welcome. And you owe me a lap.’

Then she’s off again, ponytail swinging as she springs away. I stumble after her, wondering if my heart might now be pounding for an entirely different reason.

EZRA

‘YOU’RE SMILING ALL OF A SUDDEN. WHO ARE YOU TEXTING?’

I glance up. Caroline is sitting cross-legged in her armchair, eating a slice of cold pizza and eyeing me narrowly. I’m still on her sofa – I slept here last night, lulled by the drone of television and copious amounts of whisky. Romy had come and gone by the time I woke up this morning, deeply hungover and in a crushingly low mood. Up until about two minutes ago, that is.

‘Not Edie, if that’s what you were thinking.’

‘Who, then?’ Caroline presses – she slept in her bed, of course, and looks relatively fresh-faced in an oversized T-shirt that reads I TOLD YA in big black letters, strands of hair escaping a comically lopsided ponytail.

‘It doesn’t matter. Is there any more pizza?’

‘You’re deflecting,’ she says, sliding the box across the coffee table. ‘Is it a girl?’

‘Maybe,’ I say, sitting up to take a slice. I’m starving, I realise, tearing into it.

‘Not the model?’ Caroline presses, and I glance up. It’s eerie how easily she can read me sometimes.

‘Her name is Audrey,’ I reply, pausing to take another bite. ‘But – yeah.’

‘Seriously? How did you even find her?’

‘It’s a long story. I don’t feel like getting into it right now.’

‘Are you dating?’

‘Jesus, Caroline. We met, like, a week ago.’

‘Then it’s platonic?’

‘Why does it matter?’

‘I mean – it doesn’t, really, but the timing kind of sucks.’

‘Huh,’ I say, dropping my crust back in the box. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘No, you’re getting pissy.’ She sighs. ‘Forget it.’

‘I’m not pissy.’ I lie. ‘Just seems like you felt different a week ago, is all.’

‘Sure. But given the Edie of it all—’

‘Edie is irrelevant,’ I interject. ‘The geography might have changed but nothing else has. It’s over. Definitively.’

‘Okay, but like – are you over her? I mean – you found out she’s in the city and immediately got blackout drunk.’

‘That’s hardly a newsworthy event.’

‘Yeah, well – that’s a different conversation.’

‘So now I’ve got a drinking problem, too.’ I laugh. ‘Cool.’

‘All I’m asking is that you consider taking this slowly,’ Caroline says, straightening in her chair. ‘I’ve done the rebound thing myself, okay? I get it.’

‘It’s not a rebound,’ I say hotly. ‘Don’t project your shit on to me.’

‘Don’t be a little shit, then,’ she retorts. ‘If you really like this girl, it’s all the more reason to pump the brakes and give yourself time.’

‘God, why does it have to be so deep? I’m eighteen! If there was ever a time for dating around then surely it’s now?’

‘Aha!’ Caroline says triumphantly. ‘I knew you were dating!’

‘Hypothetically! And if we did then what’s the big deal?’

‘Because you’ll probably fuck it up. And I’m not saying that to be a bitch, okay? I just don’t want to see you get hurt.’

‘By hanging out with a girl who might actually like me?’

‘By hurting her, probably. You don’t exist in a vacuum, Ezzy.’

‘More’s the pity,’ I mutter, getting to my feet.

‘Oh, come on – will you sit down?’

‘Believe or not, I’ve actually got a lot to do today,’ I say, patting down my pockets in what I hope is a nonchalant way, ignoring the sickly cocktail of guilt and anger pooling in my stomach as I head for the door. ‘Thanks for the – for everything. See you later.’

‘For God’s sake – why is everyone in this family incapable of healthy communication?’ Caroline calls after me.

I don’t bother responding – why would I, when we both know the answer to that one?

Ten minutes and a cigarette later I’m pacing circles outside Caroline’s apartment building, agonising over whether or not I should head back up and apologise. I’ve calmed down enough to be embarrassed now – I could have easily shrugged her off instead of throwing a tantrum, and the fact that I didn’t is bothering me almost as much as the prospect of us being at odds with each other. Largely because I suspect it means she might be right.

The Edie thing isn’t as simple as she thinks, and it wasn’t fair of her to try and compare whatever’s happening (or not happening) between Audrey and I to the kind of shit that she used to get up to. Before she met Romy, Caroline pretty much sucked as a romantic partner – the messier the relationship, the longer it held her attention, so she’d do shit like tell a girl she loved her only to ghost a week later, then show back up on her doorstep after months of radio silence to try whisk her away on a minibreak to Montauk. Literally – she did that once, and when it transpired that said girl had moved on, Caro invited the new partner along (the answer was a resounding no, for the record, by means of a slammed door).

That was just a funny story at the time – one of many. I’m embarrassed to admit how long it took me to realise how carelessly Caro was treating herself, too, miring her life in drama and heartbreak just to feel something other than Mum’s absence.

But that’s not me – whatever my failings as a boyfriend were, they didn’t include commitment issues. I’m not trying to use Audrey to distract myself from Edie – how could I when they occupy such disparate spaces of my brain? And, honestly, fuck Caroline for implying that.

I let out a huff of breath, reaching for my phone to see if Audrey’s replied.

You’re the expert tour guide! Surprise me :)

It’s crazy, the way my mood lifts just reading that – I tap out a response in record time.

where should i meet you?

I hit send and start walking, suddenly desperate to get home. My apartment is a mess, I’m in dire need of a shower and now I have plans to plan – hangover be damned, I’m moving fast and feeling relatively clear-headed until I catch sight of a girl with short blonde hair and my stomach almost drops out of my body. Jesus. Now I know that Edie’s in the city I’ll be seeing her everywhere, consciously or otherwise. Whether I actually want to or not.

Okay- I may have to acknowledge that Caroline might not have been totally misguided in her interpretation of events. Take it slow, she kept saying, and in an ideal world, I would. But Caro doesn’t know that giving it time is a luxury that I don’t have. Audrey could disappear at a moment’s notice, jetting off to bigger things and better potential love interests.

That’s the other thing- smart as it may be to keep things platonic, I’m not sure that I’m capable of it. If she isn’t interested in me like that then it’s a non-issue, of course – I’m happy to be her friend, and God knows I could probably do with one too. But what if she is – what if I turn to look at her one day and see the things I feel reflected back at me? How could I ever turn away?

My phone buzzes, then. Audrey’s replied with an address – her address, which she apparently trusts me enough to give, and for a moment my heart is tangled between them – the spectre of Edie, the promise of Audrey. It doesn’t stop me from picking up the pace, feet moving faster as I propel myself towards more decisions I’ll almost inevitably regret.

AUDREY

I SCRUTINISE MY REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR, TUGGING AT THE hem of my jumper. It’s soft and grey and the nicest one I packed, which isn’t saying much. I also have no idea if it’ll be appropriate for where Ezra and I are going, seeing as I have no idea where that’ll be – I was trying to be cool and laid back by letting him surprise me, forgetting that I’m not and have never been a cool and laid back person. I wish Marika were here, if only to tell me to stop being so neurotic.

‘Audrey!’ someone calls up the stairs. ‘There’s a boy here! He says that he knows you!’

I stiffen, snapping back to reality. Ezra said he’d come at six and it’s only – ah. Where’s my phone?

‘Coming!’ I call back, tearing around my room like a hurricane. I finally discover it under my duvet and seize it, grabbing my bag and practically throwing myself down the stairs to the front door. Hari is standing there beside it, looking absolutely incredible in a black mesh bodysuit and silver jacket. She’s from Germany, lithe and athletic with cropped blonde hair and a tendency to fall asleep at castings. She’s also one of the few girls still living here after the others left for London.

‘I was leaving. He was outside,’ she tells me, gesturing at the door. It’s slightly ajar, held in place by a taut door chain. Through the gap I can see Ezra, who raises a hand in greeting.

‘He’s a friend,’ I say, feeling my face heat. ‘Sorry. I forgot to tell him that the bell was broken.’

‘Okay,’ she says simply, unclipping the chain and parting the door. She breezes past us – Ezra smiles crookedly, apparently unperturbed.

‘In fairness, I wouldn’t have let me in either,’ he says.

‘I’m so sorry. I lost track of time, and my phone—’

‘You’re good. I just got here.’

‘I’m going to choose to believe that.’ I smile, grateful for his easy, unassuming kindness as I step outside. The sun is just beginning to set, dark wisps of cloud trailing through the pink-hued sky as we start to walk. Ezra is wearing a check shirt and dark jeans, a backpack slung over his shoulder. None of it gives me a better idea of where we’re going.

‘You have two flatmates, then?’ he prompts. ‘Marika and …’

‘Hari. And Anja. There’s actually four of us right now.’

‘That place has four bedrooms?’

‘No, uh – we bunk up. It’s pretty standard for models who are starting out. Our agency owns the apartment and we pay them rent.’

‘Must be pretty reasonable, then?’

‘Well, New York is expensive.’

‘No, then.’

‘No.’ I smile. ‘It’s cheaper than a hotel, at least.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve also paid an eye-watering amount of money to share a room with a stranger. Or – my dad has, at least.”

‘Boarding school, right. You left this summer?’

‘To very little fanfare, yeah.’

‘And you didn’t want to go to uni?’

‘I didn’t really think about it. And my family is here, so …’

‘There’s universities here.’

‘Oh, are you one of those people?’ He grins. ‘You think I’ll be doomed to failure and obscurity if I don’t fork out for a degree?’

‘I don’t think any of that!’ I laugh. ‘Just – it’s meant to be a good life experience, right? And someone like you …’

‘My God, that’s loaded,’ he says, smile widening as he slows his pace. ‘Someone like me – who’s that, out of interest?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I say quickly. ‘I just meant – there’re a lot of books in your apartment, I noticed, and—’

‘My very large apartment in Midtown, yeah.’

‘Yeah,’ I manage feebly. ‘It’s nice.’

‘We don’t have to dance around it,’ he says easily. ‘My dad has a lot of money. He owns the place, among others. And if I wanted to dick around in academia for the rest of my life then he’d probably be happy to bankroll that. But I don’t. Not as of right now, anyway.’

I can’t tell if I’ve offended him. His tone is light; his expression hasn’t shifted. But his gaze is intent, like he’s trying to gauge my reaction.

‘I don’t either,’ I say. ‘I mean – I applied to a bunch of unis but only because that’s what everyone else was doing. I probably would have gone, but then the modelling thing happened, so …’

‘When was that?’

‘A few months ago.’

‘How’s life back home holding up in your absence?’

‘I don’t have a life,’ I say without thinking.

His eyebrows quirk upwards. ‘Metaphorically?’

‘Pretty literally,’ I admit, glancing away. ‘I think I told you that my family moved around a lot – it made it hard to keep a hold of things. And friends, I guess.’

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Their loss.’

He sounds so matter-of-fact, when he says that – so sincere, and it makes me feel like someone’s lit a sparkler in my chest.

‘You don’t know me well enough to say that,’ I remind him. He looks at me sideways, smiling crookedly.

‘Call it a hunch,’ he says. ‘Think you might want to put down some roots here, instead?’

‘In New York?’ I laugh.

‘Yeah! What’s funny about that?’

‘Just – it’s basically another planet.’ I smile. ‘Nothing that happens here feels real. I’ll be gone before I get used to it.’

‘You have a date for leaving yet?’

‘No. I guess it’ll be soon, though, so I probably shouldn’t get too attached.’

I regret those words the second they leave my mouth. They’re true, of course – I could leave any day, and there’s no guarantee that I’ll ever come back. But it sounds like a dismissal. Of this. Of him.

‘Sure,’ Ezra says after a beat. Then – ‘I haven’t told you where we’re going yet.’

‘Right,’ I say, slightly thrown by the abrupt change of subject. ‘I guess I didn’t ask.’

‘You didn’t.’ He nods. ‘But we’re at our first stop, so I can’t keep you in suspense much longer.’

He stops walking, and I follow the line of his gaze to …

‘A bodega?’

‘One of my favourites,’ he says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘We don’t live that far apart, actually. Here.’

He withdraws a small, crumpled wad of cash from inside, and hands it to me.

‘I thought we could have a picnic in Central Park. I’ve got a blanket and stuff,’ he says, patting his backpack. ‘But I didn’t know what you liked to eat so I figured I’d let you handle the food side of things.’

‘That’s so cool.’ I beam. ‘Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?’

‘Course not.’ He grins back, looking pleased. ‘And I’m asking you to do the shopping, so …’

‘With your money. Really, I don’t mind paying.’

‘We established the rich parent, I believe.’

‘Right – I guess you using a pack of cigarettes as a wallet threw me off a little.’

‘Wow. Are you wallet-shaming me?’

‘It’s not a wallet. That’s my point.’

‘All right, get in the bodega,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I won’t tolerate criticism.’

‘It’s really more of a comment,’ I protest, but he’s already guiding me inside. I let him, my stomach flipping pleasantly at the feeling of his warm hands on my shoulders. Oh no. I’ve been trying to ignore the inevitable, but …

God damn it.

I have a crush.

EZRA

‘DO YOU THINK WE GOT TOO MUCH FOOD?’ AUDREY ASKS, DIPPING a breadstick into hummus.

‘No such thing,’ I reply, producing my hip flask. ‘ Whisky?’

‘I’m good.’ She smiles, and I add a pour to my can of ginger beer, hoping that it’ll make me feel less violently self-conscious about the fact that this is a date in everything but name. I was trying to deliver something low-key, even a little touristy. But factor in one spectacular sunset and suddenly it’s the most romantic outing imaginable. The Pond is shimmering in the near distance and you can even see its storybook-looking bridge from here, the ends gently sloping into clusters of shrubbery – it’s almost sickeningly picturesque. And then there’s Audrey herself, who’s just so endlessly endearing. The gruff old guy behind the counter in the bodega was so thoroughly charmed by her that he gave us both a free cup of coffee, and she even managed to look all glowy and fresh under those harsh fluorescent lights, the kind that make normal people look like zombies.

I’m aware that it’s pathetic to be veering towards full-blown infatuation already, especially seeing as Audrey’s made it all too clear she won’t be sticking around much longer. I shouldn’t get attached, she said – about herself, but she may as well have been warning me off. All this supposes that she’s even attracted to me in the first place, though, a significant if—

‘Where do you get alcohol?’ she asks then, watching as I sip my drink. ‘You’re not old enough to buy it, right?’

‘Or cigarettes,’ I say, pausing to clear my throat. ‘But some places are a little less bothered about ID than others.’

‘You have to be twenty-one to buy cigarettes here?’

‘Yeah. You didn’t know that?’

‘Well, I don’t smoke, so …’

‘Right. Not unless I’m around to corrupt you.’

She smiles. ‘My lungs are in bad enough shape already. I went jogging with my roommate the other day and it almost killed me.’

‘Oh, I can’t even manage the stairwell in my building without getting wheezy. It’s a genuine problem – what if I have to do a big rom-com-style chase-down someday? I’ll be fucked.’

‘I’m sorry, rom-com chase-down?’

‘Yeah – the thing in romantic comedies where the main character runs to find the other main character and tell them that they love them.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever watched a film where that happened.’

‘Oh, come on! When Harry Met Sally? The Graduate? No? The Apartment?’

She shakes her head, apparently mystified.

‘13 Going On 30? The Holiday – God, I’m really exposing myself here.’

She’s looking at me blankly and I can’t help but grimace.

‘What?’ She laughs. ‘What’s that face for?’

‘I’m suddenly scared that you don’t care about movies,’ I confess. ‘I mean, it’s fine if you don’t. I think we can get past it. Probably.’

‘I like movies! Just not as much as you, clearly.’

‘Can we watch one together? Would you want to do that?’

‘Sure. Just don’t stare at me the whole time. I hate when people do that.’

‘Oh, to gauge your reaction? Or because you’re pretty?’

It just slips out – I barely realise what I’ve said until she chokes on a mouthful of kombucha, cheeks flooding with colour.

‘The first one, obviously,’ she manages, voice throaty. ‘Do you think I’m really full of myself or something?’

‘No, no!’ I say hastily. ‘Just – you are. Pretty, that is. You’re a model, so …’

‘For now.’ She nods, face pink. ‘It’s not – it’s not really about pretty, though. And it has an expiration date, so … that.’

‘Right. Because eighteen is practically decrepit.’

‘You’d be surprised.’ She smiles, gaze lowered. ‘Where are we watching this movie, then?’

‘Wherever.’ I grin, relieved I haven’t blown this just yet. ‘There was this retro cinema in the Village that showed old movies when I was a kid – I think it’s still open.’

‘That sounds cute. Did you go with your family?’

‘My mum. It was our thing.’

‘Not any more?’

‘No. She died a few years ago. It’s okay.’

I always say that last part reflexively. It’s not okay, but it’s okay that it has to come up in conversation sometimes. Audrey looks stricken all the same, dark eyes shining with pity.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, and I offer an approximation of a smile, bracing myself for follow-up questions.

‘And – your sisters,’ she says instead. ‘They’re both older?’

‘Uh – yeah. You don’t have any siblings, right?’

‘No. I wish I did, though.’

‘Right. I think you mentioned that moving around so much was lonely,’ I venture.

Audrey nods, then seems to falter for a moment.

‘I don’t actually get as lonely as I probably should.’ She says haltingly. ‘Maybe it’s subjective – everyone has a threshold and mine is higher than most.’

‘I’m guessing there’re other downsides, though.’

‘Oh, sure. Like – most people take a childhood home for granted. I know it’s a really privileged thing to complain about, but …’

‘No, I get it,’ I tell her. ‘Home for me was a brownstone in Greenwich Village. Dad sold it after I left for school – no one told me until I was heading back to New York for Christmas.’

‘No.’ She gasps, looking horrified. ‘You didn’t even get to say goodbye?’

‘Well – no, but I didn’t mean to hijack your story.’

‘That’s awful. What happened to all your stuff?’

‘Oh, I have a room at my Dad’s apartment. Or had, maybe – I don’t know if it’s still there. It’s not really the same, though.’

‘Exactly.’ She sighs. ‘My parents are so on at me about coming home and I just want to say, what home? Because it’s always just the latest house, which – that makes me sound like a total brat, actually. Sorry.’

‘Yes, you’re clearly very spoilt,’ I say wryly. She looks at me sideways, half-smiling.

‘I guess it’s not all bad,’ she says. ‘It’s prepared me for all this, in a way. This lifestyle.’

‘Living out of a case, you mean?’

‘Uh-huh. I always think I’d do well in an apocalyptic scenario. Fitting my worldly possessions into a trolley and all that.’

‘Like The Road. You’ve seen that one?’

‘Read it.’

‘Oh, she’s an intellectual.’

‘Mm-hm. I can write my own name, too. Count to ten and everything.’

I laugh, but there’s a note of panic in it that I hope she doesn’t detect. It’s weirdly thrilling when she teases me, but it also makes me worry that she sees more of me than she’s letting on. I honestly don’t know what I’d prefer – for her to think I’m this great guy or to know that I’m flimsy and pretentious but be here anyway.

‘I used to read a lot,’ she adds, meeting my eye. ‘Mainly because I spent so much time in libraries. With all the schools they were the one constant, you know?’

‘Sure, yeah. I used to hide out in the art rooms, so – similar.’

‘Oh, you do art?’

‘Uh, no. I take pictures – I did, at least,’ I say, slightly distracted by the sudden proximity of my hand to hers. She’s shifted to sit with her arms braced behind her, fingers splayed across the blanket, inches from mine.

‘That’s so cool. What’s your stuff like?’

‘Uh – I like … colour,’ I manage. ‘Black and white doesn’t really do it for me. And portraits. I take portraits. I’m into people like Nan Goldin … Saul Leiter and Joel Meyerowitz, although I guess they’re really better known for their street photography.’

God, I sound like such a prick. Wrap it up, Ezra.

‘Anyway,’ I say abruptly. ‘If you need new headshots, I offer mates’ rates.’

‘Good to know.’ She laughs, turning towards the water. It’s glowing in the fading light, silhouetting her profile – suddenly I’m wishing I had my camera with me, but even if I could take a picture, she’d probably be gone by the time I got it developed. It’s a sobering thought.

‘I never thought I’d get to do anything like this,’ she says then, a half-smile playing on her lips. ‘I never thought I’d be in New York this long.’

‘I’m glad you are,’ I say, and she looks back at me, sunlight edging her pale skin like gold-rimmed porcelain. Her dark hair is catching in the breeze, and—

‘Oh, you’ve got …’ I reach out without thinking, only to withdraw my hand immediately. ‘Uh – bug in your hair,’ I conclude, embarrassed. ‘Not a big one.’

‘Oh,’ she says, her own hand hovering upwards. ‘Um – can you get it?’

‘Sure,’ I say, moving closer. It’s a tiny little greenfly, and I lightly take a strand of Audrey’s hair in my hand to try and comb it out without crushing it. She holds herself perfectly still with her eyes cast down, lashes fringed against her freckled cheek-

‘Got it,’ I hear myself say, proffering my finger for her inspection – there the bug sits, intact and alive and definitely real. I worry she might think I just wanted an excuse to be nearer, otherwise.

‘Make a wish,’ I add and she laughs, leaning forward – her breath is cool as she gently blows it away.

‘Now you have to tell me what you wished for,’ I say, knowing she won’t.

‘No I don’t.’ She smiles. ‘If I tell you then it won’t come true.’

‘Not unless it’s something I can help with. Is it?’

She seems to falter at that, opening and closing her mouth in rapid succession.

‘Nope,’ she says finally, but her cheeks are flushed – there’s a very real chance that she’s lying, I realise, and a grin splits my face.

Suddenly, I can’t remember why any of this is supposed to be a bad idea. What’s more, I don’t want to.

AUDREY

‘DID IT HURT?’

‘I almost cried while I was waiting for her to rinse the bleach off. And then I actually did cry when I saw the colour it’d gone.’

‘What colour was it?’

‘Pale orange. Like a traffic cone that’s been left out in the sun.’

Marika grimaces, baring her perfect teeth.

‘It went blonde after she toned and dried it, though,’ I conclude, pulling out a strand to scrutinise. ‘I think it looks okay now.’

‘Better than okay,’ she says firmly. ‘Editorial.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile – coming from Marika, there’s no higher compliment. She nods and resumes studying her copy of Vogue while I glance out the graffiti-etched windows of the overground train, yellow light filtering through the glass. It’s late in the day and we’re on our way to Julian Mars’s studio in Williamsburg for our photoshoots, about which I am insanely nervous. It doesn’t help that I’m caffeine-jittery too, having gotten up at the crack of dawn for my morning appointment with Imogene’s colourist. It took five hours to take my hair from brown to platinum – five deeply uncomfortable hours. The texture of it feels weird, still, but not as weird as catching my reflection in windows and seeing a stranger.

‘Do you want me to wait for you once I’m done?’ Marika asks, delicately dabbing a perfume sample against her wrist.

‘It’s okay. You said you’re going out tonight, right?’

‘Well, yeah, but I don’t think this’ll take too long. I can hang around.’

‘It’s fine.’ I smile. ‘I’ll remember the way back.’

‘Get a cab. It’ll be dark by then.’

‘You think?’

‘Probably. Honestly, it’s ridiculous that he’s insisting on seeing us separately.’

‘I don’t really mind killing some time in Brooklyn,’ I admit, stretching slightly. ‘Ezra told me about a couple of cool places I could check out.’

‘Right. Was this on your date?’

‘It wasn’t a date,’ I say instinctively.

‘The sunset picnic by a lake in Central Park wasn’t a date?’

‘No.’

She lowers her magazine then, fixing me with a flat stare.

‘Really,’ I say, a little defensively. ‘I think I would have noticed.’

There’s a chance I might be attempting to convince myself as much as I am Marika, here. I mean – yes, it was probably the most romantic evening of my life, but nothing romantic actually happened. Him picking a bug out of my hair was the closest we got to physical contact, though I made sure to keep at least one hand unobstructed at all times, should he choose to hold it. He didn’t, though – not even as he walked me back to my apartment, where we lingered on the stoop before saying good night. I kept losing track of the conversation, embarrassingly, too busy imagining him leaning in to kiss me. Could he tell? When I got back inside and looked in the mirror, my pupils were blown wide, cheeks spotted with colour. He said you were pretty, I thought. He thinks that you’re pretty.

‘So, he didn’t make a move.’ Marika nods. ‘Interesting.’

I say nothing, ignoring the rising heat in my cheeks. I hate that I blush so much – how transparent it makes me feel. Like yesterday, when Ezra was pressing me about what I wished for.

‘I don’t think it’s for a lack of interest,’ Marika adds. ‘I mean – whatever the issue is, it’s definitely not that.’

‘It shouldn’t even matter,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ll probably be leaving soon. It couldn’t come to anything.’

‘If that’s what you want to tell yourself,’ Marika says mildly, turning back to her magazine and flicking on to a new page.

Marika’s portion of the shoot only takes about half an hour, all in all. She texts to let me know when she’s done and on her way back to Manhattan, and though it’s earlier than the time I was given, I decide to head over to the studio anyway. No one’s ever reprimanded me for being too punctual, I figure, and I’m not doing anything besides wandering the streets and brooding.

The studio is on the top floor of a small, nondescript-looking building beside the river. The interior is bright and sparse, white-walled with linoleum floors – there’s no one else inside, not that I can tell, and the only way upstairs is a chilly stairwell, the squeak of my trainers echoing in the silence. My nerves are back in full force. Imogene assured us that this isn’t a casting, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not important.

I finally find myself in a narrow hallway with a door at the end. Taped to it is a piece of paper with DO NOT DISTURB – PHOTOSHOOT IN PROGRESS scrawled in capital letters – promising enough, I decide, and step inside. It’s a huge room, wide and cavernous with concrete columns and windows stretching from floor to ceiling. In the far corner is a white backdrop with big, square lights angled around it, plus a tripod, a rail of clothes and a small desk, where Julian Mars sits on a fold-out chair with a sleek silver laptop. He glances up – his pale brown hair is half-gathered in a claw clip and he’s wearing huge, gold-rimmed glasses.

‘Audrey,’ he says, closing the laptop with a snap. ‘You’re early.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t be,’ he replies. ‘It’s nice to officially meet you.’

He strides towards me and offers his hand. We shake – his grip is loose, relaxed.

‘You too.’ I smile. ‘This place is awesome.’

‘Thanks. The light is usually better – sorry we had to do this so late.’

‘No worries,’ I say brightly, shrugging off my jacket. I leave it by the door along with my bag, moving towards the backdrop. It’s the only bright space in the room.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks, moving over to the clothing rail. ‘I’ve got a coolbox – there’s water, some beers. A seltzer, maybe?’

‘I’m all good. Thank you,’ I say, relieved that he seems nice. I remember him looking moody at the Miranda Browning show – bored, almost, like he thought that the whole thing was beneath him. But maybe he was just tired – I know I was.

‘This your first Fashion Week?’ he asks, still rifling through the rail.

‘Yeah. It’s been crazy.’

‘I can imagine. You mind changing, by the way? Miranda sent over some pieces.’

‘Sure thing,’ I say, and he pulls a small white garment from its hanger and tosses it to me. I catch it, glancing around for a screen.

‘You can use the backdrop,’ he says, gesturing. ‘I’m going to put some music on.’

‘Thanks.’ I nod, slipping behind it. Once I’m out of sight, I examine what he’s given me – a silk camisole with delicate straps, frilled edges and tiny, pearly buttons. I pull my T-shirt off and slip it on, the fabric cool against my skin. It’s beautiful, but the straps of my faded blue bra ruin the effect. I sigh, wriggling out of it and tucking it inside my discarded T-shirt.

Fuzzy, crooning music is emanating from the wall-mounted speakers, and I can hear Julian clattering around. I don’t want to make him wait so I tug up the waist of my jeans, smooth down my hair and re-emerge, smiling.

‘Ready,’ I tell him, taking my place.

‘Perfect,’ he says, positioning his camera on the tripod. ‘Want to show me some poses?’

I nod, arching my back and placing my hands on the small of my waist. The flash pops as I lift my chin.

‘Great,’ he says. I turn, tossing my hair slightly as I look at him over my shoulder. The light flashes again and I quickly settle into a rhythm, moving from pose to pose in small, fluid motions. A few minutes pass in silence, which I take as a good sign.

‘Really great,’ he says eventually, offering a half-smile. ‘You know, I could tell you had something special when I first saw you.’

‘At the show?’ I say, surprised. The way I remember it, he barely looked at me.

‘Uh-huh. Your friend Marika, too – I pointed you both out to Miranda. Had no idea that you knew each other.’

‘Wow. That’s such a crazy coincidence.’

‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ he says seriously. ‘Let’s call it serendipity.’

‘Serendipity,’ I echo. He’s stopped taking pictures now – I drop the pose, letting my shoulders sag.

‘There’s this amazing contrast between you two,’ he continues. ‘She has such an incredible spirit – she just emanates strength. Fire. And you’ve got this – there’s this vulnerability about you, you know? It’s palpable. And it makes for a really compelling dynamic.’

I smile, not sure what to say to that.

‘That’s what I’m trying to capture here,’ he adds, glancing down at the camera and adjusting the lens. ‘Could you take the top off?’

I blink at him. I hear the words, but it takes me a moment to process them.

‘Oh, um – I’m not wearing a bra,’ I finally manage, feeling my face flood with heat. ‘Sorry.’

‘You’re not?’ he says.

‘No.’

‘Is that a problem?’ he asks, looking at me like I’ve just said something stupid. I laugh nervously. But he doesn’t laugh with me. He just stares.

‘Um – I don’t know,’ I say finally. My voice sounds weird – detached, somehow. Like someone else is talking.

‘Is it too cold in here?’ he asks, moving towards me. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak again – my heart is beating hard and fast, and everything is happening so quickly –

‘You look a little cold,’ he says, and he’s right in front of me now. ‘It’s okay. It’s not for long.’

He touches my shoulder then, easing off the strap of the camisole with his fingers. There’s a word stuck in my throat and that word is no, but I can’t say it. I can’t, because if I say no and he doesn’t stop—

He tugs at the other strap, and the camisole falls to the floor. My sharp intake of breath is audible, impossible to ignore in the tiny space between us. He exhales in turn and his breath is hot against my neck. My arms feel like dead weight by my sides, and all I can think is, Please, please …

‘You’re very beautiful, Audrey,’ he says quietly. ‘But you know that, don’t you?’

Acid rises in the back of my throat as I frenziedly rack my brain for the right answer – the one that’ll get me out of here. But maybe there is no right answer. I know where the door is, but I don’t let myself look at it, scared that he’ll anticipate me if I try to run. Could I run? My feet feel rooted to the floor, useless—

‘Shy, too,’ he says and gives me another half-smile. ‘Okay. Let’s try this again.’

And then he moves away, back behind the tripod. I force my arms to move then, covering myself as best I can as he adjusts the lens again. I’m trembling badly now, praying that he won’t see. My eyes water as the flash pops, but I stiffly resume posing. I don’t know how much time passes or how many photos he takes.

‘Okay,’ he says finally. ‘I think we’re done here.’

It’s only when I crouch to pick up the camisole and cover myself that the shame rises to meet me, engulfing me like a wave.

EZRA

‘BREAD?’

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a roll from the basket that Tomas is offering. He puts one on his own plate, only for Maggie to nudge him, eyes wide – she doesn’t approve of white bread, along with most other things that taste good. But Tomas just smiles, slapping on a pat of butter and taking a comically huge bite. Maggie’s mouth twitches, like she’s torn between laughing or telling him off, and he leans forward to plant a kiss on her cheek, crumbs around his mouth. I quickly glance away, see Caroline frowning at her menu like it’s written in hieroglyphs.

‘This all looks so good,’ she murmurs. ‘I don’t know what to get.’

‘I’ll pick for you,’ Romy says, leaning over. ‘Get the steak frites.’

‘You always say that.’

‘Because it’s basically impossible to screw up steak frites. You’re guaranteed a good time.’

‘Or because you want to order something tiny and fancy then steal my fries.’ She laughs, tweaking Romy’s nose. I avert my gaze again, accidentally meeting Dad’s eye. He’s sitting at the opposite end of the table, looking about as discomfited as I am to be bookending happy couples.

Happy birthday to me, I guess. A family meal in a fancy restaurant isn’t my idea of a good time, but saying yes was the easiest way to mend fences with Caroline after our almost-fight. At least I’ve got a rock-solid excuse to leave within the hour, seeing as Mac has taken it upon himself to throw me a party. He discovered it was my birthday when they passed a card around at work, and trying to talk him out of it seemed like more effort than just letting it happen. The fact that I’m hosting again means I’ll probably resent him bitterly by the time tomorrow rolls around, but I don’t particularly feel like being alone tonight, so – yeah. Fuck it. Party on.

Silver lining, Audrey will be there. I messaged yesterday to invite her and Marika, and though it took her a (worryingly?) long time to reply, she’s coming.

‘So,’ Tomas says, glancing around the table. ‘A toast?’

I like Tomas. I still can’t make sense of his and Maggie’s decision to get married before either of them hit thirty, but he’s a cool guy. Maggie met him at university. He’d lived in Denmark for most of his life before moving to New York on a college scholarship, where they found themselves in the same political science class. Their first seminar, they apparently got into a heated debate about some niche school of thought that swiftly devolved into a full-blown argument. Neither was willing to concede their position by the time the session was over, so Tomas suggested that they continue the debate over coffee – the rest is history. I still remember when Maggie first told us the story, beaming like it was the most romantic thing in the world.

‘Yes, let’s.’ Maggie smiles, raising her flute. ‘Happy birthday, Ezra.’

‘Happy birthday!’ the others chorus. I raise my own glass after Caroline kicks me under the table and we all toast haphazardly. Dad ordered champagne, and I’m reaching for the bottle to top mine up when he clears his throat.

‘This is very special,’ he says, smiling. ‘Having everyone together like this – it really does mean the world to me.’

‘Not everyone,’ Caroline says mildly, and the room slips out of focus, briefly. Suddenly my glass is overfilled, foam spilling down the sides and on to the tablecloth. No one seems to notice, though, too distracted by the fact that Maggie has visibly paled. Tomas moves to place his hand on hers but she bats him away, gaze fixed on Caroline.

‘Don’t,’ she says quietly, and Caroline raises an eyebrow.

‘Don’t talk about her, you mean?’

‘Not today.’

‘Not today? Or not ever?’

‘Not on Ezra’s birthday,’ Maggie says hotly. ‘Jesus, Caroline.’

‘Why shouldn’t we talk about her? Especially today.’

‘Do you want us to hold hands and sing, too?’

‘Girls, please—’ Dad begins, but neither of them so much as glance his way.

‘You’re being so self-centred,’ Maggie hisses. ‘Just because you want to talk about her doesn’t mean that everyone else does.’

‘And you’re being a bitch,’ Caroline retorts. I see Tomas flinch, Romy stiffen – I drain the contents of my glass in one swift motion, reaching for the bottle again.

There’re meant to be five stages of grief, right? It starts with denial, ends with acceptance – anger, depression and bargaining are somewhere in the middle. Thing is, Caroline’s the only one of us to ever reach that final milestone. I don’t know that Dad’s even cleared the first hurdle, and Maggie – Maggie’s been stuck on anger for a long time now.

‘Fine,’ Maggie says curtly. ‘I’ll be the bitch, if that’s what you want.’

‘What I want is for you to act like a normal human being. You know, with feelings?’

Maggie laughs, though it’s a sound devoid of humour. ‘You know, I’ve just realised that I don’t actually give a shit about what you want,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘Excuse me.’

I watch as she strides across the restaurant, jaw tight, head held high. My guess is that she’s going to go and rage-cry in a bathroom stall before eventually calming down, touching up her make-up and returning to the table like nothing happened. Then her and Caroline will pointedly ignore each other for the remainder of the meal, forcing the rest of us to make aggressively cheery small talk. There was a similar blowout two Christmases ago, and I should have known that there’d be conflict today. We’re too close to the anniversary for this to have been anything other than a disaster.

My thirteenth birthday was the last good day. Mum picked me up from school at lunchtime and let me skip the rest of my lessons. We got cannoli and coffee at her favourite bakery before going to the cinema in the Village to watch a matinee of Some Like It Hot, the two of us laughing louder than anyone else. The whole time I remember thinking how happy she seemed. How herself. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself wonder if everything might finally be okay.

Two days later, she was gone. I don’t see the point in pretending that it doesn’t colour the day, or that it wasn’t a mercy that my birthday used to fall slap bang in the middle of a school term. I got sent cards and presents, of course, but we didn’t have to spend it together as a family – didn’t have to sit around a table and pretend that no one was missing. Or not pretend, in Caroline’s case.

‘So, Ezra,’ Tomas begins, throwing out a conversational life-raft. ‘Do you have anything else planned for today?’

‘Just some friends over,’ I say, slightly distracted by the fact that Caroline has also gotten up from her seat. She’s heading outside, presumably to chain-smoke. Romy watches her go, expression unreadable.

‘Well, that sounds great!’ Dad says, smiling forcefully. It makes my chest hurt – I wish he’d stop.

‘Yeah,’ I manage. ‘Should be.’

‘Tomas,’ Romy interjects suddenly. ‘I’ve just realised I don’t actually know what you do for work.’

‘I’m a data analyst,’ he replies cheerfully.

‘Oh, wow,’ she murmurs, eyes already glazing over. ‘And … what does that involve?’

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket as Tomas launches into an incomprehensible explanation of his unfathomable job. It’s a message from a number I don’t recognise.

Happy birthday, Ezra. Hope you’re doing well. Can we talk soon?

Edie x

Happy fucking birthday indeed.

AUDREY

I DECIDE TO WALK TO EZRA’S THAT NIGHT. IT’S NOT TOO COLD OUT and I’m wearing my bomber jacket over a cute velvet top that Marika lent me, albeit reluctantly. She doesn’t think I should go out tonight – she’s convinced I’m getting sick, which makes sense seeing as I spent all of yesterday in bed, mumbling something about a headache when she tried to drag me out on a jog. It wasn’t true, of course, but I couldn’t face getting up. Couldn’t face dealing with the balled-up silk camisole beneath the bed, crumpled in the dust.

Julian insisted that I keep it, smiling as he spoke, and I think I might have somehow returned that smile as I stuffed my bra and T-shirt into my bag, buttoning my jacket to my throat. After that, things are blurry. I took a cab home, but I don’t remember much between leaving the studio and letting myself into the apartment. I know that I held myself together, because it wasn’t until the very second that I was alone in the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind me, that I felt my face crumble like wet sand. I practically fought my way out of my jacket, tearing off the camisole and hurling it away before crawling into bed. Then I cried, and I cried, and eventually, I slept.

I slept most of yesterday, too. Today, I woke to a message from Ezra, and Marika’s watchful gaze. I told her I was feeling better and got into the shower in the hopes of making it true, only to stand there until the water ran cold, forcing myself to recall every single second of what happened in Julian’s studio. That was when I realised that I never told him to stop. That I never said no, or tried to leave. I just stood there. I let it happen.

I attempted to try and justify it, then. Posing topless is relatively common in fashion. I’ve seen countless adverts and editorials where girls are hugging their naked torsos just like I did, lips pouted, eyes soft and coy. Maybe that’s what Julian had in mind.

Later, when we were both getting ready to go out, I asked Marika how her photoshoot had gone, watching closely to try and gauge her reaction.

‘It was fine,’ she said absently, sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror applying eyeliner. I was perched on the bed, still in my towel. ‘A little static, I guess.’

‘Static?’ I said – too quickly. ‘What does that mean?’

‘He gave me zero direction – didn’t ask me to try anything on, either, when there was that big rail of clothes just sitting there.’

‘Right.’ I said, stomach turning at the thought of the camisole, lying in the darkness just a few feet away. ‘Me neither.’

‘He’s obviously not that experienced. But he must have been hired for a reason, so …’

She trailed off, shrugging, and that was the end of the conversation. It helped, though. Julian’s inexperienced, and that’s probably why he did what he did. He was likely so focused on the shot he wanted that he didn’t stop to consider that I’m inexperienced too – that I’ve never done anything like that before. And – and it took me by surprise, is all. He’d probably be horrified, if he knew how he’d made me feel.

Afterwards, I replied to Ezra’s message about his party and told him that I’d be there.

By the time I’m at Ezra’s door I’m lightly sticky, face warm from having climbed all those stairs. I knock hard – the music is louder than last time, and I’m wondering if maybe I should text to let him know I’ve arrived when he throws back the door. He’s smiling, a shiny party hat atop his unruly hair, and for no apparent reason I’m struck by a big, stupid urge to throw my arms around him. But then his smile falters –

‘Audrey,’ he says, and it sounds more like a question than a greeting. I realise why, and my hand instinctively flies to my head.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Um – right. I’m blonde now.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, staring. ‘I noticed that.’

‘Right – I guess I should have mentioned it—’

‘No, no, it’s not a big deal!’ he says quickly. ‘Just – I wasn’t expecting it, is all. But it looks good! Not that it didn’t before, but – did you want to come in?’

I smile, stepping inside. Ezra shuts the door behind me, looking distinctly flustered.

‘It really does,’ he continues. ‘Look good, I mean. There was just that moment of cognitive dissonance—’

‘I know.’ I nod, hoping so badly that he’s not just being polite. ‘I get it every time I look in a mirror.’

‘Just woke up feeling like a change, or … ?’

‘Maybe,’ I reply, not wanting to get into the actual reason. ‘Or maybe I knew you’d be wearing a super cool hat and wanted to upstage you.’

I reach up to lightly ping the elastic string beneath his chin, and he laughs.

‘Oh, this old thing. You like it?’

‘What’s not to like?’

‘Then here,’ he says, pulling it from his head to place it atop mine, fingers brushing my jaw as he gently fastens it.

‘There.’ He grins. ‘I’m nothing if not a generous host. Speaking of, want a drink?’

‘Sure.’ I smile, trailing him towards the kitchen – my skin feels hot where he touched it, embarrassingly, and I watch as he slaps two cups down on to the marble island.

‘Sorry – no Prosecco, this time. Anything else you like?’

‘Um – what are you having?’

‘Whisky soda, which is disgusting. Whisky and lemonade?’

‘Sounds good,’ I say, watching him pour. The measure he allots for himself is considerably heavier, I notice, and he takes a brief sip before he adds any mixer, a movement so fluid that I wonder if he’s even registered it. I’m suddenly reminded of that evening in the park – his hip flask, and how casually he emptied its contents.

‘Here,’ he says, sliding my drink towards me before hoisting himself up on to the counter. I try to join him but even with my arms braced behind me, I can’t quite manage it until he jumps down and puts his hands on my hips, lifting me in a single motion and depositing me as casually as a bag of groceries. Then he hops back up just as easily, reaching for his cup.

‘Thank you,’ I manage, attempting to pretend that my brain isn’t short-circuiting from how effortlessly he just did that.

‘Thank you,’ he replies. ‘I’m glad you came tonight. Kept me in suspense for a while, but …’

‘Sorry about that,’ I say quickly. ‘Is it someone’s birthday?’

‘Uh-huh. Mine.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Nope. Nineteen today. Entirely decrepit.’

‘You should have told me!’ I exclaim, horrified. ‘I would have gotten you something!’

‘Which is exactly why I didn’t.’ He laughs. ‘Honestly, it’s no big deal.’

‘Has it been a good day, at least? Did you see your family?’

‘Uh-huh. Did the mandatory sit-down dinner.’

‘Oh, that’s nice.’

‘Yep. How about you? How’s your week been?’

‘Um – fine,’ I say. ‘Busy.’

A beat of silence, then – I’m sensing that Ezra’s as unwilling to talk about his family as I am my week, hence the conversational lull.

‘Sorry Marika couldn’t make it tonight,’ I say hastily, figuring it’s as good a pivot as any. ‘Is Mac disappointed?’

‘He’ll live,’ Ezra says mildly. ‘He was in charge of the guest list, so he’ll have made sure there’re other romantic prospects on offer.’

‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘Did you – do you think Marika was interested in him like that?’

‘Well, you know her better than I do. I just figured, seeing as everyone else seems to be.’

‘Everyone? Not everyone, surely.’

‘No? Not you?’

‘No.’ I laugh. ‘Of course not.’

‘ “Of course not”?’ he echoes, grinning.

‘Yeah. I mean – it’s just not like that,’ I say, flustered, turning from Ezra’s gaze – it’s too intent, and suddenly I’m scared that he’s about to look right through me. ‘Mac’s great, obviously, but …’

I never finish that sentence, though. Whatever I was about to say, the words fall away as my eyes alight on a figure by the far window with mussed, pale brown hair, back turned as he talks to a girl in a ruffled dress. But it can’t be him. The odds that Mac or Ezra would know Julian, let alone invite him to a party …

‘You okay?’ Ezra asks, nudging me slightly. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, unable to tear my eyes away. The guy turns then, gesturing at something. It’s not him, and the relief that washes over me is so intense that I feel dizzy.

‘Sure?’ Ezra asks, frowning.

‘Yeah,’ I manage. ‘Sorry. I spaced out for a sec – I’m good.’

I raise my cup to my lips, drinking down the sickly sweet contents as if it’ll dislodge that initial panic, still wedged between my ribs. It feels physical, constricting my lungs.

‘Okay,’ Ezra says, sounding doubtful. ‘Uh – do you want another drink? Or we could get some air?’

‘Another drink would be great,’ I say, slightly breathless. ‘Thank you.’

‘But … you’re sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m sure,’ I say firmly, forcing a smile. ‘I’m good.’

If I say it enough times, then eventually it’ll be true.

EZRA

‘CAN YOU STOP TWITCHING? YOU’RE STRESSING ME OUT.’

‘I’m not twitching. Just – don’t you think Audrey’s been gone a while?’

Eleven minutes, to be exact. She said she was going to the bathroom, but I can’t quite shake this nagging feeling of unease, compounded by the fact that she’s been drinking steadily all night. I stopped fetching her refills when she started to muddle her words but that didn’t stop other people from offering them. And suggesting that she slow down would have sounded unbearably patronising, so … I didn’t.

It’s not like she isn’t having a good time. She’s been smiling, laughing, even dancing with Mac when a Lorde song came on. I stayed where I was, trying not to stare.

‘Go check on her, then,’ Mac says. He’s sitting on the sofa with Dominic, who seems to be his date for the night. I’m on the floor.

‘I don’t know,’ I sigh. ‘Is that not a bit weird?’

‘She’s your girlfriend.’ Dominic frowns. ‘How is that weird?’

‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

‘She’s not his girlfriend,’ Mac confirms – the party hat is atop his head now, set at a jaunty angle like a beret.

‘Oh,’ Dominic says. ‘I just assumed because you’re so obviously obsessed with her.’

‘Yeah, but he’s too emotionally stunted to do anything about it.’

‘Is that a British thing or a him thing?’

‘Bit of both?’

‘Right. That makes sense.’

I glower at them both. Like Mac, Dominic is charismatic, good looking and currently getting on my nerves.

‘Still, I second Mac,’ Dominic adds, absently running a hand over his shaved head. ‘Go and look for her. Maybe she’s waiting for you in the bedroom.’

I get to my feet, abruptly done with this conversation. The apartment is almost empty – most people started trickling away after midnight, heading home or drifting deeper into the night. I head down the hall towards the bathroom, leaning against the door and knocking lightly. No response.

‘Audrey?’ I call. ‘Are you in there?’

Nothing. I knock a little harder, try the handle. The door parts, unlocked.

‘Anyone?’ I call again. Nothing.

‘I’m coming in,’ I say finally, pushing it open. And there, piled in a crumpled heap against the wall –

‘Shit,’ I hiss, immediately sinking to my knees in front of her. ‘Audrey. Wake up.’

I brush her pale hair away from her face, taking a limp hand and squeezing it. She doesn’t so much as stir.

‘Audrey,’ I say loudly, trying hard not to freak out. She’s definitely breathing, but I’d really love for her to be fully conscious right now so I start frantically patting her cheeks, light little taps, and her eyes flutter open. Her gaze is unfocused as she looks around the room, head lolling.

‘Thank fuck,’ I mutter, and she fixes her bleary eyes on me.

‘I don’t feel well,’ she says weakly, and that’s all the warning I need to reach for the plastic bin beside the sink. I hand it to her, and she hugs it to her chest before vomiting – I quickly gather her hair in my fist, instinctively rubbing slow, small circles against her upper back with my free hand. It’s what my mum used to do for me whenever I got sick as a kid.

Once she’s finished, I get to my feet to fetch her some water from the sink. She takes a sip and shuts her eyes, a cloudy tear slipping down her cheek as I crouch beside her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says hoarsely, brow puckered.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I’ve ruined your birthday.’

‘No,’ I reply, reassured by how lucid she seems. ‘My sisters beat you to that. Besides, it’s not my birthday any more.’

‘I just wanted to sit down for a second.’ She sniffs. ‘I’m so stupid.’

‘You’re not stupid. Don’t say that.’

‘I’ll be fine in a second. I just need a second.’

‘Take as much time as you need. I’ll be here.’

‘No, go back to the party. I’m okay. I’ll get a cab—’

‘Not by yourself. I’ll come with you. Or we can call Marika?’

‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘I don’t want to bother her. And you can’t leave – it’s your party.’

‘Mac’ll keep an eye on things. Or you can stay here tonight. It would give me a great excuse to kick everyone out, at least.’

She looks up at me, then, eyes wide and watery.

‘I’d take the sofa, obviously,’ I add quickly. ‘Either way, not a problem.’

Then I get to my feet, moving to dispose of the contents of the bin for her. She looks up at me with very real panic, clutching it tighter.

‘Um, no thank you,’ she says quietly. ‘I think I might need it again.’

Mac and Dominic, now forgiven, help me clear out the remaining stragglers with surprising efficiency. When I check back in with Audrey, she sheepishly asks me if she can take a shower. I understand the impulse – showering after being sick feels like a baptism. I fetch her spare towels and fresh clothes, my narrowest tracksuit bottoms and a soft white T-shirt, plus a new toothbrush. And then I get to work, throwing my bedroom window open and frantically changing the sheets just in case she does decide to stay. I’m wiping dust from the nightstand with an old sock when there’s a tentative knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ I say, tossing it in the hamper. Audrey steps inside, wet hair tucked behind her ears, face flushed. The apartment is silent, so she must know that everyone else has left.

‘I feel better,’ she says, hugging herself slightly. ‘Thank you.’

‘No worries. Uh – do you want to head home, or … ?’

‘I’m really tired,’ she says quietly, dropping her gaze. ‘If you meant what you said about me staying here …’

‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘No problem.’

‘I’ll sleep on the sofa. You don’t have to give up your bed.’

‘No, you’re all good. I love the sofa. The sofa and me go way back.’

‘Okay.’ She nods. ‘If you’re sure. Thank you.’

‘Right. Um – phone charger next to the bed, if you want to message Marika – let her know you’re crashing here, maybe. Water from the taps, obviously. Painkillers – there’s some on the dresser, there.’

She nods, says nothing.

‘Right,’ I say again, stepping around her, through the doorway. ‘I’ll be in the living room if you need me – or anything else, you know.’

‘Okay. Good night,’ she says quietly. I nod, shut the door behind me. Fuck, I think. Fuck.

It took me way, way too long to realise that something was wrong with Audrey tonight. She did seem slightly subdued when she showed up, but I figured that was because she was tired. Then, when she shut down the question of her being interested in Mac within a second of me posing it, I even wondered if tonight might be the night when I muster up enough chutzpah to ask if she’s interested in me.

But then – I don’t know. There was that weird moment in the kitchen where she honestly acted as though she’d seen a ghost, and immediately after that she started pounding back her drinks. I guess that the alcohol must have softened and smeared whatever she was feeling, because she seemed more relaxed after that, but—

My alcohol. My fault.

I pad into the kitchen as quietly as I can, the floor sticky beneath my socks as I pour myself a glass of water, catching my reflection in the shiny black door of the fridge.

‘You prick,’ I say aloud. My voice sounds strange in the empty room.

AUDREY

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN EZRA’S APARTMENT AND MINE FEELS SO much further this morning. I walk quickly with my jacket pulled tight around me, head throbbing, stomach crying out for something hot and carb-heavy. I can’t believe how much I drank last night, or how stupid that was – how stupid I am. I wasn’t thinking about my pathetic tolerance, or the fact that I’d barely eaten in days – I just felt good, after that second drink, and I wanted to keep feeling good. But I got what I deserved, because emptying the contents of my stomach in front of Ezra didn’t feel very good at all.

I almost wish that the alcohol had blotted out my memory as well as my sense, but I remember it all, including how kind Ezra was. He was still sleeping when I left, sprawled out on the sofa with a tangle of hair obscuring his face. The TV was on, a quiet drone of early morning infomercials. I lingered before I let myself out, watching the rise and fall of his chest for a moment. Then I realised how completely deranged I must have looked and promptly left.

It felt awful, sneaking out like that. I tidied by way of apology and left a note, hastily scrawled on the back of a crumpled receipt from my jacket pocket. I’ll make amends, I’ve decided, and that starts with laundering the clothes and towels he lent me. It felt rude to leave them there, all damp and crumpled, so I put them in a bin bag and took them. It dangles from the crook of my elbow as I let myself into the apartment – I need to get changed and get my wallet before I can drop them off at the laundromat below.

I’m surprised and a little relieved to discover that Marika isn’t here. She’s probably gone for an early jog, which gives me plenty of time to get my stuff together without being grilled about last night. I change quickly, stuffing yesterday’s clothes into my laundry bag and tugging on a warmer outfit. It’s not until I’m shrugging my jacket back on that I hear the voices, hushed and low, coming from the hallway. Laughter, too. I freeze, not sure what to do.

‘Shh. She’s sleeping,’ One says –Marika, I realise.

‘Okay, okay,’ a girl replies, her voice rich and gravelly. It almost sounds familiar, and I’m wondering why when the door opens and they see me, standing in the middle of the room and quite obviously not sleeping. We all stare at each other for a moment. Then:

‘Hi. I’m Nicole.’

The girl standing beside Marika is considerably shorter with a soft, round face, hourglass curves and a lilac tint to her pale hair. She’s wearing a huge fleecy coat, and when she raises her arm in greeting the sleeve gapes to reveal an arm covered with ornate, floral tattoos.

‘Nicole,’ I echo, realisation dawning. ‘I know. You did my make-up at the Miranda Browning show. You got me a pastry.’

‘Right,’ she says, eyes alighting with recognition. ‘Wow. Hi! You changed your hair.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, touching it self-consciously. ‘It’s for a campaign.’

‘It looks awesome. And you’re Marika’s roommate?’

‘Audrey.’ I smile. ‘Nice to meet you. Again.’

‘Totally. Small world, huh?’ Nicole grins, glancing between us.

Marika still hasn’t said anything. She’s just watching me, wearing faded leggings and a hoodie that I’ve never seen before underneath her leather jacket. But I recognise the glittery slip dress in her hand, hanging loosely from her grip. She was wearing it when she left the apartment last night.

‘Totally.’ I smile, slightly lost. ‘So—’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t message you to say I wasn’t coming back here last night,’ Marika says suddenly, apparently regaining her voice. ‘My phone died.’

‘That’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘I wasn’t here, either. I messaged you, but – I guess that’s why you didn’t reply.’

‘Yeah,’ she says simply. We’re both silent for a moment, then –

‘We’re actually about to head out for breakfast,’ Nicole says brightly. ‘Want to come?’

‘Oh, um – I actually have some errands to run right now,’ I reply. ‘But that’s really nice of you to offer. Thank you.’

‘No worries. Guess I’ll see you around?’

‘Yeah!’ I enthuse, picking up the laundry and grabbing my tote bag. ‘Yeah, totally. Um – see you.’

And then I leave, slipping past them. I shut the door behind me, and don’t linger. I definitely don’t mean to hear Nicole say, ‘She doesn’t know?’

I don’t hear Marika’s answer. I don’t need to, to understand.

EZRA

IT STARTS RAINING AROUND MIDDAY, WHICH IS SO HILARIOUSLY on-the-nose that it actually lifts my mood slightly. I watch it come down from the restaurant on the corner of my street, eating dumplings and feeling sorry for myself.

Audrey left without saying goodbye this morning. By the time I woke up it was like room service had come and gone. The bed had been made, the bathroom smelt like bleach – even the spare towels were gone. The only personal touch was the note she left, which I’ve got in my pocket. I reach for it to reassure myself, smoothing it out on the table.

Thank you for everything.

Audrey x

Her handwriting is endearingly untidy, a sloping scrawl. She wrote it on the back of a receipt from the morning we got breakfast together – a small reminder of a good memory. I just wish it didn’t sound so much like a goodbye.

I reach for my phone. I’ve been contemplating messaging her all morning, but I find myself rereading Edie’s message instead – the message I should have replied to yesterday, only what’s there to say? What could she possibly want from me now?

It’s so typical of Edie to reach out just as I’m taking my first steps away from her. I deleted every trace of her from my phone post break-up, anticipating drunken lapses in judgement on my part. Still, my notes app is full of all the sad, sentimental things I had wanted to tell her but couldn’t.

Fuck it – whatever the reasoning, I don’t want this hanging over my head. I quickly draft a response.

thanks edie. heard you’re in new york? ezra

If she thinks I’m ignorant to her being in the city, then this is bound to freak her out. It also reads as kind of terse, but that’s probably for the best. The dynamic between Edie and me has always been skewed in her favour – social hierarchy was a big thing at school, and she was a honeyed blonde with a crisp accent and a flair for tennis. I was the loner American kid with the weird camera – you do the math. Still, I was happy existing in her orbit, and none of that shit mattered when it was just us. It didn’t even bother me that I so obviously loved her more. It was an absolute. Trying to deny it would have been like trying to deny that the sky is blue.

Point being, better that I sound a little cold, now. I decisively hit send, pop the last dumpling in my mouth and lean back in my chair, pondering my next move. The cinema, maybe. Sitting in a dark, air-conditioned room with one of those bucket-sized slushies sounds pretty good right now.

My phone buzzes and I physically start. But the message isn’t from Edie.

Can I see you today? No worries if you’re busy.

Audrey. I exhale, quickly tap out a response.

i’m out right now, but i can meet you somewhere?

Her answer comes back in less than a minute.

Or I’ll come to you?

I reply just as quickly.

i’m at the restaurant on the corner of my street. are you anywhere nearby?

No immediate response. A few minutes pass, then a few more, and I’m wondering if I should have offered more details when I see a flash of pale hair through the window, a streak of brightness in the otherwise grey day. I raise my hand to wave but Audrey doesn’t see me, her head ducked low to avoid the rain. The bell above the door jingles when she steps inside, hair damp, nose pink. She’s wearing her green jacket again, and I wonder then if she’ll be here long enough to need something warmer.

‘Hi.’ She smiles, taking a seat opposite me and placing a brown paper parcel on the table. It’s oblong, speckled with rain.

‘Hey.’ I grin back, not caring if it’s obvious how entirely fucking jazzed I am to see her again. ‘How are you?’

‘Good.’ She nods. ‘Better, I mean. Um – this is for you.’

She nudges the parcel across the table.

‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘Really?’

‘It’s partly a birthday gift,’ she tells me, tugging at her sleeve. ‘Partly an apology. I know I was a total mess last night—’

‘No, you weren’t—’

‘I was. It was stupid and I don’t have an excuse, but you took care of me anyway and I’m really grateful.’

She pushes the parcel a little further towards me, and I abruptly understand. She feels indebted to me and she doesn’t want to be, hence the gift – she’s trying to even the scales. It kills me a little, sure, but I get it. I just wish she knew that it isn’t necessary. That she doesn’t owe me anything – that I wouldn’t want her to.

‘Thank you,’ I say instead. ‘This is really nice.’

I push my empty plate to one side and pick it up. It’s surprisingly heavy, and Audrey watches me closely as I pull the paper back.

‘She was one of the photographers that you mentioned liking,’ she says uncertainly. ‘Right?’

‘Right,’ I echo, stunned. In my hands is a huge, cloth-covered volume of Nan Goldin photography – the exact same book that I discovered on a dusty shelf in the art room at school. I must have leafed through its dog-eared pages a hundred times, totally rapt. It showed New York as a place I’d never known, so far removed from the city of my childhood that it might as well have been a different planet. I trace the embossed lettering with my fingertips, gold and perfect where I remember it dull and worn.

‘You don’t already have it, do you?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Uh – there was actually a copy of this at my school. I coveted it the whole time I was there – I almost took it when I left, but there’s no way they wouldn’t have known it was me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, feeling dazed. ‘Wow. Thank you so much.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘I love it. What a crazy coincidence.’

I glance up at her, smiling. She looks slightly stricken, though, eyes glassy – I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when she quickly turns her head, reaching into her bag.

‘I got you something else,’ she announces. ‘Something you need. Here.’

And then she hands me a wallet. A small, plasticky black wallet with I HEART NY printed on it.

‘Wow,’ I say solemnly. ‘It’s stunning.’

‘Better than a cigarette carton, at least.’

‘Don’t downplay it. I’m going to cherish this fine piece of craftmanship for ever.’

‘A future heirloom, maybe?’

‘Oh yeah. My progeny are going to fight viciously over this one – there’ll probably be a brawl at the will-reading.’

Audrey laughs, just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I tense slightly, knowing it must be Edie this time. But I can’t bring myself to reach for it while I’m here with Audrey. It feels like a betrayal, somehow. But of who, I don’t know.

I don’t think I want to, actually.

AUDREY

‘GOD, MY FOLDERS ARE A MESS,’ IMOGENE MURMURS, FROWNING as she swipes at her tablet. ‘I swear they’re here somewhere. And they’re stunning, of course. Your hair looks amazing.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, wiping my clammy hands on my jeans as I shift in one of the shell-shaped chairs opposite her desk. She asked me to come by her office this morning to look over the photos from the shoot with Julian, which she’s clearly already seen and doesn’t have a problem with. I guess that means there isn’t one.

‘Ah! Got them!’ she suddenly exclaims. ‘Here you go.’

She hands me the tablet and I take it from her with both hands, forcing myself to breathe evenly.

‘We could probably use one as your new headshot.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I say, swiping through them. I can’t tell if they’re any good. I don’t really care. I just want to see the last ones, to prove to myself that they’re nowhere near as awful as I’ve built them up to be in my head. But then I reach a point where it won’t let me swipe any more, and …

‘Is this all of them?’ I ask.

‘All the ones Julian sent over. Why?’

Because I’m wearing a top in all of these.

‘No reason,’ I say quickly.

Imogene laughs. ‘You’re your own harshest critic. Julian said that you were a joy to work with. A total star.’

‘He did?’

‘Of course! You and Marika, both. And …’ She pauses for emphasis, tapping her long, beautifully painted nails against her desk in an approximation of a drumroll.

‘The campaign shoots tomorrow!’ she concludes brightly. ‘Isn’t that exciting?’

‘Oh – wow!’ I manage. ‘So soon?’

‘ “So soon?” ’ She laughs. ‘I would have thought you’d be dying to get started.’

‘I am! I am. I just …’ I trail off, grasping for an excuse to justify my hesitation.

Imogene leans forward, meets my eye. ‘I get it. But, Audrey, there is no need to be nervous,’ she says seriously. ‘I promise.’

And I can tell that she really believes that. I only wish that I could too.

I’m hit by a wave of dizziness almost as soon as I step outside the AVW offices, collapsing on to a bench with wobbling legs. I focus on breathing, on staying calm, on convincing myself that it’s a good thing that the shoot is so soon. By the time that the campaign comes out, the whole thing’ll probably feel like a bad dream. There’ll have been loads more shoots by then – maybe even another campaign. This is just a blip, in the grand scheme of things. I’m sure in five years’ time I’ll barely remember any of this.

Today, though, I can’t stop myself from thinking about those missing photos. It sounds twisted, but a part of me wishes that they’d been there – I guess I figured that if Imogene had seen them and acted like it was normal, then it would be. On the other hand, maybe them being missing means that Julian realised that he did a fucked-up thing and deleted them.

Or maybe I’m just deluding myself. Either way, I can’t obsess over something that’s so totally out of my control. Marika’s already noticed me acting strangely, and Ezra – Ezra probably thinks I’m just fundamentally unstable, now. I don’t blame him – even yesterday, when I was trying to save face after the party, he made this offhand comment about coincidence, and I reacted like he’d dumped a bucket of cold water on my head. Just – all I could think about was Julian telling me that he didn’t believe in coincidence. That he preferred ‘serendipity’, so by that logic what happened in that studio was always meant to—

‘Audrey.’

I look up with a jolt. Marika is standing right in front of me, eyebrows raised. I tug off my headphones, attempting a smile.

‘I said your name, like, four times,’ she says seriously, pushing her sunglasses back against her hair. ‘You need to turn your music down. Or get worse headphones.’

‘I know,’ I say quickly, though I wasn’t actually listening to anything. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ she says, taking a seat beside me. ‘Just – it’s not safe, you know? Especially in a city. Situational awareness matters.’

I blink at her. ‘Right,’ I manage finally. ‘I mean – you’re right. I zoned out. Guess I’m tired.’

‘Same,’ she says, which I’d figured – she was out again last night, and messaged that I shouldn’t expect her back before morning. She’s wearing the outfit that was laid out on her bunk when I left the apartment, though, flared jeans and a cropped grey sweatshirt. We must have just missed each other.

‘Did you … have fun?’ I venture.

‘Uh-huh. It was low-key. Just dinner and a movie at Nicole’s place.’

‘Sounds nice.’ I smile, relieved. I had assumed she was with Nicole, but if it hadn’t been for that accidental run-in yesterday morning, I wouldn’t even know that Nicole exists – not in this context, anyway, hence my wariness to overstep.

‘It was,’ Marika says mildly. ‘Nicole’s great. And – I just wanted you to know that the only reason I didn’t tell you about her was because I didn’t realise it was going to matter this much. I mean – I thought I’d be here for a week. I wasn’t looking to make friends. I definitely wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, but now here I am with a friend and – not a girlfriend, but something like it.’

‘Oh,’ I say, pretending that my heart didn’t just grow three sizes at Marika calling me her friend. ‘Well – that makes sense, I guess, but I’m really happy for you. Nicole – she was super sweet to me at the Miranda Browning show. She seems like a genuinely cool person.’

‘She is,’ Marika says, her features softening momentarily before she glances up at the clouds. ‘And Ezra – he’s growing on me, I suppose. It’s cute how much he likes you.’

‘Oh, uh – he probably doesn’t,’ I say, letting out an embarrassed huff of laughter. ‘Not any more, anyway.’

‘I thought you spent the night at his place?’ she asks, head snapping back towards me.

‘Only because I got too drunk. I puked – he let me take a shower and sleep in his bed. He took the sofa, so – yeah. Nothing to report.’

‘Oh.’ She frowns. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine,’ I say quickly. ‘Just overdid it. Got a bit weepy. Nothing dramatic.’

‘Well – that was gallant of him, I suppose.’

‘Yeah. He’s just like that, I think.’

‘Hm. Want some unsolicited advice?’

‘Um … sure,’ I say, and Marika angles her entire body towards me, eyes dark and intent.

‘I realised recently that most things in life are temporary,’ she says seriously. ‘Almost everything, actually. So, closing yourself off to something because you don’t want to risk eventually losing it? I get the impulse, but I’m not sure it’s worth it.’

I in no way, shape or form have an answer to that. But I don’t need one, apparently – Marika is already getting to her feet, stretching as she glances at her watch.

‘I have to go,’ she continues offhandedly. ‘I’ll be at the apartment tonight, though. Maybe we could do something.’

‘That would be really nice,’ I say, and she offers me a brief smile before replacing her sunglasses and gliding away. I watch her go, feeling … I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now, actually.

A lot of things. But grateful, mostly.

To have Marika in my corner. To realise that she’s let me into hers.

EZRA

TURNS OUT THAT IT’S DIFFICULT, DRESSING FOR AN EX-GIRLFRIEND.

I seriously considered wearing a jacket and tie tonight, just to give the impression that I’m doing great, thanks for asking, just stopping here on my way to something more important. I also thought about wearing jeans and a sweatshirt to let her know that yeah, I figured it’d be nice to catch up, but I don’t actually care about being here. Or you. But all of that is total bullshit, of course, so I finally settled on some grey trousers and a gnarled-looking jumper that she’s seen a hundred times before. There’s not much point in pretence where Edie is concerned.

I drain the remnants of my drink, swivelling on my stool to scan the room. This is a nice bar, I suppose, but definitely not my kind of scene. I wouldn’t have thought that it was Edie’s, either – it’s too showy for that, brightly lit with velvet furnishings and tropical-print wallpaper, all the fixtures in burnished gold. Maybe she’s been here before and knew they wouldn’t ask for ID. Or maybe I just don’t know what she does and doesn’t like any more.

By the time I swivel back my empty glass has been whisked away, a fresh drink placed in front of me. On second thoughts, maybe I love this place.

‘Ezra.’

I recognise the voice before I recognise my own name. My traitorous heart leaps at the sound of it.

‘Edie,’ I say, turning. And there she is, looking exactly the same and totally different. I can’t quite process the full picture.

‘Could I get a glass of rosé, please?’ she asks the barman, gracefully mounting the stool beside me and tucking a curtain of hair behind her ear. It’s lighter than I remember, longer. Her neat blue dress looks like the type of thing that Maggie would wear.

‘Sorry I’m late. How are you?’ she asks, inclining her head towards me.

‘Good,’ I say, overwhelmed by the banality of the question. Edie and I spent years locking eyes across classrooms and stealing kisses in storage cupboards. We shared the same tiny world – one of dust motes and damp grass, scuffed wood and rumpled uniforms. Now we’re three thousand miles across the ocean, making stilted small talk over post-work drinks. It’s surreal. Jarring.

‘How did you know I was in New York?’ she asks bluntly – that’s the small talk exhausted, then.

‘My sister knows your boss,’ I say, straightening slightly. ‘Why? Did you think I’d been keeping tabs on you?’

Her mouth becomes a hard line, and she glances away. An unequivocal yes.

‘You would have told me anyway, apparently.’ I point out, a little less offended than I probably ought to be.

‘I wanted to get settled first.’

‘How long did that take?’

‘I moved into my apartment in August.’

August. She’s been here a month already.

‘Well, that’s great,’ I say. ‘If this is what you wanted then I’m glad you got it.’

‘Don’t be a dick,’ she says flatly, which is fair enough. Out of all the Edie-centric feelings that I’ve been repressing, resentment has risen to the surface first.

The bartender sets her wine glass in front of her and she immediately picks it up, only to put it down again and turn to look at me, lips pursed.

‘And if you’re annoyed about me being here, you can take it up with Eleanor,’ she adds curtly. ‘Okay?’

I stare at her, uncomprehending. Eleanor is Edie’s older sister, who I’ve never actually met. She’s also a minor celebrity, ever since she started dating a wildly famous actor at the age of twenty-one – a famous, married actor. The news broke when they were photographed leaving a hotel together while he was in London for the premiere of his wife’s latest film, and the fallout was predictably explosive. Edie was thirteen then, and life as she knew it was over. We had that in common – that, and being sent to boarding school as a result. Unlike me, Edie was relieved to go. She told me that photographers used to camp outside their house, shouting awful things at anyone who came or went to try and provoke a response. A portion of their interest lay in the fact that Edie’s parents just so happened to be extremely wealthy and vaguely aristocratic – ideal tabloid fodder. They’re also very nice people, but that’s beside the point. The story dragged on long after the relationship itself ended, by which point Eleanor had converted the attention into a sizable social media following. She’s been steadily producing content ever since.

I’m genuinely surprised Edie’s even uttered Eleanor’s name – I remember trying to bring her up once and Edie shutting it down with shocking efficiency. This wasn’t long after we’d first gotten together, actually – we were on a ‘date’ at the time, which back then meant sneaking out to the tennis courts after lights-out with a bottle of peach schnapps. It was autumn, and I’d given her my sweatshirt to wear when she’d started shivering. It swamped her, of course, but seeing her wear my clothes had lit up my heart like a floodlight.

‘You can keep that.’ I’d said, watching her. ‘It suits you.’

‘Nah.’ She replied, scrunching her nose. ‘That’s so … couple-y.’

‘… We’re a couple.’

‘Yeah, but we don’t need to shout it from the rooftops. It’s not anyone else’s business.’

‘Come on.’ I laughed. ‘This place is a fish bowl. Everything is anyone’s business.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I. I mean – I get why you might want your privacy, but—’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just, because of everything that happened with your sister, I suppose.’

‘It has nothing to do with her.’

‘… Okay. I’m sorry, I—’

‘I’m tired,’ she said brusquely, abruptly standing up and peeling off my sweatshirt, throwing it in my lap before striding away. I just sat there for a moment, too stunned to be hurt. Then I remembered that it was the middle of the night and scrambled to my feet, trailing her back to the dormitories like a scolded dog. The next morning, she greeted me at breakfast with a smile and pretended like nothing had happened.

Basically, ‘blame Eleanor’ could mean absolutely anything.

‘Is she … all right?’ I venture.

‘Great,’ Edie says. ‘She’s decided to give reality television a go. Her and a few other “influencers” are getting paid a stupid amount of money to live with cameras pointed in their faces.’

‘Oh,’ I say, the implications dawning. Edie and Eleanor look spookily similar. They share a surname. And if the show is popular …

‘She told me about it before she signed up,’ Edie continues. ‘I begged her not to, obviously. I told her that it would ruin any chance I had of being taken seriously at my new job, and …’

She falls silent, shaking her head before taking a sip of her wine. She’s clearly furious – her nostrils are flaring, which is always a dead giveaway. I think she might stab me with a cocktail skewer if I pointed that out, though.

‘And … ?’ I prompt hesitantly.

Edie lets out a small, humourless huff of laughter. ‘And she told me that she could get me on the show as well. In a supporting role, of course.’

I wince, imagining the nuclear argument that inevitably ensued.

‘Yep,’ she says tersely. ‘But it’s a big firm. Seeing as no one knows or cares about who Eleanor is outside of the UK, I applied for a transfer. They run pretty much the same internship scheme in New York as they do in London.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘That was lucky.’

‘Not really. Mum went to uni with the head of my division, so …’

‘Ah.’ I smile. ‘Nepotism strikes again.’

‘It’s not like you can talk,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘You’re working with your dad, right?’

‘No. What made you think that?’

‘I just assumed. Did Maggie find you something?’

‘Caroline, actually. I wait tables in her girlfriend’s restaurant.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Not a joke,’ I say mildly, taking a sip of my drink.

Edie blinks at me. ‘Seriously?’

‘It’s only part time, but – yeah. It’s all right.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ she says flatly. ‘Your family is unbelievably connected. You could literally work anywhere you want.’

‘I don’t particularly want to work, though.’

‘Then go to uni! You can’t disown your privilege, if that’s what you’re attempting.’

‘Oh, so you’re saying I should lean into it.’ I laugh. ‘Waltz into a job I don’t deserve just because I can?’

‘Wearing shabby old clothes and working for minimum wage won’t change the fact that you’ve never wanted for anything in your life,’ she says coldly. ‘Nothing material, anyway.’

‘This argument feels more like you trying to justify your own choices.’

‘Obviously my parents helped me get my job! They’re helping with my apartment, too – I’m not in denial about it.’

‘How does me not wanting to dick around with spreadsheets all day equate to me being in denial?’

‘Then what do you want to do, Ezra?’ Edie retorts hotly, cheeks colouring. ‘What’s the grand plan?’

‘Sit here and let you berate me, I guess. It feels great.’

‘I’m not berating you. I just – I want to know that you’re doing well.’

‘Oh, do you care?’

‘Obviously I fucking care,’ she snaps, and we both stare at each other for a moment in heated silence. Then – ‘I’ve missed you.’

She sounds reluctant when she says that, like the words have forced themselves past her lips. And then the fight is over as quickly as it began but I’m still angry that she has the nerve to stroll back into my life and immediately pull it apart for her inspection. I’m angry that she seems to think that wearing a fancy outfit and having a laptop sticking out of her bag somehow negates the fact that her stupid internship probably pays less per hour than I make slinging plates around, if at all. But most of all, I’m fucking furious that:

‘I’ve missed you too.’

The relief that traces Edie’s features is obvious when I say that, and I have to look away.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she says quietly. ‘And for not throwing a drink in my face, I guess.’

‘Me, waste alcohol? Never.’

She laughs, and the sound of it makes me feel weird. There’s so much I want to ask her, still, but I honestly don’t think that my pride will allow it. Then again, maybe that’s for the best. It’s probably easier on the both of us if some things remain unsaid.

AUDREY

‘AUDREY, CAN YOU PICK UP ONE OF THE PIECES?’

I do as Julian says, letting it dangle from my fingers like I’m considering my next move.

‘Perfect.’ He nods, turning to a stylist. ‘Can we try it with the glasses?’

An assistant scurries forward with a pair of gold-rimmed cat-eye sunglasses. I place them on the bridge of my nose, figuring that if the make-up artist spent fifteen minutes applying individual fake eyelashes, it’s because they were meant to be seen.

‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. And Marika, you do something with the cocktail.’

Marika lifts her martini glass, swirling the pink liquid inside. Fruit punch, but I assume it’s meant to be a Cosmo or something.

‘Great,’ Julian says, crouching slightly as he starts snapping. Marika and I resume posing, doing our best to ignore the sheer number of people openly gawking at us. Not that I can blame them – we’re in the middle of Washington Square Park, sat opposite each other at a chess table that we had to bribe two old men to relinquish. We’ve been inconveniencing people all day, actually, but there’s always an assistant on hand with a neat wad of bills to smooth things over. The assembled crew is enormous, conspicuous enough to draw the eye even if Marika and I weren’t dressed head to toe in couture – beaded mini-dresses and candy-coloured fur coats, currently. Faux, of course. Marika’s is yellow and mine is lilac, so I hope that’s obvious.

‘Can we move the pieces around a little?’ Julian says. ‘Who here knows how to play chess?’

‘I do,’ Marika replies and starts rearranging them.

‘How am I doing?’ I ask, watching her.

‘Not well. Your queen is vulnerable.’

‘Bummer.’

‘Mm. You can pull it back, though.’

The park is the third stop of the day – early this morning we were at an empty cinema in Times Square, wearing velvet suits and metallic platform boots. We held popcorn and propped our feet up on the chairs in front, while trailers played in total silence to make sure that the light on our faces was just so. Then we were sitting in a red vinyl booth at a tired-looking diner, drowning in huge, fluffy tulle dresses with stacks of food piled up in front of us. Pancakes and waffles, burgers and fries – two assistants tore into it beforehand to make it look like Marika and I had demolished it between us. No one actually swallowed a single bite, though – it was spat out, scraped away. Wasted.

‘Hold on,’ Julian says, frowning at his phone. ‘I need to take this – let’s break, yeah?’

‘Five-minute break!’ one of the crew members yells as people start to disperse. ‘Models, stay where you are.’

‘Stay where you are, model,’ Marika murmurs, meeting my eye. I smile, wishing I could tell her how glad I am that she’s here today. I honestly don’t think that I could have faced any of this without her.

I only managed a few snatches of sleep last night. I spent most of my waking hours staring at the slats of Marika’s bunk above me, my mind racing. I finally gave up when the first light of dawn began to creep through the window, throwing a sweatshirt over my pyjamas and grabbing my jacket. I walked around aimlessly for what felt like hours, eventually stopping for an egg and bacon sandwich from the bodega that Ezra took me to. The same guy was behind the counter, and he gave me another free coffee, this time with a big, lopsided smiley face drawn on the cup with red marker. I almost wept.

We got to the first location a little after seven. Julian was already there, and I was scared that I might have this big, involuntary reaction to seeing him again. But no – he was just … there, and Marika and I were hustled into hair and make-up after exchanging the necessary pleasantries, my expression carefully fixed in a small, stiff smile throughout. He’s been too harried to pay either of us any particular attention since then.

I glance over at where he’s pacing circles on a patch of grass, phone wedged under his chin, arms folded against his chest. Seeing him in the light of day is enough to make my memories of the studio seem murky and disjointed. Too strange to be true, almost. But then I remember his breath on my neck, his fingers brushing my skin …

‘How do you think it’s going?’ Marika asks. I look at her – she’s still moving the pieces, playing a game against herself.

‘Um – okay, right? What do you think?’

‘I think it’s going well. The looks are good.’

‘What about Julian?’ I venture.

Her gaze cuts upwards and I immediately regret asking. ‘That’s a loaded question.’

‘I just meant – I remember you saying before that you didn’t think he was very experienced,’ I bluster.

‘Yeah – he’s not. He’s a total nepo baby.’

‘What?’

‘He’s Miranda’s nephew,’ she says, arching a manicured brow. ‘His real name is Jonah Browning.’

‘You’re kidding,’ I say, stunned. ‘How do you even know that?’

‘The Internet is a wonderful tool.’

‘… He changed his name so people wouldn’t know?’

‘No, I’m sure that most people know. But this way he gets to pretend that he made it on the strength of his work alone.’

‘What do you think of Miranda?’ I ask impulsively, suddenly remembering being backstage together at that first show – hearing Marika scoff while Miranda was taking.

‘Hard to say without meeting her,’ Marika says evenly. ‘I’m sure she’s nice or whatever, but that Fashion Week speech was bullshit. The whole “every woman deserves to feel brave and beautiful and that’s why I do this” lecture? When her prices start at ninety dollars for a keyring, and she doesn’t make clothes bigger than a size fourteen? Yeah, okay.’

‘You’re totally right,’ I realise. ‘God – that didn’t even occur to me.’

‘Why should it? It’s not your problem.’

‘Hopefully because I’m not totally self-involved?’ I frown.

‘It’s a fucked-up industry.’ She shrugs. ‘We could wring our hands about it all day long but it’s not productive. Not while we’re still on the bottom rung of the ladder. And how I feel about Miranda as a person is irrelevant, honestly. If she shows up tonight, then I’m going to fawn accordingly.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Drinks, to celebrate the shoot. Some of the crew were talking about it earlier – I think it was when you were having your hair redone.’

‘Do we have to go?’

‘Yeah,’ Marika says simply, and my heart sinks. Of course we do. It’d look awful if we didn’t – ungrateful, bratty. People talk, and I’m not established enough to risk it. I just – I keep waiting for this whole thing to end and it won’t. It won’t fucking end.

‘It’s casual,’ she adds, watching me. ‘You could invite Ezra, if you wanted. I had plans with Nicole tonight so I’m asking her along.’

I nod wordlessly, still processing. Marika looks like she’s going to say something else, but—

‘Break over!’ someone yells. ‘Reset, let’s get going.’

I straighten, lift my chin, reposition my sunglasses. Reset, I think. Keep going.

EZRA

‘THAT’S A VERY COOL PLACE, BABE. ARE YOU SURE YOU’LL GET IN?’

Worryingly enough, Mac doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

‘I – are you serious? I thought it was just some random bar.’

‘Nuh-uh. Like – if you’re a normie and you want to hook up with someone famous, it’s the place. This month, at least.’

‘Is it now?’ I murmur, raising an eyebrow as I wedge a cigarette between my lips. Mac leans over to take one – we’re sitting together on the crates behind the restaurant, wasting our lunch break.

‘Allegedly.’ He grins. ‘The drinks are too expensive but the vibe’s okay. Consider something other than saggy knitwear or oversized flannels, please.’

‘There’s a dress code?’ I ask, leaning over to light his cigarette before mine – manners maketh the man and all that.

‘Not officially, but it’s advisable to look good. You’re meeting Audrey there, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Mm. Maybe borrow something of mine. It’ll be nice for her to see you make an effort. Then after that, maybe a move?’

‘She’s the stylish one,’ I say mildly, choosing to ignore that last comment. ‘I’m adorably homespun.’

‘Adorably single, too. And remember, she’s leaving any day now – if you miss your window then she’ll have no reason to even remember you, let alone keep in touch.’

‘What would you do, then?’ I retort, irritated by the (deeply unwelcome) reminder that time is of the essence.

‘Well, I would have never let it get to this point.’

‘Great. That’s great advice. Thank you so much.’

‘It’s not too late, though! Tonight is your golden opportunity. Being in a bar means lower stakes – if she shoots you down, you can duck out with minimal humiliation.’

‘Glad we’re covering the worst-case scenario.’

‘It’s cute that you think that that’s the worst-case scenario.’

‘You’re an awful hype man.’

‘But an incredible wingman. I’m even willing to lend you clothes, babe. That’s a big deal for me.’

‘Good luck finding anything that fits.’

‘We’ll figure it out. I’ve got a few things in my locker than might not look heinous with those trousers.’

‘You keep clothes in your locker?’

‘I keep everything in my locker. I could live out of this place if I wanted to. And I’ve considered it.’

‘Times are tough, huh?’

‘Yeah,’ he says shortly. ‘And for that reason, I’m going to continue stealing your cigarettes.’

I roll my eyes but pass him the pack – I keep my cards in the wallet Audrey gave me now.

‘Aw, shucks.’ Mac smiles, slipping it into his pocket. ‘And it’s not even my birthday.’

‘It’d be a pretty sad excuse for a gift if it were. Besides, I thought you were a singer.’

‘Occasionally. Why – are you worried about me damaging my instrument?’

“Aren’t you? What about that school you always talk about – is that still happening?’

‘Yeah,’ he says after a beat. ‘I’m just waiting to hear back, is all.’

‘But you can act and sing or whatever outside of it, right? Like – if you wanted to audition for something—’

‘And admit that I’m a failure?’

‘A failure?’ I laugh. ‘You’re nineteen.’

‘Exactly. Dominic got into Juilliard on his first audition and we’re literally the same age.’

Dominic, Mac’s maybe-date from the other night.

‘Right. How that’s going?’

‘It isn’t,’ Mac says matter-of-factly. ‘He’s into monogamy and I’m not. Not right now, anyway, so – go on. Judge away.’

‘What makes you think I’d judge you for that?’ I frown.

‘Because you probably have an adorably conventional line-up of conventionally adorable ex-girlfriends, which – that’s fine! Totally fine. But it’s not for me.’

‘One ex-girlfriend,’ I correct him. ‘And she wasn’t conventional.’

Mac raises an eyebrow. ‘I see. The one that got away?’

‘No, uh – she comes and goes as she pleases, I guess.’

‘You still see her?’

‘Just the other night. She’s in the city, so …’

‘She better not be reason that you’re dragging your feet with Audrey.’

‘I’m even not going to dignify that with a response,’ I tell him, ignoring a prickle of unease. This is getting a little too similar to the conversation that I had with Caroline, who’s been AWOL since her blowout with Maggie. She’s been doing it for years, now – just taking off whenever she feels like it, never offering explanation or notice. I guess the important thing is that Romy doesn’t seem to mind, which is probably part of why things are working out between them. Caroline has always chafed under anything resembling dependency.

I worry that I have the opposite problem, sometimes. That I need too much to be needed.

‘Well, I’m team Audrey if you do fuck her over,’ Mac says airily. ‘Celebrity hanger-on is my back-up career, and she and Marika are my best bets right now.’

‘Does the whole acting thing really begin and end with one school, though?’ I press. ‘Like – have you ever thought about getting an agent and just seeing what happens?’

‘Sure,’ Mac says after a pause. ‘But I don’t think I’d ever stop feeling like I missed out, you know? Juilliard – it’s not just about getting to act. I want to study my craft. And I don’t want the defining role of my career be a toothpaste commercial.’

‘In fairness, you have very nice teeth.’

‘Ha ha. Want to get a hot dog?’

‘Interesting pivot.’

‘Talking about this bums me out and I’d rather eat my feelings.’ He sighs, absently ruffling his hair as we get to our feet and start to walk. ‘There’s a vendor up the street that’s yet to fuck me up.’ ‘How come?’

‘Just lucky, I guess. Plus the dude wears gloves.’

‘I was talking about the “bummer” thing,’ I say, nudging him. ‘I can see it all happening for you – the dream-tier stuff. You’re just that kind of person, you know? You’ll make it happen.’

‘Thanks,’ Mac says, glancing at me sideways. ‘I think I really needed to hear that, actually.’

And I smile, not wanting to ruin the moment by telling him that I forgot my wallet.

AUDREY

IT SOUNDS SO NAÏVE, IN HINDSIGHT, BUT FOR A LITTLE WHILE IT actually seemed like I might have a nice time tonight.

Most of the crew went straight to the bar after the shoot, but Marika lied and claimed we’d left our purses at our apartment, stealing us a brief reprieve. We used it to make dinner, a hasty concoction of peanut butter and noodles, which we ate on the floor of our bedroom in full glam, glancing up at each other every so often and giggling hysterically, giddy with exhaustion. It was nice – like we were roommates at uni or something. Marika even lent me another one of her dresses to wear, a floral mini with frilled sleeves, and by the time we were clambering into yet another taxi I was feeling almost cheerful. There was no guarantee that we’d even get into the bar we were heading to, and if we were turned away for not having ID then we’d have an airtight excuse to leave. Maybe we could do something together, I’d figured, Marika and Nicole and Ezra and I.

‘Imogene just messaged,’ Marika said, frowning at her phone. ‘The bar’s a bust – too many people. ‘

‘Imogene’s there?’

‘I guess it’s spun into something bigger than drinks. Julian’s offered to host at his apartment. They’re all heading there now.’

I felt myself go cold.

‘Oh,’ I managed.

‘Don’t worry,’ Marika said easily, tapping at her screen. ‘No one’ll notice a few late stragglers. Just send Ezra the address. I’m messaging Nicole now.’

And Marika was right, of course. Julian’s large, tastefully minimalist apartment is heaving with people, most in an advanced state of inebriation. People including Ezra, who arrived looking disarmingly cool in a snug, high-necked charcoal jumper and black trousers. He smiled when he saw me and told me I looked nice. I don’t remember what I said in reply.

That was about an hour ago. Right now, I’m standing at the periphery of a conversation between him and a few guys from the crew. I’m not entirely sure what they’re talking about – I’ve been drifting in and out of other people’s discussions all night, laughing when it’s appropriate to laugh, answering questions when they’re asked. Waiting to leave.

I look up at Ezra, then, watching the tendons in his neck move as he talks. I’m not sure if I regret asking him to come tonight. Marika has been busy networking, and I’m grateful to have had someone by my side. I don’t like him being here, though, in this space. I don’t want these two worlds to bleed together.

He’s looking back at me, I realise absently.

‘Sorry?’ I say, noticing too late that he’s asked me a question.

‘I asked if you wanted a drink.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, glancing over at the kitchen to check that Julian’s nowhere near it. ‘Okay.’

We peel away from the group, me trailing Ezra as he steers us through the crowds. He stops dead the second we’re in a quieter corner, though, turning to face me.

‘Sorry, um – can we just talk for a moment?’ he says stiltedly.

‘Sure,’ I reply, like my stomach hasn’t just dropped to the floor. ‘What’s up?’

‘I guess that’s kind of what I’m asking you,’ Ezra says quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose like he has a headache. ‘I mean – you’ve barely said two words all night, and I genuinely can’t tell if you don’t want to be here or if you don’t want me here.’

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘No, I do. Really, Ezra – I’m so glad you came.’

‘So … the first one?’

‘Definitely the first,’ I say firmly. ‘Today was long and crazy – I just want it to be over with, really. I’m sorry.’

‘Is that it, though?’ Ezra presses. ‘I mean – is that all of it?’

I meet his gaze, startled by the question. Even more startling are his eyes – they look molten, suddenly, almost liquid with empathy. My mouth goes dry.

‘Yeah,’ I say, voice wavering slightly. ‘That’s it.’

His features shift, then, eyes dimming. He knows I’m lying.

‘Okay,’ he says, drawing away. ‘Well …’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, impulsively reaching out to take his hand. It only takes me a second to realise how weird and stupid that is, but when I move to pull away he stops me, threading his fingers through mine. His hand, in mine. Mine in his, and his gaze has dropped to my lips. The noise of the party recedes into nothing, suddenly, and blood rushes to my head as I watch his throat bob, lips parting—

‘Audrey!’

I drop his hand, whirling around to see Imogene. She’s wearing a black wrap dress and tortoiseshell earrings, beaming and beautiful and so not who I want to be looking at right now.

‘Imogene.’ I smile, face hot. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi. How are we doing?’

‘Good. Uh – this is Ezra. Ezra, Imogene. She’s my agent.’

‘It’s nice to meet you! Are you a part of the crew?’

‘Ezra’s a photographer,’ I say quickly. ‘Among other things.’

‘Oh, great! I’m so sorry to be interrupting but can I steal Audrey for a sec? I promise to bring her back!’

‘No worries,’ Ezra says, voice throatier than usual. ‘I’ll be around.’

And then I’m being guided away, still reeling. I glance back over my shoulder – Ezra looks similarly dazed, but then he’s gone from sight and I find myself standing in front of a woman that I’ve never seen before. And Julian. Julian is standing beside her.

‘Audrey, I’d like you to meet Sasha.’ Imogene smiles.

‘Hey there,’ the woman – Sasha – says, reaching out to shake my hand. Her fingers are covered in chunky rings and her hair is short and pink, cut bluntly and tucked behind her ears. ‘Cute dress.’

‘Oh – thank you,’ I bluster. ‘It’s really nice to meet you.’

‘Sasha works in casting,’ Imogene tells me. ‘Julian’s been showing her some of the pictures from today.’

‘He did.’ Sasha nods. ‘And I think you might be perfect for an editorial a friend of mine is putting together.’

‘Oh! Um – wow. I wish I had my comp cards on me.’

‘I’ve got Imogene’s details.’ Sasha smiles. ‘Don’t worry about all that.’

‘Audrey,’ Julian says suddenly. ‘You don’t have a drink. Am I failing in my hosting duties?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say quietly, unease coiling in my stomach. I don’t like hearing him say my name.

‘I’ll take another seltzer if you’re offering,’ Imogene interjects, smiling. ‘Sasha?’

‘A beer, if you’ve got it. Thanks.’

‘Sure,’ he says, looking back to me. ‘Give me a hand?’

I freeze, my mind clawing at the air for an excuse – a reason why I need to leave, actually, need to get out of here immediately.

Nothing comes, though.

Imogene and Sasha are already chatting about something else, totally oblivious. So – I go. I follow him through the room, towards the kitchen, desperately casting my eyes around in the hopes of locking eyes with a stranger. The kitchen is an open space, at least – we’re not alone. He won’t do anything.

‘Sasha’s great, right?’ Julian says then, placing two heavy-bottomed glasses on the countertop. ‘She’s got a lot of pull in this industry.’

‘She seems really cool,’ I say, furtively eyeing the distance between us – I’m standing about as far away as I can without it looking conspicuous, though if he’s noticed he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

‘She is.’ He nods, picking up an oblong-shaped decanter. ‘And she has a real eye for talent. Something we have in common.’

He’s pouring two measures of what I assume is whisky, pushing one towards me. I don’t want it, but I pick it up anyway and take a sip, freeing myself from the obligation of a reply. It tastes awful and I swallow quickly – he sees me wince and laughs.

‘Not a bourbon drinker, then.’

‘Not a drinker at all,’ I reply pointedly. I can’t believe that he doesn’t already know my age, but it won’t hurt to remind him. He just nods again, picking up his own glass and swirling the contents in the palm of his hand.

‘Your hair really does look great,’ he says then, smiling. ‘The blonde.’

‘Yeah, uh – it’s a big change,’ I reply, discomfited. His whole body is turned towards me, now, and I’m focusing my line of sight on his left eyebrow so I don’t have to meet his gaze.

‘Uh-huh. It was my idea, you know.’

‘… What was?’

‘The blonde,’ he says, setting down his glass. ‘You were too “girl next door” before, so I suggested it to Imogene.’

I feel heat rush to my face like I’ve been slapped. He’s still smiling – grinning, really – and I want so badly for him to stop.

‘Right,’ I manage. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘You’re welcome. And I agree with Sasha, by the way. You look cute in this dress.’

And before I can point out that I didn’t thank him, or that that’s not what Sasha said, he’s reached out to touch it. I stiffen, feeling every bit as trapped as I did in his studio as he moves closer and gathers the hem in his hand. Then he slips his hand beneath the fabric, splaying his fingers across my thigh – I stiffen, revulsed.

‘There’s people,’ I hear myself whisper.

‘I know,’ he murmurs back, voice low and conspiratorial. ‘Anyone could see.’

Something snaps, then – I jerk backwards but he moves too, gripping me now – I’m dimly aware that there’s pain but I can’t feel it, not really. Just the pressure, the insistence of his grasp. Fingers in flesh.

‘Please let go,’ I choke out, expecting to see his smile disappear. But if anything, it softens. It’s as though I’ve just said something very sweet.

‘Only because you asked so nicely,’ he replies, and his hand goes slack. White spots appear in front of my eyes, and I realise then that I haven’t breathed since he touched me.

‘Finish your drink,’ he says. ‘Your friends are probably missing you.’

My hands are shaking as I raise the glass to my lips again. I barely taste it this time, and he watches as I swallow.

‘Good girl,’ he says, then turns towards the fridge. I’m breathing hard, vision clearing, but when I look around, I see that no one is looking back. No one is looking. No one saw. Julian takes two cans from the fridge, shutting it with a snap and flashing me one last smile.

‘Enjoy your night, yeah?’ he says pleasantly, and then he’s gone but the impression remains, the sear of his handprint against my skin. I’m still holding the glass, I realise, and set it down with a shaking hand, wondering too late what would happen if I started to scream.

If I’d ever be able to stop.

EZRA

‘THIS IS WHAT BEING MARRIED TO A POLITICIAN MUST FEEL LIKE.’

‘Gross.’

‘Speak for yourself. I’m pretty sure I’d thrive as a trophy husband.’

‘I think I’d rather be the controversial ex-girlfriend,’ Nicole muses. ‘Sell stories to tabloids. Do the reality TV circuit. Start a line of flavoured vodkas, maybe.’

‘Not tempted to get out there and do some schmoozing of your own? I mean – you said you’re a freelancer, right?’

‘Yep,’ Nicole says, pausing to take a sip of her beer. ‘And I would, totally. Only networking sucks and it makes me want to peel my own skin off.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘That, yeah. Have you ever noticed it’s almost exactly the same as a bad first date?’

‘I’m probably not the person to ask.’

‘Then I’m telling you. Dry questions, forced laughter – God bless the Internet.’

‘For facilitating hook-up culture?’

‘For social media.’ She smiles. ‘It’s how I book most of my gigs. And I mean, the apps are fine too, but I prefer an old-fashioned meet-cute.’

‘You and me both,’ I say mildly, and her smile becomes a grin.

‘I know. Marika told me you met Audrey in a back alley.’

‘Well – that makes it sound a lot seedier than it actually was,’ I begin, and Nicole cackles with laughter. I’m resisting the urge to ask her what else Marika’s said about me, now. I’m not actually convinced that she likes me all that much, but given her emotional (and literal) proximity to Audrey, I’d prefer it if she didn’t totally hate my guts.

At least Nicole seems amenable to my presence. I found her doom-scrolling in a corner not long after Audrey got dragged off – Marika had offered us a half-hearted introduction earlier, and we’ve since bonded over our mutual desire to get out of here as soon as humanly possible.

Still, it’s taken sincere, concentrated effort to stand here and make conversation instead of trawling this party to find Audrey. I just can’t stop thinking about earlier – about that brief, shining moment in which kissing her seemed like a reasonable thing to do. No, not reasonable, right, hence my desperation to finish what we may or may not have started. What if I do track her down, though – what then? Hover behind her like a creep? Throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of here?

‘I might head outside for a cigarette,’ I hear myself say then, slightly discomfited by how appealing that second scenario currently sounds. ‘Want to come?’

‘I’m good,’ Nicole says lightly. ‘I have my flawless complexion to consider.’

‘Gotcha. Uh – if you see Audrey …’

‘I’ll send her your way.’ She smiles. ‘Godspeed.’

I offer a smile in reply before I duck away, slipping through the crowds and out of the door. As soon as I’m in the hallway I make a beeline for the stairwell – this building is fancy enough to have an elevator, but I’d rather work off some of this pent-up energy. I stop dead in my tracks, though, when I see a figure sitting hunched on the top step, a curtain of pale hair obscuring her face.

‘Of all the stairwells in all the apartment buildings—’ I begin, only to have my stupid little joke cut off by Audrey looking up at me with a blotchy, tear-stained face.

‘Ezra.’ She sniffs, hastily wiping her face. ‘Hey.’

I clear the distance between us in a second, dropping down to crouch beside her.

‘I’m fine,’ she says quickly, but no, she’s not. Her eyes are glassy, her make-up smudged – there’s goosepimples standing up on her arms. I move to pull off my jumper – Mac’s jumper, actually – but she puts out a hand to stop me.

‘I’m fine. I just – I want to go home,’ she says stiltedly.

‘Okay.’ I nod. ‘We’ll get you a cab. I’ll go with you to your apartment.’

But fresh tears are brimming in her eyes and she’s shaking her head, face crumpling.

‘No,’ she says, voice breaking. ‘I want to go home. I want – I want my mum.’

And then she abruptly dissolves into sobs, hiding her face in her hands like it’s something shameful. I put my arm around her as she curls back into herself, breathing hard and ragged – the gesture feels tepid, ineffectual, but she leans into the embrace. Soon I’m holding her and I can feel every shudder, every hitch of her chest as she struggles to calm down enough to breathe.

‘It’s okay,’ I tell her, not knowing if it is. ‘You’re okay.’

She doesn’t want to go back to her apartment. Doesn’t want to be alone, I’m guessing, and I’m relieved that I don’t have to leave her. She nods when I suggest my place and says nothing during the cab ride, head bent over her phone as she taps out a message to Marika.

‘Can I use your bathroom?’ she asks when we get inside. Now that she’s calmed down, there’s a flatness to her voice that unnerves me.

‘Yeah,’ I say, and while she’s in there I make coffee, pour a glass of water, fetch a sweatshirt from my room – I don’t want her to feel like she has to keep asking me for things, so I try to anticipate what she might need. I’m sitting at the dinky little kitchen table with a New Yorker crossword and a coffee of my own when she finally returns.

‘Hey,’ I say, lowering my pen.

‘Hi,’ she replies, hovering for a second before she comes and sits opposite me. I push a mug of coffee and the water towards her, handing her the sweatshirt. She takes it from me, holding it to her chest. She’s washed her face, and I can see purple smudges of sleeplessness under her eyes.

‘How are you feeling?’ I venture.

‘Tired,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long day – a long week. I’m homesick. I let it get on top of me.’

That flatness, still – every word rings false. I want to get down on my knees and grab her hands and fucking beg her to tell me the truth.

‘I think I might go and get some food,’ I say instead. ‘The place on the corner is always open – is there anything you want? Or don’t want?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Okay.’ I nod. ‘But I’ll get enough for two, probably. I like leftovers, so …’

‘You don’t have to look after me,’ she says, voice small. ‘I mean – I’m really grateful and everything but you don’t have to go out of your way.’

‘I’m not,’ I tell her. ‘I eat too, you know. It’s a habit of mine.’

She doesn’t smile. Just stares at me with those big, dark eyes.

‘It’s fine,’ I reiterate. ‘Don’t feel like I’m doing you any favours. This is all normal stuff for me.’

‘It’s not for me,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m not like this. I – I barely ever cry.’

‘I have no reason to believe that,’ I reply and that makes her smile – briefly, albeit. It’s like a crack of sun through the clouds.

‘That’s fair,’ she says softly. ‘Fair enough.’

We’re both silent for a moment, and she takes a small sip of her coffee. Then:

‘Can I come with you?’ she asks. ‘To get the food?’

‘Course,’ I say, my heart lifting. ‘You want to borrow a jacket?’

‘No, this is good,’ she says, tugging the sweatshirt over her head. Her hair is all askew when she emerges, and I reach out to smooth it down without thinking. I offer my arm, too, when she wobbles and nearly falls trying to wedge her feet back into her heels. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel particularly strange when she slips her hand into mine afterwards, squeezing it gently. I squeeze it back, a reply.

Neither of us lets go this time.

AUDREY

‘I’D JUST FEEL BETTER IF YOU COULD TELL US MORE ABOUT WHAT’S happening.’

‘I know. I wish I had more to tell you.’

‘Have you spoken to Leanne? Does she not want you back in London?’

‘The London agency gets a cut of whatever I make over here. They don’t care.’

Mum sighs, the sound crackly down the phone. No doubt she’s pacing around like she always does when she’s stressed, except usually it has something to do with a shipment or a supplier. Not her newly evasive daughter who’s currently doing something similar, padding circles around a strange apartment in her bare feet. Except it doesn’t actually feel that strange – maybe because it’s Ezra’s, and Ezra’s never really felt like a stranger.

‘I don’t like it when you talk like that,’ Mum says quietly. ‘We’ve never even met Isabelle.’

‘Imogene. She’s lovely. And a really good agent, so …’

‘I just can’t stand the thought of you being alone in a big city and not having anyone to look out for you.’

‘Imogene looks out for me. And my friends. I actually have friends here.’

That last part slips out before I can think better of it, and it sounds almost comically petulant. My instant regret is mingled with a sense of self-righteousness, though – maybe she doesn’t realise that I’m hurt too. Every phone call home leaves me feeling sick, hollow – I can’t stand the questions, the needling little insinuations. Maybe she thinks it’ll get me home sooner, but that just goes to show how little she understands my life now.

Mum’s silent for what feels like a long time. Then, ‘Your dad and I need to know what’s going on with you,’ she says finally. ‘You barely call us.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘And that worries me too! You’re still a teenager, Audrey!’

‘And I already have a career. That’s more than most people my age can say.’

‘Is it, though? Because to me, it seems like you’re being exploited—’

‘I’m sorry I’m not better at keeping in touch.’ I cut her off, suddenly needing this conversation to be over. ‘I’ll do better. But I have to go now.’

‘Already? Your dad—’

‘I have a meeting,’ I lie. ‘I’ll message you later. Tell Dad I said hi.’

And then I end the call, tossing my phone on to Ezra’s sofa. I woke up here this morning, the sun in my eyes and a blanket laid over me. For a second I didn’t know where I was and couldn’t remember the night before. But then reality swept in, cold and ugly, and suddenly I felt so wretched and scared and fucking stupid that all I could think about was Mum – how she’d make it all okay if she were here.

She’s not, though, and the distance between us amounts to more than miles. It was a mistake to call her. She wants clarity, answers, reassurance that I’m on my way home – I just wanted to be reminded that my real life is elsewhere. To make what happened last night feel smaller.

I exhale and look around – I need to make myself useful before I think too hard and start crying again. I heard the hiss of the shower a few minutes ago, which means that Ezra’s awake. Coffee I can do, so I fill the moka pot and fire up the stove. Then I start tidying, and I’m in the middle of clearing away the takeout cartons from last night when he emerges from the bathroom in a striped T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, a towel around his neck. I’m still in Marika’s dress and his sweatshirt.

‘Good morning,’ I say brightly, turning towards the sink. I didn’t want to run out on him again but that doesn’t mean I’m any less embarrassed about being here like this. Again.

‘Good morning,’ he says quietly. ‘Did you sleep okay?’

‘Like an emotionally unstable log,’ I joke feebly. He doesn’t laugh.

‘I’d have let you have the bed, only you’d already fallen asleep.’

‘No, don’t worry about it. You’ve done more than enough. I – I’m really grateful. I know I keep saying it, but …’

He’s standing at my side, now, gently lifting the bubbling coffee pot from the stove. I force myself to look up at him.

‘Thank you,’ I say. He meets my eye, but only briefly.

‘Thank you,’ he replies. ‘You’re a very considerate houseguest.’

I smile, studying his profile. The curve of his nose, the weight of his lower lip – then I look away, abruptly ashamed.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ I mumble, turning and heading for the bathroom.

‘Are you hungry?’ he calls after me. I don’t reply, shutting the door behind me and resting my head against it.

It’s there, still – that needy, stupid want. Ezra is so good and funny and honestly kind of beautiful that when I’m with him it’s so easy to let all of the bad stuff fade into the background. But letting myself feel that – feeling anything other than awful – makes me wonder if maybe the bad stuff isn’t that bad. That it couldn’t be.

Last night I left the party in a daze. After Julian disappeared, everything was fuzzy except for the voice in my head telling me that I had to get out, get away, just fucking leave, and that’s exactly what I did. Or tried to, at least – I don’t know where I would have ended up if I hadn’t tripped and nearly fallen at the stairwell. So, I sat down, the steps cold and unpleasantly gritty against the back of my thighs. This dress is so short, I thought. Then I started to imagine telling someone what had happened, and their response being a string of awful, insinuating questions. Why did you go to a party at his apartment if that photoshoot was really so awful? Why didn’t anyone see him do that if you really were in the middle of the room? Are you sure he wasn’t just flirting? How much were you drinking? And how short was your dress, exactly?

I know – I know that I can’t think like that.

I’m not sure that I can think about it at all, actually – not if I don’t want to totally unravel. But it’s so much harder now that even my fucking reflection reminds me of him. My hair is blonde because he wanted it blonde, and I’d never even met him at that point. I don’t even think that the colour was important. Maybe if I’d been blonde, he would have wanted it red – it only mattered that he had the power to change it in the first place.

There’s no way that I can explain away his actions now. I don’t even know if I can avoid him, either. I don’t doubt that he’ll find ways to be near me, if that’s what he wants.

‘Shut up,’ I say, not even realising that I’ve spoken aloud until I hear the words. I clap my hands to my mouth, praying that Ezra didn’t hear.

This is exactly why I can’t let my thoughts get away from me.

Why I have to stay busy.

When I make my way back into the kitchen, Ezra is at the stove. I hover beside him, face clean, teeth brushed. The toothbrush that I used last time was still in the bathroom and sitting in a cup beside his own, which I tried (and failed) not to read too much into.

‘Oh. Eggs in a nest.’ I smile, peering into the sizzling pan. Inside are two slices of bread with circles cut out of them, an egg in each centre. The circles are in the pan too, toasting.

‘You’ve had them before?’

‘Uh-huh. My dad used to make them on weekends.’

‘Mine too,’ he says after a beat. ‘Weird.’

‘Does he live nearby?’ I ask, oddly touched by the parallel.

‘Tribeca.’

‘Do you see him much these days?’

‘Lot of questions for a Sunday morning.’

‘Are two questions “a lot”?’

‘No,’ he says after a pause, listlessly pushing the toast circles around with a spatula. ‘I’m deflecting, apparently. Sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say quickly, realising my mistake. ‘You never push me to talk about anything. The least I could do is return the favour.’

‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ he says mildly. ‘I’ve pushed plenty.’

‘Very gently,’ I concede, watching the easy way he grips the pan, oddly transfixed by a vein running through his hand. I held that same hand last night, all the way down to the takeout place and back again. It seems surreal now.

‘What are you doing today?’ Ezra asks then, eyes cast down as he deftly flips one of the slices. ‘I mean – did you want to hang out here?’

Yes, I think. For ever, if that’s okay.

‘I should probably head back to the apartment,’ I say instead, wary of overstaying my welcome. ‘Check in with Marika. Run errands – boring life stuff.’

‘Right.’ He nods. ‘So – still no plans to leave, then?’

‘Oh, you mean New York? Um – no. Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Right. I just – you said you were staying for the shoot but that’s obviously done with now, so …’ He trails off, shrugging.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I just do what they tell me.’

‘Then I hope they tell you to stay,’ Ezra says mildly, gaze still trained on the eggs. ‘Selfishly.’

My heart lifts, but the happiness I feel at hearing Ezra say those words is mingled with an awful sense of revulsion at the truth of my own. Me coming to New York was supposed to be a chance to stake my independence, but all I’ve done since I got here is let other people make decisions for me – I’m like a doll with a pull-cord, only ever saying yes, yes, yes. Even to things I didn’t want.

Julian must have seen that inside of me – a deep, clawing desperation to be liked, praised, included. To be good, no matter what that looked like.

‘Me too,’ I hear myself say, and Ezra looks at me sideways, smiling.

I smile back, hoping he won’t notice that I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

EZRA

‘I’M SORRY THAT IT TOOK SO LONG FOR US TO DO THIS,’ MAGGIE says, pensively stirring a matcha latte. ‘Work’s been crazy.’

I glance up at her. We’re in a small coffee shop near her office, a hipster relic with exposed brick walls and plants hanging from the ceiling. Just about every other person in here is frenziedly tapping away at sleek little laptops, and the constant patter of fingers against keys is a weirdly relaxing sound. They charged me five dollars for a black coffee, though, so obviously I’m never coming here again.

‘Yeah?’ I venture. ‘In a good way?’

‘I suppose. Lots of new clients, but that means I’ve been living in the office, basically.’

She sighs, tucking a strand of shiny hair behind her ear. She’s trying to look harried, but I know her too well. Maggie is never happier than when there’s a crisis, and right now she’s radiating satisfaction – it’s in the set of her shoulders, the spark in her eyes.

‘Well, I’m glad it’s going well,’ I say, and she flashes a quick smile.

‘Thank you. I didn’t ask you here to talk about me, though.’

‘No?’ I say, like it wasn’t incredibly obvious that Maggie had ulterior motives in suggesting we ‘get coffee and catch up’. Her and I haven’t done that since … well, ever.

‘No,’ she says, delicately setting her spoon against her saucer. ‘I wanted to talk about your birthday.’

‘Oh. Well – I don’t, particularly, so …’

‘At least let me apologise.’

‘Mags, you don’t—’

‘I do,’ she presses. ‘Caroline was deliberately trying to provoke me, and I gave her exactly what she wanted by rising to it. We spoilt your day, and I am so, so sorry.’

‘Right,’ I say, surprised by the Caroline-centric angle. ‘Except I wouldn’t have said that Caro deliberately—’

‘You don’t need to defend her, Ezra,’ Maggie cuts in. ‘It was your birthday – it was about celebrating you. Caroline was wrong to try and make it about anything else.’

‘It’s always a weird day, though. There’s not really anything any of us can do about that.’

‘There’s nothing weird about it,’ Maggie says intently. ‘And if Caroline implies otherwise, that reflects poorly on her. She won’t accept that we’ve chosen to process our grief differently, and it’s selfish – that’s why she’s so combative about it. She’s selfish.’

‘… Okay,’ I say, distinctly discomfited. ‘So – I take it you guys haven’t spoken since then?’

‘Seeing as she started it, I think it falls to her to reach out first,’ Maggie replies coolly, taking a sip of her latte. I say nothing, unnerved by how this fight is still dragging on. Despite feeling the occasional pang of envy over Maggie and Caroline’s bond, I don’t like the idea of them being at odds with each other.

‘Anyway,’ Maggie says briskly. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’

‘Uh – just this, I guess.’

‘Oh,’ Maggie says, blinking. ‘I didn’t – I have a meeting with a client in half an hour. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s fine,’ I say quickly, embarrassed. ‘I just assumed – it’s my bad.’

‘I’m going to an event tonight, though!’ she says. ‘You could come! Please come.’

‘No, you don’t—’

‘Please, it’ll be fun! A friend of mine is opening a gallery in SoHo – maybe you could network a little! Dad mentioned that you were getting back into photography.’

‘I really don’t love that everyone in this family talks about me behind my back,’ I interject, abruptly annoyed. ‘If you want to know what’s going on in my life then you can ask me, not Dad.’

‘Well, that’s news to me,’ Maggie replies, the chilliness of her tone betrayed by two spots of colour in her cheeks. ‘Caroline’s the only one you ever actually confide in.’

‘Yeah, well – we spend more time together. You and Dad are always too busy working, case in point.’

‘What about my engagement party? No one was working then.’

‘Come on.’ I laugh. ‘You clearly didn’t want me there in the first place.’

‘Ezra, you can’t blame me for being surprised that you came when you didn’t RSVP!’

‘Well, I’m sorry that my social etiquette isn’t up to your standards,’ I retort. ‘I guess boarding schools just aren’t what they used to be.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Maggie says, voice taut – she’s genuinely upset, I realise, and my anger immediately caves in on itself to make way for shame.

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s not. I didn’t – I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘No, I’m being a prick. And that gallery thing sounds like fun. Is Tomas going?’

‘He is,’ she says after a pause. ‘You could bring someone too, if you wanted.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Maybe I will.’

I haven’t seen Audrey since she left my apartment yesterday – she stuck around for breakfast this time. I made eggs. She made coffee. We ate and drank and smiled and tried to pretend that there wasn’t a huge, unspoken something hanging over our heads.

Maybe whatever’s weighing on her will resolve itself. Maybe it’s nothing, like she keeps insisting – maybe I’m just projecting my own bullshit on to her, creating this weird little fantasy where she needs saving and I get to be her white knight. Me being pathetic is an infinitely better scenario than something being actively, seriously wrong. It’s also way more likely.

In any case, I’ve figured that the best course of action is to just be … around. Available, should she need me. And it works in my favour, seeing as she’s currently my favourite person to spend time with.

‘Okay.’ Maggie nods, looking slightly taken aback. ‘I’ll make sure you have a plus one.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile. She returns it, taking another sip of her drink – her engagement ring sparkles in the light as she raises her hand, the stone so massive that it probably has its own gravitational pull. Maggie’s normally all about the understatement, so her walking around with the gemmological equivalent of a foghorn on her finger didn’t make sense to me until I found out that it was a family heirloom, bestowed on her by Tomas’s mother. Whenever I catch her looking at it, it’s with this soft, dreamy smile that’s usually only reserved for him. And that’s love, I guess – a force so powerful that it can undermine even Maggie’s unshakable aesthetic principles.

‘How’s the wedding planning going?’ I ask impulsively. Maggie cocks her head in surprise, probably at my apparent willingness to discuss colour schemes and string quartets.

‘It’s going very well,’ she says after a pause. ‘How would you feel about being a groomsman?’

‘Oh, wow. Is this an official offer?’

‘Well – “offer” implies that you have a choice.’

‘Then I’d be honoured,’ I reply smoothly, and Maggie laughs. I grin, suddenly struck by how rare a sound it is. It always has been, even when we were kids. Maybe that’s why it feels so good to be responsible for it.

AUDREY

‘WHEN YOU SAID GALLERY OPENING, I WAS PICTURING STARK white walls and wine in plastic cups.’

‘Right. Artists milling around, looking you with big, sad eyes.’

‘Exactly.’ I laugh. ‘But this …’ I trail off, lost for words.

Ezra and I are currently amidst a maze of gleaming glass and polished concrete, a cavernous space teeming with chic-looking people all ignoring the art in favour of each other. We managed to find ourselves a relatively subdued corner to sip the champagne that was foisted on us upon arrival, but it’s loud and echoey in here, meaning that we’re standing closer than we normally would. Ezra’s arm is casually braced against the wall behind me, and the idea that a passing stranger might look at us and see a couple refuses to leave my head.

‘Maggie definitely undersold it.’ He grimaces, oblivious to my yearning. ‘And I’m definitely underdressed.’

‘You look great.’ I say without thinking. He’s wearing a button-up shirt and a corduroy blazer tonight, and looks like an off-duty academic. I like it a little too much.

‘You look great,’ he says firmly. ‘I look like I snuck in for the free food.’

‘That’s professional make-up artistry for you,’ I reply, flustered. I came here from a photoshoot and my hair has been teased and fluffed into a bouncy mass of soft curls, my eyelids drooping under false lashes. I’m hoping that the overall effect makes my plain black dress look chic and understated instead of shabby and incongruous.

Today’s been surreal from beginning to end. Imogene called early this morning to tell me to drop whatever I was doing and get myself to the Downtown offices of one of the world’s biggest fashion magazines, seeing as they’d just happened to have booked me for an editorial that same day. I flipped out, of course, thanking her profusely before throwing myself out of the door and into a taxi. It wasn’t until I was almost there that I realised that the editorial in question was probably the one that Julian’s friend Sasha had thought I’d ‘be perfect for’ … I didn’t know how to feel, then. But miraculously, the photoshoot itself was so incredible that I almost managed to put Julian to the back of my mind altogether.

I’ve never experienced anything like it. The editorial itself was for jewellery, and 1960s-themed – hence the huge hair and dramatic make-up. I hadn’t ever modelled jewellery before, but they were all so effusive with praise that before long I was totally at ease. I was the only model featured, which absolutely blew my mind, and everyone on set was so kind – they even made sure I got lunch and actually had time to eat it.

There’s a little bit of that shine still on me, and I feel lighter than I have in weeks.

‘I was going to ask if you’d been working today.’ Ezra nods. ‘How was it?’

‘Good.’ I beam. ‘Really good.’

‘Does it bode well for you staying, then? Booking all these new jobs?’

‘Well, it’s just one.’

‘I’m manifesting more for you.’

‘Oh, you finally got into manifesting.’ I laugh. ‘How’s it working out for you?’

‘I’ll let you know.’ He smiles, voice dropping lower – I take a quick sip of champagne, heat rising in my cheeks.

‘There’s another Fashion Week here in February,’ I say quickly, flustered. ‘So – I’ll be back for that, at least.’

‘Right,’ Ezra says after a pause. ‘Twice a year, right?’

I nod, trying to imagine four months stretching out between us. Will he keep in touch? I know how easy it is to let long-distance friendships wither and die, and I’m guessing that Ezra does too – he never references any friends from school. Maybe we both know that even with the best of intentions, life gets in the way. That doubt creeps in, and after you start to wonder how long is too long to go without talking, it’s pretty much impossible not to convince yourself that they don’t actually care about hearing from you at all.

The idea of reaching out starts to feel desperate, needy.

Desperately needy.

‘Ezra!’

I start, turning to see a willowy, dark-haired girl wearing a forest-green dress. I realise it must be Ezra’s older sister, and she’s heading this way – agh. I so badly want to make a good first impression but I’ve somehow forgotten everything Ezra’s ever told me about her besides her name and the fact that she has a fiancé – the tall, bespectacled man by her side, I’m guessing. She’s smiling, at least, which is encouraging until her gaze falls on me and her expression flickers. But before I can process that her fiancé steps forward, proffering his hand.

‘You must be Edie!’ he enthuses. ‘I’m Tomas. It’s very nice to meet you.’

He has a kind smile and an accent that I can’t place. I shake his hand, endeared by the formality.

‘It’s nice to meet you too. It’s actually Audrey, though.’ I smile, embarrassed at having to correct him.

‘Audrey,’ he echoes, confusion clouding his features. ‘My mistake.’

‘No, it’s fine! I’m awful with names.’ I laugh. ‘Edie is close, so …’

‘I’m Maggie,’ Ezra’s sister says quickly. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. Lovely to meet any friend of Ezra’s.’

Her eyes dart to Ezra. I look to him too – for reassurance, I guess – but I don’t find any. His face is blanched, gaze fixed on the ground. Something is weird. Is it my fault? Did I say something stupid in spite of barely saying anything?

‘So, you’re a schoolfriend of Ezra’s?’ Tomas ventures, mercifully breaking the silence. I open my mouth to reply but Ezra beats me to it.

‘Audrey’s here for work,’ he says brusquely. ‘Listen – we were just heading outside for some air. Can we catch you guys later?’

‘Sure,’ Maggie says, looking about as startled as I feel. ‘We’ll be … around.’

‘All right,’ Ezra says, and then we’re moving – his hand on the small of my back, guiding me towards the exit. I glance back at Maggie and Tomas over my shoulder and see her frowning as she cranes her neck to whisper something in his ear.

Ezra doesn’t say a word until we’ve made our way down a spiralling staircase and out into a small, leafy courtyard. My stomach is in knots, and I stare up at the flat black sky and press my lips together as he fumbles for his cigarettes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, gaze lowered. ‘That had nothing to do with you.’

‘I don’t even know what that was,’ I confess, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes up. It’s something he does when he’s agitated, I’ve noticed.

‘Sorry,’ he says again. ‘But – can we not talk about it? Not right now, at least?’

‘Okay,’ I say, feeling distinctly wounded. He jams a cigarette between his lips and fumbles with his lighter. He can’t get it to work, and is muttering darkly under his breath when I reach out and gently take it from him. It comes to life in my hand. He leans in to the flame, then seems to hesitate, taking the lit cigarette from his mouth without bothering to inhale and tossing it into a planter.

‘I really like you,’ he says suddenly. ‘You know that, right?’

I blink at him, slowly lowering the lighter. My heart has taken this opportunity to remind me of its existence, hammering in protest, but I refuse to echo his words. I want him to elaborate. To tell me exactly how much he likes me. In what way.

‘I worry that you’re going to disappear,’ he continues instead. ‘That one day I’ll message you to hang out and you’ll be like, “Sorry, I’m in England.” ’

‘I wouldn’t disappear like that,’ I say, trying to sound measured. ‘I still have your clothes, for one.’

‘Right.’ He smiles faintly. ‘My towels, too – what happened there?’

‘They’re washed and dried and at my apartment. I’ve been meaning to give them back – whenever I stay at yours it’s always … impromptu.’

Meaning that I only ever stay there when I’m a sobbing, hysterical wreck. Ezra’s nice enough not to point that out, though.

‘Stay whenever,’ he says. ‘Stay for ever.’

He sounds serious – is he serious? I open my mouth only to close it again a second later, suddenly struck by an awful conviction that I’m letting this moment slip through my fingers. I mean – Ezra just told me what I’ve been wanting to hear from almost the first moment that I met him, and I somehow pivoted the conversation to towels – why? Why, when I haven’t even told him the only thing I actually want him to …

‘I really like you too. You – you knew that, right?’

Fuck. I wanted so badly to sound casual, when I said that – matter-of-fact, like I was riffing on what he’d said and not proffering my heart for his inspection. But it all came out in a borderline unintelligible rush, and I’m half-expecting Ezra’s face to split into a grin – for him to say something sarcastic or teasing. Instead, he just kind of … stares at me.

His pupils are blown, lips slightly parted – I’ve never seen him look so utterly unguarded. Then he swallows, throat bobbing as he steps towards me, and suddenly we’re so much closer than we were – I look up at him, feeling like I might teeter backwards, but I don’t. Ezra’s hand is at my waist, holding me steady.

‘Uh – I didn’t, actually,’ he says quietly. ‘But I was kind of hoping.’

We stare at each other for a moment more, his eyes dark and searching. Please, I think, and it’s the last coherent thought I have before his mouth is on mine and the rest of the world slides away into nothing.

I briefly become incapable of processing anything that isn’t concerned with the proximity of my body to his, only faintly aware of his lighter falling from my grasp and clattering to the ground. I’d forgotten I was ever holding it, too concerned with looping my arms around him as his grip on my waist tightens, pulling my body into his. My weight is going out from under me – either that or the earth beneath our feet is crumbling, but it doesn’t matter because he’s got me, here in his arms, cradling my cheek as he parts my lips with his …

My knees actually wobble then, and I pull away with a gasp. I gasp, and it’s so mortifying that I immediately bury my head in his chest to hide my face. Ezra laughs and I can feel the vibrations of it, except – except that’s not laughter, actually. No, those are actual vibrations.

‘Um – is your phone ringing?’ I manage, glancing down – sure enough, his phone is lighting up his trouser pocket, buzzing insistently.

‘Ignore it,’ he says throatily, absently threading my hair between his fingers. ‘It’s not important.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s not more important than this, then,’ he clarifies and just like that, it stops ringing.

‘See?’ He grins, eyes glittering. There’s a colour in his cheeks that wasn’t there before, his hair askew – I don’t think he’s ever looked more beautiful, actually, and I’m currently struggling to believe that this is all actually—

The phone starts ringing again.

‘Take it,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I, um – I’m going to go get water.’

‘No,’ Ezra says quickly. Then, after a pause – ‘I mean – I’ll go with you.’

‘Really, take it,’ I say, feeling slightly dazed as I start to back away. ‘I just – I’ll meet you in there.’

‘I – are you sure?’ Ezra says, sounding deeply, deeply reluctant. I nod, flashing him a smile before I turn away – this is good, I decide. I should probably take a second to compose myself before I blurt out something stupid. Except—

I impulsively spin back around, then, though to do what, I’m not sure – maybe I just want to look at him again. But he’s already turned away, phone in hand. And when he raises it to his ear, I see that it’s Edie calling.

Edie. For a second the name means nothing. But then my brain slots it into place and I immediately avert my gaze, nausea rushing over me.

I thought that Tomas had misremembered my name. When he asked if we were schoolfriends, I figured that it was because we’re both English. But Edie is a real person, and Ezra is talking to her right this second.

No wonder Maggie looked at me like that – they were expecting someone else.

EZRA

‘BUT YOU’RE OKAY, RIGHT? THINGS ARE FINE?’

‘For God’s sake, yes.’ Edie huffs. ‘Why are you acting like me inviting you out for a drink is akin to a mental break?’

‘Okay, okay. I just – I’m kind of in the middle of something.’

‘How tantalisingly vague. You know, I had to swallow my pride to call you in the first place. You never got in touch after last time.’

‘Sorry. As unlikely as it sounds, I’ve had a lot going on,’ I say distractedly, running a hand through my hair as I cast my eyes around the courtyard. Audrey has already disappeared, which makes sense seeing as she practically sprinted away from me.

‘I’ll consider forgiving you if change your mind,’ Edie says airily. ‘We’re in Meatpacking right now—’

‘We?’

‘Me and some people from work. But we can go elsewhere, if you’d prefer.’

‘I can’t, Edie,’ I say, stomach twisting unpleasantly. ‘But have a great time, okay?’

‘Okay. Thanks for telling me to fuck off so politely, I guess.’

‘Edie, I’m not—’

‘You are, but whatever. I’m free on Monday night if you do actually want to see me.’

‘Sounds good,’ I say, repressing a sigh. ‘Look after yourself, okay? Don’t fall down a manhole or anything.’

‘As if you care,’ she retorts snippily, ending the call. I lower the phone, resisting the urge to bash it against my skull – the sky-high elation I was experiencing a literal minute ago has been tainted with cloying, sickly guilt, now. Edie only ever takes on that haughty, sarcastic persona when her feelings are hurt, because God forbid anyone suspect that she actually has any.

I take a deep breath, shaking my head slightly. I can’t deal with this right now. I need to find Audrey – need to pull myself together and then find Audrey, because right now my brain is so fried that the odds of me saying or doing something unhinged are dangerously high. I instinctively fumble for my cigarettes again, but it isn’t until I have one between my lips that I realise I probably shouldn’t be smoking – not if I want to pick up where Audrey and I left off, which I absolutely fucking do—

‘Do you have a spare?’

I turn to see a girl beside me. She’s about Caroline’s age with delicate black braids and golden-brown skin, deeply freckled.

‘I’m quitting,’ she adds by way of explanation. ‘Only my body hasn’t figured that out yet.’

‘Sure,’ I say, passing her the pack. and absently patting down my pockets.

‘No lighter?’ the girl asks, watching me. I shake my head and she reaches into the small, bean-shaped bag on her hip to produce one.

‘You can keep that,’ she says, lighting her own before passing it to me.

‘Thanks,’ I say, hesitating briefly before doing the same – it’s not ideal, I know, but I feel a little calmer already.

‘Thank you. I’m Demi,’ she says, offering me her hand. I shake it briefly – this must be the kind of networking that Maggie had in mind.

‘Ezra.’

‘And what do you do, Ezra? Can I guess?’

‘Go for it.’

‘Something creative. Talent management? Or photography?’

‘Uh – yeah,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Photography, sort of. It’s more of a hobby than anything else, but – how’d you know?’

‘You’ve got that artfully dishevelled look. And your girlfriend’s a model, right?’

My heart does something akin to a backflip, hearing her refer to Audrey as my girlfriend. I guess she saw us kissing, which – it’s nice to be reminded that it actually happened and isn’t just a figment of my fevered, lovesick imagination. We kissed. I kissed Audrey, and she kissed me back, and now – I don’t know what happens, now.

‘Right on both counts.’ I nod, abruptly lightheaded. ‘I mean – this is genuine dishevelment, but that’s impressive.’

‘It’s what I do.’ She grins, exposing a gap between her front teeth. ‘I’m a journalist.’

‘Ah.’ I smile back. ‘I was going to guess private investigator, but that’s almost as cool.’

“When I’m getting paid, sure.”

“You’re freelance?”

‘Uhuh. I do a lot for this website called Soil, though.’

‘I know Soil.’ I say, surprised. ‘It’s like … politics and pop culture stuff, right? My sister’s sent me a couple of your articles. I mean – maybe not yours specifically, but it’s good.’

‘Thanks.’ She smiles faintly. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I work in a restaurant. Waiting tables, mostly.’

‘I was a barista for four years.’ She nods. ‘Working a menial job for minimum wage is a rite of passage for any aspiring creative.’

‘Good to know.’

‘What about your girl? Is she on the struggle bus too?’

‘No, uh – she’s doing great,’ I say, glancing around as though I can somehow will her into reappearing. ‘Just wrapped some big, fancy campaign.’

‘Wow. Who for?’

‘Uh – Miranda something. Miranda Brown?’

‘Miranda Browning,’

‘Right, yeah. Have you heard of it?’

‘Unfortunately,’ she mutters, exhaling smoke. ‘I mean – congrats to your girl, but the brand is toxic. One of my friends interned there a few years ago and it was a nightmare.’

‘Oh, for real?’

‘Uh-huh. She was harassed the entire time she was there. The assistant art director was this notorious creep, but no one ever did anything about it.’

‘Jesus. Didn’t they have an HR?’

‘Said creep was Miranda’s nephew, so he was pretty much untouchable. And he was apparently super nice, at first – had all kinds of advice to make things easier for her. But then it became pretty clear that he just wanted her to feel like she owed him something.’

I grimace.

Demi nods, flicking ash. ‘Mm-hm. She told her supervisor after he groped her at the Christmas party and got advised to “play nice” for a good reference.’

‘Christ. And he still works there?’

‘He rebranded as a photographer, last I heard. I mean – no offence, but the profession is a magnet for creeps, assholes and nepo babies. He just so happens to be all three.’

‘The trifecta,’ I murmur, distracted. My cigarette burns away between my fingertips, all but forgotten. A thought just occurred to me – a stupid thought, probably, but …

‘What was his name?’ I ask. ‘I mean – it wasn’t Julian, was it?’

Demi looks up at me then, eyes intent.

‘Jonah,’ she says after a beat. ‘But someone told me a while back that he changed it to Julian. Julian Mars.’

Something inside of me goes cold, my skin prickling. Demi is still staring at me, and I hastily drop my gaze, dimly aware that my hand is shaking as I take a final drag of my cigarette. I’m trying really hard not to jump to any stupid conclusions but lodged in my head is the memory of Audrey sobbing uncontrollably in the stairwell outside Julian’s apartment.

‘Was he—’ Demi begins, but I shake my head, dropping my cigarette.

‘I should go,’ I say, suddenly needing to be as far away from here as possible. ‘Have a good night – it was nice to meet you.’

‘I’m not so sure it was,’ she says quietly, and I don’t attempt to contradict her before I walk away.

AUDREY

EZRA WAS OUTSIDE ON THE PHONE FOR WHAT FELT A VERY LONG time last night. I paced circles around the gallery while I waited, trying and failing to plan my next move. If I just came right out and asked him who Edie was, would he realise that I’d sneaked a peek at his phone? And even if he did, wasn’t that better than not knowing? Or more specifically, not knowing who she was to him? But I never got to find out – when he did eventually return he looked almost shockingly pale, and before I had a chance to say anything he announced he had a headache and asked if I’d mind us leaving early.

We didn’t talk about the kiss – we didn’t really talk at all in the taxi back to my apartment. He genuinely did look so unwell that I started to worry, tentatively touching his forehead with the back of my hand. He smiled and reached up to clasp it in his, but that was it – once we were out of the cab, he walked me to my door, told me to ‘sleep well’ and walked away. And I slept horribly, of course, but I’ve managed to disguise that with copious amounts of concealer. I wanted to look nice, today, whether this is a date or not.

‘One salted popcorn,’ Ezra says, sliding it towards me across the refreshments counter. ‘Do you want butter?’

‘… On the popcorn?’ I blink.

‘Yeah. It’s an American thing, I guess.’

‘Like … melted butter? Doesn’t that make it all greasy?’

‘Yeah. It’s gross, but I used to smother it in the stuff when I was a kid.’

‘Um …’

‘That’s a no if I ever heard one.’

‘That’s a no,’ I confirm, and he laughs. I feel myself relax at the sound of it – as relieved as I am that Ezra wanted to see me again so soon, the weirdness of how we left things yesterday is gnawing at me.

The girl behind the counter hands Ezra our bucket-sized Coke, and he grabs two straws before we head off in search of our screen. I crane my head as we walk, marvelling at what a time-warp this place is. The walls are red and lit with neon, the carpet luridly patterned and the ceiling inexplicably mirrored. It looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 1990s, and though I’m pretty sure it’s not the place that Ezra used to go to with his mum, I like it a lot.

We take seats towards the back of the auditorium. The theatre’s almost empty – unsurprising, seeing as it’s mid-afternoon on a weekday and The Apartment has been out for about sixty years already. Ezra wedges the giant cup in the holder between us, forcing two straws through the lid. I take a piece of popcorn, chewing slowly as I watch him. He’s pale, still, eyes slightly bloodshot.

‘So – how are you feeling today?’ I venture.

Ezra frowns, shifting in his seat. ‘Um – remorseful, mostly. I’m very aware I owe you an apology.’

‘For what?’ I ask, hoping beyond hope that he’s not about to try and walk back the kiss. I think I’d cry, honestly. Or throw up. Or both.

‘The Maggie thing, for starters.’ He sighs, angling his body towards mine. ‘Genuinely, I was excited for you to meet her. But then I went and made things weird.’

‘Oh,’ I manage. ‘When her fiancé called me Edie, you mean.’

‘Yeah,’ he says after a beat. ‘Uh – I guess that when she said I could have a plus one, I didn’t tell her I was bringing you specifically. I mean – she’d never met you and I didn’t know if you were going to be free, so – that. But she assumed I was bringing someone else, so …’

‘Someone else being Edie,’ I clarify.

He nods. ‘She’s my ex-girlfriend. We went to school together and she moved to New York recently. Maggie knew that, so …’

‘So … you guys hang out?’

Ezra’s expression flickers, and I immediately regret asking.

‘It’s fine if you do, obviously,’ I add hastily. ‘Like – it has nothing to do with me. I’m not jealous.’

Oh God. That last part slipped out before I had the chance to think better of it. I look away, face flaming. Ezra’s going to think that I’m totally clingy and obsessive, now. I mean – I probably am, but …

‘We’ve hung out once since she got here,’ he says. ‘That was her, calling last night to ask if I was free. I said no, obviously.’

‘Well … it’s nice that you guys are still friends.’ I manage weakly, picking at a cuticle.

‘Yeah. I mean – we’re trying to figure that out right now. It didn’t end very well.’

‘Figure out … being friends?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Just friends.’

I nod, internally cringing at the fact that I’ve basically forced him to spell that out for me. Still, the relief I feel is undeniable.

‘I wasn’t deliberately trying to hide it from you,’ he adds. ‘I didn’t want to have this conversation with Tomas and Maggie watching, either, but I’m glad we’re having it now. I want you to feel like we can be honest with each other, because this city is intense. And your job – that’s probably intense too, so if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here. Whatever, whenever. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I say, slightly unnerved by how specific this conversation is getting.

‘So – are you good?’ he presses. ‘Is there anything bothering you, or … ?’

‘If this is about the other night, I’m honestly just a sad, messy drunk,’ I say slowly. ‘Really.’

He nods, leaning back in his chair.

‘Good,’ he says. Then, after a pause – ‘So, just to confirm – you’re not jealous?’

Damn it. I should have known that he wasn’t going to let that one slide.

‘That’s what I said.’ I nod, picking up the soda and taking a sip. Ezra takes it from me when I move to put it back in the cupholder, his eyes meeting mine as our fingers brush.

‘Besides,’ I say impulsively, holding his gaze. ‘If I were jealous, I wouldn’t admit it.’

‘No?’ Ezra says mildly.

‘No,’ I reply. ‘It’s not a flattering emotion.’

‘I don’t know that I’ve ever heard someone describe an emotion as “flattering” before.’

‘It wouldn’t reflect well on me, is what I’m saying.’

‘It’s an involuntary response, surely?’

‘Do you want me to be jealous?’ I counter.

‘Maybe,’ Ezra says after a pause, a crooked smile forming on his lips. ‘Which I suppose doesn’t reflect very well on me, either.’

The screen flickers to life, then, and music starts to pour from the speakers above us as the lights dim. I look towards the screen, struggling to keep my face impassive as my heart pounds insistently, begging me to turn back. Instead, I sit stiffly and angle my chin and pretend I haven’t realised that Ezra is still watching me, eyes burning in the darkness.

‘What made you run away, then?’ he asks, voice low. ‘Last night, I mean.’

‘I don’t remember running,’ I say primly. ‘Maybe you’re misremembering.’

‘Not so sure I am, actually. You peeled off pretty quickly.’

‘Doesn’t ring a bell. When was this, exactly?’

‘Oof. Wasn’t memorable, huh?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Right. Can I offer a refresher?’

‘Smooth,’ I say, and though I’m trying to sound disapproving, the effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that I’m fighting back a smile of my own, giddy with anticipation. Ezra’s moving nearer – I can feel it, hear the creak of the armrest …

‘That wasn’t a no,’ he notes mildly, and no, it wasn’t. That’s probably why I can hear the blood rushing in my ears as he carefully brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. Why I’m shifting in my seat to place my hand on his chest, brushing faded cotton with my fingertips as I breathe him in, the scent of his shampoo, his toothpaste, his skin …

Him kissing me felt like a question last night. This time, it’s an answer.

EZRA

‘YOU KNOW – IN A BETTER WORLD, THE HOSPITALITY SECTOR would be totally egalitarian.’

‘In a better world, wouldn’t everything be egalitarian?’

‘Obviously.’ Mac sighs. ‘But I’m specifically talking about the server and the customer being on equal footing.’

‘That table of twelve really got to you,’ I muse, swirling sake around my cup. We’re currently in a cosy, wood-panelled sushi bar uptown – Mac and Marika are meeting here for an appropriately chic ‘late lunch’ but seeing as Mac and I were on an early shift, he charmingly suggested that I come and ‘keep her seat warm’ until then. Being pathetic, I agreed – resisting the urge to text Audrey every time I’m otherwise unoccupied has recently become an Olympic-level sport, so I was glad for the diversion.

‘Who else? You know, one of them actually had the nerve to give me shit about my nose ring? Like that impacts my ability to wait tables, somehow.’

‘I only cleared their plates. Suspiciously clean, given that they apparently hated the food.’

‘I think servers should be entitled to fight at least one customer a month,’ he says seriously. ‘There’s not a single one of them that I couldn’t have taken.’

‘Nah, you’re too pretty. You don’t want to risk ending up like me.’

‘That’s how you broke your nose?’ he asks incredulously. ‘A fight?’

‘More or less.’

‘Huh. I really didn’t expect that.’

‘Me neither. I probably would have dodged, otherwise.’

‘Who started it?’

‘That probably depends on who’s telling the story,’ I say, shifting in my chair. I don’t love this subject, actually, and I’m starting to regret bringing it up.

‘And that would be you, or … ?’

‘My old roommate.’

‘Ah. I mean – I don’t condone violence in any context, but that makes a little more sense.’

‘You were literally just talking about fighting customers.’

‘Hyperbole. Verbal evisceration is more my thing.’

‘Roommate troubles, then?’ I say, brisky amending the topic at hand.

‘Depends,’ Mac says. ‘Would you consider coming home to discover most of the furniture on the kerb “roommate troubles”?’

‘What?’

‘Everything except the TV, basically. The empty space is more “nurturing to creativity”.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘My thoughts exactly. But it’s not like any of it was mine, so …’ He sighs again, running a thumb around the rim of his empty cup.

‘To top it off, the rent is going up,’ he adds morosely. ‘I’ll have to pick up some extra shifts.’

‘Except you’re already working full-time?’

‘That’s late capitalism, baby.’

‘I didn’t realise we’d be three.’

Mac and I turn to see Marika, wearing brick-coloured trousers and an oversized white shirt. It’s the most casual ensemble I’ve ever seen her in, and yet half of the restaurant is openly staring. She throws her coat over the back of a chair and takes a seat beside Mac, either oblivious or unbothered.

‘Post-work drinks?’ she asks, surveying the table.

‘Something like that,’ I say. ‘I’m not staying.’

‘He’s keeping me company,’ Mac confirms, getting to his feet. ‘And he can keep you company while I go pee.’

‘Lucky me,’ Marika says dryly, leaning backwards and regarding me with her fox-like eyes as Mac breezes away. ‘Good day?’

‘Could be worse. How are you?’

‘Good.’ She nods. ‘Busy. How’s Audrey?’

‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ I say.

Marika smiles. ‘I don’t know. I get the sense that you’re seeing more of her than I do.’

‘Not since yesterday,’ I say, sounding more defensive than I’d like. My ear feels hot suddenly – thing is, I’ve got no idea how cool to play this. There’s a chance that Audrey’s told her everything, but Audrey also told me that Marika spends most of her time with Nicole, meaning maybe Marika won’t know that things have … escalated.

‘Yeah?’ Marika says, raising her eyebrows slightly. ‘Was that the gallery thing?’

‘The cinema.’ I smile, ignoring a twinge of discomfort. ‘Gallery was the day before.’

Maybe it’s weird, but I don’t really like thinking about that night at the gallery. It was when Audrey and I first kissed, obviously, so on one level it was probably the greatest night of my life. On another, I can’t quite get past that conversation I had with the girl in the smoking area, and my insane, paranoid conviction that Julian or Jonah or whatever his fucking name is did something to Audrey.

I mean – yes, he is a confirmed creep. Yes, Audrey has been in contact with him at least twice – the photoshoot and his party, after which she was extremely upset. But I have no way of knowing if they even interacted that night. I barely noticed him – didn’t even realise he was the host until someone pointed him out, and I turned to see this bored-looking dude in painter overalls and thousand-dollar sneakers. Except now I remember him smirking unpleasantly, eyes roving the room. It’s projection, I know. But …

‘I actually got talking to a girl in the smoking area about that brand you guys are working with,’ I hear myself say. ‘At the gallery, this is.’

‘Oh?’ Marika says mildly, but her eyes are intent. She’s seen straight past my casual segue, I realise, immediately recognising that I’m burying some kind of lede. I feel a flicker of doubt, but it’s already too late to change course. Besides, I have no intention of spouting my fucked-up little conspiracy theory. I just figure that if she’s worked with this guy, she has a right to know what kind of person he is.

‘Yeah,’ I continue, attempting to sound blasé. ‘It turns out that a friend of hers used to work there. So did that photographer you guys did the shoot with. Julian. Except he wasn’t actually called Julian—’

‘Jonah,’ Marika says. ‘He changed his name.’

‘Right,’ I say, taken aback. I’d assumed this would be a revelation to her.

‘Is that the whole story?’ she prompts. ‘A girl knows a girl who knew Julian?’

‘No, uh – it’s that I think he might be a fucked-up person,’ I manage, looking down at my sake cup. ‘I mean – that’s what it sounded like, anecdotally. And you and Audrey both spent time with him, so, like – I just thought you might want to know.’

‘Fucked-up how?’

‘Uh – harassing this girl when she was an intern,’ I say, throat dry. ‘Groping her at a party. And maybe others – it sounded like it might have been a recurring thing, but I don’t really know.’

Marika says nothing to that. I still can’t bring myself to look at her but she remains perfectly still in my periphery.

‘I guess I just wanted to make sure that you won’t see him again,’ I add. ‘The campaign – that’s over now?’

‘The shoot is, yeah,’ she replies, tone unreadable. ‘I assume you’ve told Audrey about this?’

‘… No. Not yet.’

‘Why?’ she asks, so sharply that I almost flinch. I have this weird, irrational conviction that she’s staring right into my skull, watching the feeble machinations of my brain with steely disdain.

‘I don’t know,’ I manage.

‘You don’t know,’ Marika echoes flatly.

‘I mean – I wasn’t sure that I should,’ I add hastily, floundering. ‘She’s been kind of down recently and I didn’t want to make it worse.’

‘Implying what?’

I finally glance up, panicked.

‘Nothing,’ I say quickly, wondering when exactly this turned into an interrogation. ‘It doesn’t matter – forget I said anything.’

‘Did something happen at the party at Julian’s apartment?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I lost track of her for a bit – when I found her again, she’d been crying.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘She mentioned something about being homesick.’

‘What about at your party?’ Marika presses. I stare at her, uncomprehending.

‘Your birthday party,’ she repeats. ‘When she spent the night. She told me that she drank too much, got weepy …’

‘Yeah,’ I say, my brain offering the memory of her slumped against the bathroom wall, mascara tracks lining her pale cheeks. ‘She did. Why?’

‘She was sick, the day before,’ Marika says, absently flexing her hand. ‘She didn’t get out of bed. That was all after the test shoot.’

‘The what?’

‘A photoshoot. At Julian’s studio, ahead of the campaign.’

‘The two of you together?’

‘Separately,’ Marika says after a pause. ‘Alone.’

I briefly shut my eyes, pain lancing my skull. I wanted so badly to be wrong. For Marika to shut this entire thing down—

‘Jesus,’ Mac says, sauntering back to the table and dropping into his chair. ‘Did someone die while I was away?’

‘My patience,’ Marika says smoothly, flipping over a menu. ‘What are we having?’

‘A woman after my own heart.’ Mac smiles, turning to me. ‘You staying? I was only kidding about—’

‘I can’t,’ I say, getting to my feet and reaching for my wallet. I fish out a few crumpled bills and then I’m gone, moving for the door like there’s someone chasing me. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want any of this to be true, and if it is, I don’t want to know about it. But I’m overwhelmed by an awful, crushing certainty that it’s too late – that I’ve set events in motion, triggering something I can’t even comprehend.

I quicken my pace when I’m out on the street, ducking my head. All I can think to do is get back to my apartment, turn up the volume on the TV as far as it’ll go and dive into a bottle of something stronger than sake. And yes, I probably have a fucking drinking problem, but maybe that’s what happens when a well-meaning colleague of your mother’s passes you their whisky soda during her wake because you’ve been shaking uncontrollably since the church service and doing a bad fucking job of hiding it.

I don’t think that anyone could reasonably blame me for wanting to feel less. That day and every day since.

AUDREY

‘AUDREY?’

‘Hi!’ I say, scrambling to my feet. The guy who called my name looks me up and down, then consults the tablet in his hand. I’ve been waiting in this dim little hallway with about thirty other girls for over an hour, so if he sends me away then I might have a full-blown tantrum.

‘Okay. Follow me,’ he says finally, turning on his heel. I fish a comp card out of my tote and scurry after him into an airy white room that I assume is a dance studio. There’s a wall of mirrors behind the long desk where a man and a woman sit, and another woman with a Polaroid camera slung over her hip is leaning against a ballet barre. All three are looking at their phones.

‘Hello.’ I smile, stepping forward and placing my comp card on the desk.

‘Hey,’ the woman says, glancing up. ‘Do you want to walk for us?’

I nod, shrugging off my jacket and dumping it along with my bag. She’s the only one who watches as I traverse the length of the room, posing at the end. She picks up my card, flipping it over.

‘I’m not sure if these measurements are up to date,’ she says, passing it to the man. He looks at it, then at me.

‘I see what you mean,’ he says. ‘The hips …’

‘Right. Will that matter, though?’

‘Depends on the styling. Get Dana to take a Polaroid, anyway.’

‘Dana will take your picture,’ the woman tells me, waving me to the side.

‘Stand against the wall,’ the photographer – Dana, I guess – says. I do as she says, tipping my chin back and willing myself not to blink as the bulb flashes.

‘Thanks,’ the other woman says, my cue to leave.

‘Thank you so much!’ I beam, keeping my head held high as I leave the room. A few of the other girls watch as I make my way back down the hallway, no doubt trying to gauge their own odds from my expression. I’ve done exactly the same thing time and time again, which is why I wait until I’m in the stairwell to let myself deflate.

Shit. I definitely did not book that job, and as a bonus I can look forward to fixating on what may or may not be wrong with my hips for the foreseeable future. I always obsess over the not-so-nice comments made at castings – I was once told that my jawline was ‘a little boxy’ and for weeks afterwards it was all I could see when I looked in the mirror. I hate it. I hate devoting so much mental real estate to worrying whether or not I look pretty, pretty in the right kind of way, prettier than the girls I’m competing with.

It isn’t lost on me that the only editorial I’ve booked in New York so far was likely via an introduction from Julian. Not only does that make me feel completely queasy, Imogene might send me home if I don’t book another soon. I don’t want that – I don’t think so, anyway. Things with Ezra and I – they’re delicate, still, though if I wait until I feel ready to say goodbye to him, I might never leave at all.

I impulsively decide to call him, then, waiting until I’m outside to dial his number. We spent most of the evening together yesterday. It was almost dark by the time we emerged from the movie, slightly dazed and absolutely starving, so we got gyros from a street vendor and ate them on the way back to my apartment, where he kissed me goodbye on the stoop and ushered me inside before it got too cold. A part of me was hoping he’d suggest we go back his apartment, but he didn’t. Maybe he was wondering why I didn’t invite him into mine, which I could have, I guess. I definitely considered it. But there’s no beautiful, open-plan space for us to sprawl into. Only my bedroom, and inviting him up to my bedroom felt like … a lot.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey.’ I smile, which is stupid because he obviously can’t see me. ‘How are you?’

‘Good,’ he says after a pause. ‘I’m good. How are you?’

He sounds kind of strange, I realise dimly. A lot of people hate talking on the phone – maybe he’s one of them.

‘I’m okay,’ I say, hesitant. ‘Is this a bad time?’

‘No, no – it’s good, you’re good. Uh – what’s up?’

‘Not much,’ I say, glancing up at the sky. ‘It’s just been kind of a crappy day –’

‘Crappy how?’

‘Um – just a lot of boring casting stuff,’ I say, taken aback by how concerned he suddenly sounds. ‘Nothing serious. I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out. I’m in the neighbourhood, so …’

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Uh – I don’t think I can, right now. I’m sorry.’

‘No worries. Later tonight, or … ?’

‘Tonight … oh, uh – I can’t. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘It was super impromptu—’

‘You’re close to MoMA.’

‘What?’

‘If you’re in Midtown, you’re probably near MoMA. The gallery. You said you hadn’t done much touristy stuff.’

‘No, yeah. Uh – is it good?’

‘It’s great. My mum used to go there all the time.’

‘Really?’ I ask, more surprised by him mentioning his mum than the admission itself.

‘Uh-huh. Her favourite painting’s there. Uh … Christina’s World. Wyeth.’

‘I’ll have to find it,’ I say, wondering if he’d been sleeping before I called. There’s a strange, dragging cadence to his words – he sounds drunk, but it’s the middle of the afternoon. He can’t be. Or – could he? I suddenly remember his birthday, and the way he threw back that whisky like water …

‘She liked that sad, realism-ish kind of stuff,’ he continues. ‘Hopper, too. He’s in there as well, I think.’

‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘What’s your favourite?’

‘I like what she liked,’ he says simply. Then, after a pause, ‘You’ll be seeing Marika tonight, won’t you?’

It’s such a sharp conversational pivot that I wonder if I might have zoned out briefly.

‘Um – I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘She said she was getting food with Mac, but I don’t know what she’s doing after. Maybe seeing Nicole.’

‘Right,’ he says after another pause. ‘Okay. Well – if you want to see me tomorrow, just let me know.’

‘Okay,’ I say, still wondering how Marika enters into this. ‘I will.’

‘And you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say uncertainly. ‘Are you?’

‘All good. I’ll see you soon, okay?’

And then he ends the call, and I’m left with the sickly, hollow feeling of having reached for something that wasn’t there.

I decide to do as Ezra suggested and go to MoMA. I even ask one of the security guards about the painting and she points me in the right direction. It’s a quiet afternoon, so when I do eventually find it, I’m there alone. Ezra was right – it is sad. It’s always seemed that way to me, and I’ve known it all my life. My grandma had the exact same painting in her house, a framed print above the fireplace. I consider messaging Ezra to tell him as much – it’s another one of those startling little links between us. But I can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t want to hear from me right now, so I don’t. I just stare.

The painting shows this thin, dark-haired girl in the middle of a dusty field, a house in the distance. She’s on the ground and the way that her hands are placed, the frame of her body – it’s as though she’s being pulled towards it, taut with longing. When I was a kid, I imagined that her family was in the house – that she was trying to get home. But standing here now, I wonder if maybe she’s not alone in that field. Maybe she’s trying to get away from something. From someone.

I wonder what Ezra’s mum saw in it. I try to imagine her stood where I am now but can’t. There are no pictures of her in his apartment. There’re no pictures at all.

EZRA

‘OH,’ EDIE SAYS, HER GAZE CATCHING ON THE POT PLANT NESTLED in my elbow. ‘Is that for me?’

‘It’s a succulent,’ I say, ‘The guy at the store said it was low maintenance.’

‘I’ll try not to take that personally. Come in.’

I follow her into her apartment. She shuts the door behind me, and I kick off my shoes, noticing her own slipper-clad feet. She’s wearing a chunky pink cardigan over what I assume are her work clothes, a snug black polo-neck and tweedy skirt.

‘I’m cooking,’ she announces, shuffling over to the stove. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

‘No,’ I say, glancing around with no small amount of interest. Edie’s place is a studio, smaller than mine but full to the brim with things. There’s colour and texture everywhere – blankets on the sofa, prints on the walls, cushions, ornaments, candles. Her dorm room was similarly curated. I wander over to a bookshelf and pick up a dog-eared copy of The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. I think it might have been mine once.

‘You can put the plant wherever,’ she says, stirring the contents of a pan. ‘Thanks, by the way. It’s cute.’

‘Figured I owed you a housewarming gift,’ I tell her, setting it down alongside the book. ‘I might have done better with more notice.’

I thought that I was lying, earlier, telling Audrey I wasn’t free tonight. But no – my phone pinged with a message from Edie almost as soon as I hung up:

Are we still on for tonight?

Turns out I’d simply forgotten about the plans I’d made to spend the evening with my ex-girlfriend, instead – much better.

I thought said plans would involve another bar, honestly, and that’s half the reason I hauled myself off the sofa to leave my apartment, abandoning a Twilight Zone marathon and a half-empty bottle of vermouth in favour of an ice-cold old fashioned and conversation with someone who’d never heard the name Julian fucking Mars in the entire course of their life. But it didn’t quite pan out that way – when I messaged Edie to ask where I should meet her, she replied with her address.

‘Sorry,’ she says absently. ‘It was a long day – I couldn’t face going out. And I have alcohol here, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘Ha ha,’ I say, wondering if she realises that I’m already drunk. I think Audrey did when she called me earlier. I didn’t hesitate to answer, though, knowing full well that it might be the last time I get to hear her voice. She’ll see Marika tonight, and Marika will tell her everything I said about Julian. Maybe that in itself will be enough to unravel the truth and Audrey won’t be alone in carrying it any more. It’s good. It’s right. But Marika will tell her more than that, I’m sure, including the weird, underhand way I went about things-

‘There are glasses above the sink,’ Edie continues. ‘Wine in the fridge.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. Edie’s fridge is jarringly immaculate, I see – her vegetable box has actual vegetables in it. I grab the wine and glasses, taking great pains not to spill any as Edie grates cheese into a saucepan. She’s making risotto, and it smells good enough to make me realise that I haven’t eaten today. Still, I’m a little unnerved by the effort she’s gone to – to be nice? To show me how much better she’s doing than I am?

‘Were you working today?’ Edie asks, lowering the flame and turning towards me.

‘Just an early shift,’ I reply, handing her a glass. ‘You?’

‘Nine to five and all that.’

‘What a way to make a living.’

She smiles, swirls her wine and says nothing for a moment. Then:

‘I’m sorry if I was harsh, last time. About you working in the restaurant – it wasn’t my place.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s not.’

‘Lucky I’m not the type to hold a grudge, then.’

‘I know. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

‘Ha.’

‘I’m serious,’ she says quietly. ‘The way we left things – I really wish I’d handled it all differently.’

Me too, I think, taking a hasty gulp of wine. The week before we broke up is excruciating to remember. School was finished by then, and Edie’s parents had (very kindly) agreed to host me for a few days before I left for New York. They lived out in the country, so I’d envisioned Edie and me passing long, sun-dappled days trekking through fields and lying in sun-warmed grass, kissing, talking, reading aloud. All nauseatingly twee in hindsight, sure, but cut me some slack – I was in love.

The reality was a little less idyllic. All Edie wanted to do was sit inside and read in silence. Or watch films – again, silently. In fact, she barely spoke at all except during meals with her parents, and though I fantasised that she might creep along the corridor to my room one night, she never did. She never even kissed me, which at the time I was (deludedly) willing to chalk up to my freshly broken nose.

The morning that Edie’s dad dropped me off at the airport, she followed me out of the car and up to the departures building to say goodbye. I remember being touched by how genuinely upset she looked, still under the impression that she’d eventually be joining me.

‘See you later, then,’ I said, attempting to keep things light.

‘Ezra – there’s something I need to tell you,’ she said haltingly, unsmiling. ‘About New York. I don’t – I should have done this sooner.’

‘Okay,’ I replied, dread pooling in my stomach. ‘Is it logistical or personal?’

‘Personal,’ she said, twisting her hands together agitatedly. ‘I’m not – I don’t know how to say this …’

‘Are you breaking up with me?’ I blurted out, hoping to get her denial out of the way so I could breathe again. But she didn’t deny it. She just sighed, and the sound cut through me like a knife.

‘Oh,’ I heard myself say.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and it felt as though the ground beneath my feet was melting, pulling me downwards. I vaguely remember gripping the handle of my suitcase like it might somehow anchor me, my palm slick with sweat.

‘Okay,’ I managed, but I didn’t move to leave. I just stood there, waiting for her to contradict herself. To throw her arms around my neck and apologise for the world’s worst joke.

‘Sorry,’ she said instead. ‘I’ll go.’

And I stayed and watched as she walked away and got back into the car, stoically waiting until it was out of sight until I started to cry.

Anyway.

‘It could have been worse,’ I say mildly. ‘You could have done it in the car.’

‘Please don’t,’ Edie says, her brow crumpling. ‘I know it was my decision, but that doesn’t mean you were the only one hurting.’

‘Okay, well – I forgive you, if that’s what you want to hear.’

Apparently not. Edie turns back to the pan and resumes stirring, expression taut.

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘If you want to leave it like that …’

‘I don’t know what else to say!’ I exclaim. ‘You ended it! It sucked! I was miserable!’

‘So was I!’ she says hotly. ‘And then Eleanor decided to blow up my life again and I had no one to talk to.’

‘You never talked to me about her anyway!’ I retort, incredulous. ‘And what about that group you ran around with at school? Jules and Ella and … the rest.’

‘Seriously? You can’t even remember the names of my friends?’

‘In my defence, it’s been a while.’

‘Not even six months, Ezra. I knew you didn’t like them.’

‘They were fine. I was just a selfish idiot who wanted you to myself.’

Edie blinks at me, her next riposte presumably dying on her lips. She’d suspected as much, I know, but I doubt she ever thought I’d admit it.

‘Well,’ she says finally. ‘I guess I wanted to talk to you. And I hated that I couldn’t.’

‘I’m here now.’

‘It’s not the same, though.’

‘No,’ I concede, thinking of everything that’s happened since. ‘Guess not.’

It might just be projection, but Edie looks slightly pained when I say that. Like she’d hoped I’d argue otherwise.

‘I think this is ready,’ she says then, still stirring. ‘Do you mind grabbing bowls? They’re above the sink.’

I do as she says, briefly imagining that I’ve been transported to an alternate reality where Edie never dumped me. This domestic scene – I’d be lying if I said I’d never pictured anything like it, but it all feels hollow, now. We may as well be two kids playing house.

I hand her the bowls. Edie smiles and I return it – I can offer her that much, at least.

AUDREY

I SIT ON THE EDGE OF MY BUNK, FEET PLANTED ON THE FLOOR, A hand pressed to my chest as I struggle to breathe. It’s like my lungs have shrunk to about half their normal size, and no matter how much air I suck in, it’s not enough. My vision is swimming – it feels a little like I might be dying, actually, and it’s with a trembling hand that I reach for my phone again. The message is still there. I’d only just woken up when I saw it – the apartment was so cold when I got back from MoMA that I crawled into my bed to keep warm. I don’t remember drifting off, but when I came to it was dark. I grasped for my phone, disoriented, and there was the notification.

I force myself to read it again.

Hi Audrey,

My name is Demi. I’m a journalist with Soil – the link to the site is in my bio, if you’re not familiar with us. I’m reaching out because I’m currently working on a piece regarding Julian Mars, who I understand you’ve worked with recently. I’m interested in hearing your perspective. We can communicate however you feel comfortable, be it over the phone, via email or in person. I hope to hear from you soon.

Demi

It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself sharply. There must be a hundred reasons why someone would be writing an article about Julian – I just need to figure out why they’d contact a no-name model who doesn’t even live in New York, because right now I can’t think of anything I could have to say that would be of interest. Nothing, except for the fact that he—

A wave of nausea grips me, then, and I stumble down the hallway towards the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet. I retch, chest heaving – nothing comes up but bile. I slump back against the wall when it’s over, my face streaked with tears and snot, willing myself to wake up because I don’t know how else this could be happening. I never told anyone. I never said anything, and although pretending to be okay wasn’t the same as actually being okay, I was in control. But now …

I cough, wiping the back of my mouth with my T-shirt. All I know now is I can’t be here when Marika gets back to the apartment. I got this weird, long message from her when I was still at the gallery, saying that she’d been called to a last-minute shoot but was I free tonight, and would I be at the apartment? There was even a kiss at the end, which was as bafflingly out-of-character as the level of detail. She must have heard from the journalist before I did, I realise now. She’ll show up here and she’ll want to talk about it – maybe she already suspects something, and I don’t want to lie to her, but I can’t talk about it. I can’t, I can’t—

I can’t stay.

I’m still trembling when I press the intercom button for Ezra’s apartment. I know there’s every chance he’s not home – he told me he’s busy tonight, and I didn’t message to ask if I could come over, but—

‘Hello?’

The speaker is crackly, a lilt of uncertainty in his tone. But it’s him – it’s Ezra, and just the sound of his voice feels like a reprieve.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Uh – it’s Audrey. I know this is crazy and I know you said you’re busy …’

‘Come up,’ he says, and the intercom buzzes, lock snapping open. I slip inside, heart pounding as I head upwards. When I finally reach Ezra’s floor, he’s pacing the lobby in a coat and boots, the door to his apartment slightly ajar. Either he’s only just gotten home or he’s on his way out.

‘Good timing,’ he says, smiling strangely. ‘Two minutes earlier and we would have missed each other.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I can leave … ’

‘No, you’re good,’ he says, gently ushering me through the door. He shuts it behind me, kicking off his boots, dropping his coat to the floor. I follow suit, abandoning my phone in my jacket pocket. Marika knows where I am. I messaged her a half-baked excuse about the apartment being too cold, though ironically, it’s even colder in here. All of the windows are open, and it looks like every dish Ezra owns is piled up in his sink. The coffee table is littered with half-empty glasses and takeout cartons, and the only light is the TV, blaring into the darkness. It’s a relief, strangely – my mess matches his.

‘Sorry about all this,’ he says mildly. ‘Can I make you a tea, or … ?’

‘Can I have some of that?’ I ask, pointing towards a small bottle of vodka on the floor. ‘Please?’

It’s all I want, suddenly – to taste something awful and feel better for it.

‘Yeah,’ Ezra says after a pause. ‘I don’t know if I have anything you can mix it with, though.’

I don’t reply, picking it up and knocking back a mouthful. It’s horrible, obviously, but I force myself to swallow. Once, twice, until Ezra starts forward like he’s going to take it from me, eyes alight with such palpable concern that I lower the bottle, lips stinging.

‘I needed to get out of my apartment,’ I blurt out before he can say anything. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.’

‘What happened?’ he asks, looking stricken. ‘I mean – are you – ?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just – Marika was on her way and she wanted to talk about something that I don’t, so …’ I trail off, quickly swigging from the bottle again before offering it to Ezra.

He takes it from me, but it hangs limply from his hand. ‘Does she know where you are?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, not really liking this sudden shift in atmosphere. He seemed so relaxed a moment ago – sleepy, or drunk, or both. But me careening in here has sobered matters, apparently, which isn’t what I wanted at all.

‘Right,’ he says after a beat. ‘Okay. I’ll make up the bed, then.’

‘I don’t want to go to bed,’ I say, realising too late how petulant that sounds. ‘I just want this.’

He blinks at me, eyes dark and uncomprehending.

‘This?’ he echoes uncertainly.

‘That,’ I say, gesturing to the bottle in his hand, around the room. ‘This.’

‘Getting drunk in my disgusting apartment?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Right,’ he says, shoulders sagging slightly. ‘Is that why you came here?’

I’ve hurt him, I realise abruptly. I’ve hurt his feelings, and I don’t know how – the vodka has already gone to my head, making things feel foggy and dreamlike.

‘No, I – it’s not. Not at all,’ I say quickly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.’

Ezra looks confused, for a moment. Then he glances down at the bottle like he’d forgotten that he was holding it.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Gotcha.’

‘No, Ezra …’

‘It’s fine,’ he says curtly, shaking his head with a strained smile. ‘I drink too much. I’m not in denial about it.’

I feel sick then, and it has nothing to do with the vodka hitting my empty stomach. I am an awful, awful fucking person, showing up here out of nowhere and trying to goad Ezra into getting wasted with me when I’m almost totally sure that he has some kind of problem with alcohol. Selfish, thoughtless, stupid …

‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly, suddenly too ashamed to even look at him. ‘It’s not – I only meant that you don’t need to do anything for me.’

He says nothing to that. The silence stretches out between us, and I suddenly become acutely aware of my nose, pink and runny from the crying and the cold. I sniff, and Ezra wordlessly puts the bottle down and moves towards the open windows, pulling them shut. You don’t need to do anything for me – what total, utter bullshit.

I feel so tired, suddenly, despite claiming otherwise just seconds before. So small.

‘You’re right,’ I say then. ‘Sleep’s the best idea. I’m sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry.’ He sighs, roughly rubbing at his eyes as he moves back towards me. ‘I’m being weird – I’m tired. You take the bed, though. Grab anything you want out of the drawers …’

But he falls silent, then, because I’ve stepped forward and taken his hand in mine. I was expecting it to be cold but it isn’t, which I suppose means that mine is colder.

‘We can both take the bed,’ I hear myself say, looking down at our sock-clad feet. Then, in case that sounds too forward, ‘It’s too cold for you to sleep in here.’

I left my lingering scraps of self-preservation back at the apartment, it turns out, and my words hover in the ensuing, mortifying silence. Oh, I think, and I’m bracing myself for the world’s most gentle rejection when Ezra weaves his fingers through mine.

‘Sure,’ he says, so gently that I know he understands. ‘We can do that.’

I’ve never actually shared a bed with a boy before now. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone except for my parents, actually, and that was only when I was a tiny kid, post-nightmares. But it somehow feels simple and natural to slip under the sheets beside Ezra, his body just inches from mine. He’s facing away from me, drawn into himself, but I can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding into the mattress like a furnace. It’s not quite enough, though. I want him to envelop me in it, to draw me into his very core – to hide inside of him.

The lamp is still on, so I know he’s not sleeping, the room bathed in its faint, golden glow. I can hear his breathing, too quiet and even for him to be anything other than wide awake – what would he do if I asked him to hold me?

‘Thank you,’ I say instead, voice small. ‘For everything.’

For a moment there’s silence, and I’m wondering if maybe he is asleep, when:

‘You don’t need to thank me,’ he says quietly. ‘I just – I wish I could make things better.’

‘You have,’ I tell him. ‘You do.’

‘I don’t think that we’re talking about the same things,’ he says, shifting to look at me. He’s wearing that same guileless expression that I saw that night at the gallery, eyes dark and pleading.

‘Maybe not,’ I admit, feeling a pang at having hidden so much from him. ‘I don’t think it matters, though.’

‘No?’

‘No. You’re here. That makes things better.’

Ezra lets out a ragged sigh, then, screwing his eyes shut like he’s in pain.

‘God,’ he says softly. ‘You have no idea how badly I want to believe that.’

And he has no idea how badly I want him to. Words have too often failed me, though, which is why I find myself sliding across the mattress, tentatively tucking my head against his shoulder and placing a hand on his chest. He smooths my hair against the nape of my neck in reply, absently running his fingers through the ends before pressing his lips to my temple with such tenderness that my nose prickles with impending tears.

There’s a world outside this bedroom, but it doesn’t feel that way – not any more. A part of me hopes it never does again.

EZRA

‘No. YOU’RE KIDDING.’

‘I’m not!’ Audrey laughs. ‘It was my favourite movie when I was a kid.’

‘Were you not watching actual kids’ films?’

‘It’s not not a kids’ film.’

‘The entire family gets chased out of the country by the Nazis! They have to leave their entire lives behind!’

‘But they have each other! It’s a nice ending!’

‘If you say so. Honestly, I’m more interested in why you deemed Captain von Trapp crush-worthy.’

‘I’m not elaborating! Not until you tell me who your first crush was.’

‘Have you ever seen 10 Things I Hate About You?’

‘Oh my God. Julia Stiles?’

‘Kat, yeah. She was pretty and mean. I was into that.’

‘That’s very telling.’

‘By all means, psychoanalyse me. I’m into that, too.’

Audrey elbows me in the ribs and I clutch my chest in fake-agony, half-moaning, half-laughing. I have no idea how we stumbled on to the topic of formative crushes – we were talking about what we’d choose for our last-ever meals, beforehand. And before that – I don’t know. Music, maybe? It’s early, early morning and aside from an incipient hangover, everything is pleasantly hazy. And Audrey is in my bed. I’m still struggling to wrap my head around that one.

‘You’re not actually hurt, are you?’ she says, peering over at me.

‘Maybe,’ I say, prodding myself. ‘I heard a crunching noise. Is that normal?’

‘Very funny.’ She smiles, looking so adorable that I automatically glance away. Given the context, it doesn’t feel ethical to be this happy about her being here. But she’s so close and sweet and beautiful, pale hair mussed, a pillow crease imprinted on her flushed cheek. She smells like mint, too – I felt her stir, heard her creep to the bathroom and back to brush her teeth while she (presumably) thought I was sleeping. I almost definitely should’ve done the same.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asks. ‘Your face just went all serious.’

‘I’m a serious guy,’ I say, glancing back at her. ‘But … that this is nice, I guess.’

‘Yeah?’ she says, voice lilting upwards.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry if that’s fucked up.’

‘Oh. Because I’m fucked up?’

‘No,’ I say quickly. Then – ‘Are you?’

‘I’ve been better.’ She smiles faintly. ‘It doesn’t justify me leeching off you, though.’

‘Leeching?’ I laugh. ‘That’s strong.’

‘Not really. I’m always falling apart all over you. Crashing here. Wearing your clothes. Eating your food …’

‘Wear whatever. Eat everything. Steal every towel in the place.’

‘I’m bringing them back!’

‘I don’t care. I told you, you can stay for ever. I hate living alone.’

‘Really?’

‘Uh-huh. I’m used to having roommates. I lived with a guy called Dev, at school. Then a Hugo.’

‘Oh. I knew a Hugo.’

‘Yeah? Was he the worst person in the world?’

‘No!’ She laughs. ‘He was sweet.’

‘Must have been a different Hugo, then. Was yours a boyfriend?’

‘Definitely not,’ she says, but the colour in her cheeks suggests otherwise.

‘Was it love?’ I press. ‘Did he look like Captain von Trapp?’

‘We kissed once, and he didn’t look like anyone! Does it matter?’

‘No,’ I lie, like I’m not burning with hatred for this faceless stranger. ‘I’m just curious.’

‘It was a long time ago. Or – it feels like a long time ago, at least.’

‘I guess it’s all relative. I mean – it feels like you’ve been here a long time.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, brow puckering slightly. ‘And it’s been incredible. There’s so much that I love about this city.’

‘Including me.’

‘Right.’ She smiles. ‘Glad you said it, so I didn’t have to.’

‘I sense a but coming, though.’

‘But … I know it’s not my real life.’ She sighs. ‘And back home, my parents – honestly, I’ve barely spoken to them since I got here. It makes me feel awful, but then it’s like this weird paradox, because talking to them makes me feel even worse – my mum especially. She …’

Audrey falls silent mid-sentence, then, pressing her lips together like she’s just said something terrible.

‘She what?’ I prompt, curious.

Audrey glances over at me with big, worried eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter. I didn’t – I’m sorry. We can change the subject.’

Ah. This is a misconception I’ve run into a few times – people think that because my mum is dead, I’ll find any reference to the broad concept of motherhood inexorably painful. But it doesn’t work like that – not for me, anyway. It’s more complicated – she was more complicated, which I suppose is true of every parent.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say lightly. ‘My mum being gone doesn’t mean that everyone else’s is immune to criticism.’

‘Still,’ Audrey says softly. ‘I can’t imagine it ever gets much easier.’

‘No,’ I concede. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Do you – is it something you want to talk about?’

‘I mean – sometimes,’ I admit. ‘But it’s not easy. Like – even on a semantics level. A lot of people have pretty strong opinions about what terms you should and shouldn’t use – not that that’s not valid. Just – yeah. It’s difficult to navigate in a few different ways.’

God, what the fuck am I even talking about – a ‘semantics level’? I sound like a psychopath, and that was a pretty drawn-out speech considering I managed to sidestep the one thing that I was actually trying to say. I’m sure Audrey realises what I’m alluding to, but …

‘Did she … was she unwell for a long time?’ she ventures. I swallow – this is harder than I’d anticipated. I never talked about any of this with Edie. She knew, of course, but when we first started getting close I told her that I didn’t want to get into it. Then, further down the line when I started to wonder if maybe I did want to get into it, it seemed too late.

‘Uh – yeah,’ I manage, though I’m starting to feel distinctly off-kilter. ‘Since she was young, I think. There was a post-partum element, apparently, but – I don’t know. It ebbed and flowed. She tried a lot of doctors, a lot of meds. And she had some really long stretches where everything was good, but …’

My breath catches in my throat, then, trapping my words. I bolt upwards, suddenly seized by an overwhelming sense of panic.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Audrey says quickly, sitting up beside me. ‘We don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry if I pushed you.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly, absentmindedly pressing my knuckles against my sternum. It’s slightly painful, which is good – a sensation totally separate to whatever the hell just happened.

‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’

‘I’m good. I should be able to talk about this shit,’ I say firmly, embarrassed. Audrey bites her lip. ‘I’m good,’ I repeat. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

I’m not good. I feel terrible, sick with unease – like I’ve somehow spoken it into existence despite the fact that it happened more than six years ago. God, I’m such a hypocrite – here I am wanting to know every minute detail about Audrey’s life, but the moment I try and share something with her I have a total fucking meltdown. I’m not even sure why I want her to know so badly, but I do. I really fucking do.

I lie back down on the bed, only now I feel like I’m on a therapist’s couch. But Audrey settles back besides me, shifting on to her side – I do the same and we’re facing each other, closer than we were. I’m still too embarrassed to meet her eyes, but then she reaches out and puts a hand against my chest, same as she did last night.

‘Is this okay?’ she asks quietly, splaying her fingers where mine were just moments before.

‘Yeah,’ I say hoarsely. ‘Yeah, uh – that’s good.’

Good is an understatement. It’s like a hush has fallen in my brain, her touch forcing my focus on to breathing normally.

‘I haven’t talked about this stuff with anyone,’ I confess then. ‘Not family. Not friends. Not licenced professionals, even.’

‘Not Caroline? I thought you guys were close.’

‘Close-ish. We’re all pretty disparate, honestly. I almost didn’t come back, after school.’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘School?’

‘England.’

‘Oh. Yeah, actually. Will you put me in your carry-on?’

‘If only you weren’t so tall.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘You’re not.’ She smiles sadly, glancing down. ‘You’ve got too much to keep you here.’

‘For now, maybe,’ I concede. ‘But maybe that doesn’t matter.’

‘No?’

‘No. Not to me, anyway. You have this way this way of making the ocean feel like a minor detail.’

Her eyes return to mine then, pupils blown so wide I can barely see her irises. I realise what I’ve said, then – that for all my questioning about her leaving, I’ve never actually admitted that it won’t matter if she does. I mean – I’d rather she didn’t, obviously, but she could set off tomorrow for a colony on the moon and I’d still suggest long-distance. Hell, I’d be chartering the next rocket out of here to join her.

‘Well – maybe the ocean doesn’t need to come into it,’ she says, voice soft and hesitant. ‘Marika wants to stay – I thought it sounded crazy when she first said it, but now – I’m not so sure, now.’ Marika. The jolt of dread I feel when I hear her name doesn’t make sense, at first. I like Marika. Marika more or less likes me. But then I remember – I remember what she knows, now. What she knows because I told her, and what she’ll inevitably tell Audrey the moment she sees her.

Audrey, lying beside me, so close that I can count her freckles. I was so stupid to think that I could protect her, because it’s painfully clear to me now that all I’ve done is betray her trust. I know that – I’ve known that, and yet in these little pockets of happiness I let myself forget. But it has to end. I have to tell her everything.

Every moment between us will be poisoned until I do.

She’s looking up at me, lips slightly parted. My heart is still hammering, seemingly intent on propelling me forward to meet them—

‘Are you hungry?’ I blurt out instead. Her expression flickers, and something behind her eyes seems to shrink, flatten.

‘Sure,’ she says after a beat, offering a tight little smile as she withdraws her hand. I’ve hurt her. I’ve hurt her feelings, and it takes every molecule of willpower I have not reach out, pull her into me, press my lips to hers and beg for forgiveness –

She’s turned away from me now, staring up at the ceiling. I study her profile in silence, hoping to God that this is the right thing to do.

And if it isn’t, that she’ll find a way to forgive me.

AUDREY

EZRA MAKES EGGS IN A NEST AGAIN, A PERFECT YOLK THAT SPILLS gold when I puncture it with my knife. I eat it all, drink a mugful of hot black coffee. I want this every morning for the rest of my life – I want this to be my life too. For the battered stovetop pot to be our pot, the chipped red plates our plates. I don’t want to go back to the sad tiny apartment that smells like damp and desperation. I don’t want to face Marika and talk about everything I’d rather forget. I want to be the girl that lives here.

It would be easier to lose myself in that fantasy if Ezra hadn’t been staring into space for the past five minutes, his brow furrowed.

‘That was really good,’ I say, wiping my mouth on a crumpled restaurant napkin. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ he says, expression clearing momentarily. I wonder if he remembers the way that we were tangled together last night. I woke up in the early hours of the morning with hair in my face, and it was only when I moved to push it away and felt how soft it was that I realised it wasn’t my own. I was basically on top of him, my leg drawn up against his torso, his arm thrown carelessly over my waist. But I was half-asleep and none of that seemed strange so I let myself sink back into unconsciousness, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest.

But he doesn’t want to kiss me this morning. He was going to and then he didn’t, and I don’t know why.

‘Do you want me to walk you back to your apartment?’ he says suddenly.

‘Um – I don’t mind,’ I say, stung. ‘When do you need me out of here by?’

‘I don’t – not at all. I just figured you might have stuff to do.’

I nod. He knows that I’m actively avoiding Marika. Maybe he thinks I’m a loose cannon now, and he’s trying to extricate himself as delicately as possible. What if he only ever saw this as a casual thing, and I’ve scared him by implying I want to stay in New York?

‘I guess so,’ I reply. He lightly taps his fingers against the table.

‘We can walk,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘It’s a nice day. We can take the scenic route. Walk and talk.’

‘Sure,’ I say, nonplussed. ‘Um – do you remember seeing my phone, last night?’

The message from the journalist has been hovering at the periphery of my thoughts all morning. Bile rises in my throat again at the prospect of actually having to deal with it.

‘No,’ Ezra says. ‘Want me to look?’

‘It’s probably in the bedroom,’ I say, getting to my feet and wishing that he’d let me put off reality a little longer. It’s unfair, I know. Ezra’s so generous that I don’t know what to do with it most of the time.

I pad into his room. My phone’s nowhere in sight so I turn my attention to the bed, pulling back the duvet and blankets. I spot it tucked under a pillow, only to pick it up and realise it’s Ezra’s. The screen flashes to life in my hands, revealing a string of notifications, and I’m about to toss it on top of the sheets when I see my name amongst them.

I feel myself go still, then, instinctively glancing at the door. Ezra’s in the kitchen – I can hear him at the sink, washing dishes. Don’t, I think, except it’s already too late – I raise the screen and start to read.

Mac

22.42
marika asked me for your number and i gave it to her. cool?

UNKNOWN

22.45

I need to speak to Audrey and she’s not picking up her phone. I know she’s with you. Please get her to call me.

UNKNOWN

22.49

MISSED CALL

UNKNOWN

22.51

Please pick up. It’s about Julian.

‘Found it?’ Ezra calls down the hallway– I start, dropping the phone. It hits the edge of the bedframe, clattering on to the floor. I know I should pick it up, but I can’t. I hear Ezra’s footsteps –

‘You okay?’ he asks, appearing in the doorway. I just stare at him – I can barely form a thought right now, let alone a sentence. Maybe I’m asleep. Maybe I haven’t woken up yet, and this is an incredibly vivid stress dream.

‘Audrey?’ he says, moving closer. He sees the phone then – looks at it, at me.

He crouches to pick it up. It alights in his hand like it did in mine, his hair falling across his eyes as he straightens, silently studying the screen.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask, privately marvelling at how calm I sound. I have to stay calm, though, because he can’t know anything for sure. Whatever he or Marika might think, I never told anyone anything. He can’t.

‘I’m sorry,’ he begins, his voice throaty. ‘I didn’t – I was going to tell you …’

He trails off, looking up at me. He’s so pale, eyes unblinking – I hold his gaze, trying very, very hard to look confused.

‘I – I met someone who told me what kind of a person Julian is,’ he continues stiltedly. ‘And I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to upset you. I thought – because of that night, at his apartment—’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I interject. ‘I—’

‘I spoke to Marika,’ Ezra says quietly. ‘She mentioned a photoshoot, at his studio …’

I recoil like I’ve been slapped, my vision blurring – when it clears, all I can see is Ezra’s ashen face, tendons jutting in his neck. I’d think he was angry if it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes have never been softer, spilling over with pity.

I realise then that maybe it doesn’t matter that I never said anything, because he’s seen it. Seen me crying, sick, scared – and then there’s Marika. She saw it too, and she fucking lives with me. If they spoke to each other, connecting days and events …

Just like that, my carefully constructed denial unravels. They know. Ezra knows, and no matter how fervently I insist that nothing happened, he won’t believe me.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ezra says again, voice so low that I can barely hear it. ‘I’m so sorry.’

A tear drips down my face, surprising me. I don’t feel sad. I don’t know what I feel right now.

‘It’s probably not as bad …’ I begin, but I don’t finish that sentence because suddenly my face is against Ezra’s chest, his arms around me. He’s holding me so tightly that I could let my legs go out from under me and I’d still be upright, aloft in the embrace. I can feel his heart beating, just as hard as mine. Harder, maybe, and I don’t want him to let go. I’m scared that when he does, all of the feeling will come flooding back in, and right now I’m numb to everything except the warmth of his body, the insistence of it. He knows and he knew and he’s here. Are those facts disparate or is it all connected? I can’t make sense of it in this moment. I don’t know if it matters.

He knows. And so does Marika.

‘I need to find my phone,’ I hear myself say, voice muffled. ‘Marika will be worried.’

Ezra’s arms slacken, and I instantly regret speaking.

‘Okay,’ he says, voice hoarse. ‘Yeah, uh – of course.’

‘It’s important,’ I manage. ‘There’s this journalist – she messaged me and she probably messaged Marika …’

‘A journalist?’

‘Yeah, uh – something to do with Julian.’

‘Right. Uh – which journalist?’ he asks, and I stare at him. It’s a strange question. Stranger still is the look on his face.

‘Just – it was a journalist who told me about Julian,’ he says haltingly. ‘I didn’t know when we first started talking, but – I might have mentioned you …’

His words become distorted, suddenly. He’s still talking and I’m watching his lips move but I can’t comprehend what he’s saying. It’s like all of the blood in my body has flooded to my head – I stagger backwards, and he moves forward in tandem, presumably to steady me.

‘You told a journalist about me?’ I choke out, throwing up my arm to stop him. He blinks at me, brow crumpling.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Not on purpose—’

‘Did you and Marika, like … engineer this? Before you even spoke to me?’

‘Audrey, no. No, it’s not like that at all – it was an accident—’

I’m moving, all of a sudden, striding out of the room and down the hall. I can’t be here – I can’t hear this but Ezra is trailing behind me, still talking, still trying to explain – explain what, though? What could possibly justify this?

‘Audrey – Audrey, I was going to tell you,’ he pleads, still at my heels. ‘I swear, the second we were out of the apartment I was going to tell you what happened.’

‘Why would you tell me what happened?’ I cry, wheeling around. ‘You don’t fucking know! You don’t – no one knows anything! Anything!’

I’m screaming. I’m screaming at him, and I want him to scream back – to provoke me into unleashing just a fraction of every awful fucking feeling I’ve been forcing down. But Ezra just stares at me, eyes big and wet and wounded, and I hate him for that. I hate him, and I imagine shoving him, then – seeing shock wipe the pity from his features. My hands twitch –

‘I’m sorry,’ he says brokenly, and the shame is awful and immediate and so much worse than anger. I turn away, wedging my feet into my trainers and grabbing my jacket, feeling a weight in the left pocket – my phone. I forgot it was there, just like I forgot that this wasn’t my life. That Ezra was a stranger.

My fingers close around the door handle, and I’m gone.

EZRA

‘OH, HI.’

The dark-haired girl who’s opened the door to Mac’s apartment is holding a crumpled joint between her fingers, smiling in a pink dress and comically oversized blazer.

‘Hi,’ I say uncertainly. ‘Is this Mac’s place?’

‘No waaaaay,’ she drawls, smile widening. ‘You’re British?’

‘More so than not,’ I reply, and she laughs like I’ve said something hilarious.

‘Mac said he’d invited someone,’ she says, looking up at me through her eyelashes. ‘I guess that’s you. Are you an actor?’

‘He works at the restaurant,’ Mac snaps, appearing out of nowhere and snatching the joint from between her fingers. ‘And can you stop waving this shit around the hallway? We’re going to get another complaint.’

He ushers us inside, shutting the door with a scowl. The girl just smiles serenely, leaning against it.

‘He worries too much,’ she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘I’m Courtney, by the way. I live here.’

‘Ezra,’ I say absently, distracted by a small, boxy television in the corner of the furniture-less living room. It’s playing a movie that no one is watching, the dialogue inaudible over the music. The Apartment – the scene at the Christmas party. I love this movie. My mum showed it to me. Then I showed it to Audrey. Then – then nothing. Maybe the TV isn’t even on. Maybe I’m finally cracking up.

‘Ezra!’ Mac says, and with some force. I blink at him, startled.

‘Sorry?’ I reply. He’s looking at me with wide-eyed incredulity – he must have been trying to get my attention for some time, I realise.

‘Your hand,’ he says. ‘What happened?’

Courtney’s gaze drops, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise.

‘Oh. Uh – stupid accident,’ I say, flexing it slightly. It’s a little stiff and looks gruesome – my knuckles are purplish-red, split open and caked with dried blood. After Audrey left my apartment for what I’m sure was the last time I caught sight of myself in the shiny surface of the fridge – my stupid fucking face, contorted with shame and panic. The wave of self-loathing was so immediate and all-consuming that I don’t even remember hitting it.

Stupid, yes, but not technically an accident.

‘You need to take care of that,’ Mac says seriously.

‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘I sterilised it.’

Translation – I poured vodka over it. Then I poured the rest down my throat, because of course I did. I’ve been steadily drinking and drifting in and out of consciousness all day, paralysed by the utter fucking lack of reasons to do anything else. Then Mac messaged, and I was suddenly so desperate not to be alone that I took a cab straight here.

‘No, babe. It needs wrapping,’ Mac says firmly, putting a hand on my back and steering me away. Courtney offers a half-hearted noise of protest, but Mac ignores her, guiding me through tightly packed clusters of partygoers – more than his apartment can reasonably contain, by the looks of it. It’s a bleak place, low-ceilinged, every wall painted a sickly shade of pale green. Mac’s room is at the end of a narrow corridor, and I flop on to his bed as he shuts the door behind us – it’s clean, clutter free, but windowless. Scented candles don’t quite mask the smell of damp.

‘Courtney the birthday girl, then?’ I ask, looking up at a mysterious brown patch on the ceiling.

‘Yup,’ he replies, rummaging around in a dresser. ‘This whole party was an ambush, by the way. I worked a double and all I wanted to do was come home, carb-load and watch Gilmore Girls.’

‘They threw a party without asking you?’

‘Except they’re claiming it’s an improv group session that “got out of hand”. Sit up.’

I do as he says, and he sits on the bed beside me, tearing open a foil packet of antibacterial wipes.

‘This’ll sting.’

He takes my hand in his, dabbing at my swollen knuckles – it does sting, but only dimly. I watch him wipe away the blood, a little embarrassed that it’s only just occurred to me how lucky I am to have him as a friend.

‘What happened?’ he asks mildly.

‘Nothing. It was stupid. And I don’t really want to talk about it, so …’

‘We should, though. If you’re dealing with anger issues—’

I scoff. Mac looks up at me, expression intent.

‘You got your nose broken in a fight,’ he says seriously.

‘Exactly. My nose. He punched me.’

‘And who started it?’ he retorts, which … I don’t have a rebuttal for, unfortunately.

‘If you have a temper, you need to address it,’ he continues. ‘Figure out what you’re actually in your feelings about and stop trying to stomp it down. I’m speaking from experience here.’

‘You? Come on.’

‘Not me. My brother.’

‘You have a brother?’

‘Yeah,’ he says simply, reaching for a piece of gauze. I watch as he deftly secures it, winding the bandage through my fingers. He’s done this before, I realise.

‘Is he—’ I venture, but Mac cuts me off with a shake of his head.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says. Then, after a beat – ‘Thanks, though.’

There’s a light rapping at the door, then. Mac rolls his eyes.

‘That’ll be Courtney. She knocks but never waits—’

The door parts, and Courtney pokes her head through.

‘Sorry to interrupt!’ She beams, sounding anything but. ‘One of my friends has an audition for a play next week and she’s really struggling with her British accent. Like – it’s giving Eliza Doolittle when it needs to be Mary Poppins, you know? Could you help?’

There’s a moment of strained silence before I realise that she’s talking to me.

‘Oh, uh – sure,’ I manage, my head feeling very heavy as I nod. ‘I can try.’

‘Would you? That’s awesome!’

‘Yeah, awesome. Want to give us a minute?’ Mac says curtly. Courtney’s smile doesn’t waver, but she somehow manages to cast a vaguely murderous look in his direction before slipping back out and shutting the door with a click.

‘That’s Courtney’s modus operandi.’ Mac says flatly. ‘It’s just an excuse to sit in your lap and touch your hair.’

‘Right. I’d say you owe me, but …’ I raise my now-bandaged hand. Mac doesn’t smile.

‘What happened?’ he asks. ‘Your hand is busted, you look like shit – no offence—’

‘None taken.’

‘—and you’re obviously wasted. Did something happen with Audrey?’

Audrey. I could drink every ounce of alcohol in this apartment and it still wouldn’t be enough to blot out the memory of her face when she realised what I’d done.

‘No,’ I say, sobered by his sudden clairvoyance. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘Then what?’

‘Nothing. I got drunk and punched a fridge. It happens.’

‘ “It happens,” ’ he echoes. ‘Fine. I won’t push you.’

But he cares enough to want to, and I wish I could explain to him why I don’t deserve it – his concern, his kindness, his time. But I need his company more. I need noise.

‘Fuck this party,’ he says. ‘Let’s go get a pizza and hole up in here. Watch Gilmore Girls together. You’ll hate it. It’ll be fun.’

‘People will say we’re in love.’

Mac laughs, and it’s nice. So is what he’s offering – if I were a functional human being then I’d probably take him up on it. But I didn’t come here for a quiet evening of pizza and TV, and as soon as we’re out of this room I’m going to let Courtney and her cohorts drag me away. They can parrot my accent, clamber all over me – I don’t give a shit, so long as I can get obliterated while they do it. And eventually I’ll pass out somewhere – anywhere, so long as I don’t have to go back to my apartment tonight. Back to the dark and the quiet and sheets that smell like Audrey.

I think I might have loved her, as ridiculous as that sounds. And I tried to hide from that, just like I tried to pretend that the connection between us wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Our ‘chance’ meetings, all those little threads of synchronicity – I didn’t want to acknowledge them as anything other than coincidence, because that would have meant acknowledging fate as something other than a reassuring fairy tale that people use to make themselves feel better about their shitty lives. Any worldview that might frame losing Mum as inevitable has always been entirely fucking unacceptable to me, but what if it was never as big as that? What if it was as small and simple and utterly miraculous as a single piece of string?

Not that it matters now. The things Audrey said before she left – worse still, the look in her eyes. Forget the hurt, the anger – it was that painful, palpable bewilderment that killed me. It was like she was seeing – really seeing – me for the first time, and she fucking hated it.

She saw me and she hated me and she left. And God, do I ever hate myself for being stupid enough to think that wasn’t inevitable.

AUDREY

LAST NIGHT I DREAMT THAT I WAS SWIMMING THROUGH THE CITY.

The buildings were the same but there was water where the streets should have been, dark and murky. The sky was dark too and Ezra was ahead of me, his head bobbing in the distance – I was trying and failing to catch up with him, calling his name over and over. But my voice wouldn’t carry. He didn’t know that I was there, and when I woke up my face was wet with tears. It felt so real that it took me a few seconds to realise where I actually was.

The where is a hotel. I picked a nice one and asked for the highest room they could give me. I guess I wanted to feel like nothing bad could touch me. It didn’t work, but at least the view is pretty. Last night the evening sun bled through the windows, washing the walls with orange light as I ate room service fries in a fluffy robe, still pink and damp from the bath I took. None of it made me feel any less hollow.

I turned on the TV after it got dark. It was tuned to a classic movie channel, the opening credits of The Apartment starting to roll. The film I watched with Ezra, I realised with a jolt, and instinctively moved to turn it off. But I didn’t. I found myself turning up the volume instead, eyes glued to the screen as I sank down into the cocoon of the wide, white bed that I’m still in now. I wouldn’t have been able to fall asleep in a silent room, I reasoned, pretending that was the only reason I kept watching.

I wish I could justify another night here, but I can’t. The room I shared with Marika is empty now. She was in the apartment when I got back from Ezra’s yesterday, sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror and applying mascara. She stilled when she saw me standing in the open doorway, slowly lowering her brush.

‘What did Ezra tell you?’ I asked – any attempt at preamble would have been ridiculous.

‘What he should have told you,’ she said quietly, turning to face me. ‘Audrey …’

‘He didn’t tell me anything. Neither of you did.’

‘I didn’t get a chance. He—’

‘He talked to a journalist about me. Did you know that?’

She blinked at me – apparently not.

‘She’s the one who told him all that stuff about Julian,’ I continued. ‘Then he told you.’

‘Which he shouldn’t have,’ she said curtly. ‘It was fucked up, coming to me before you.’

‘Saying anything was fucked up. And whatever he imagined – whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true.’

I was still floating in a strange place of unreality, then. Not numb, exactly, but detached from what was happening. I’d even crafted a more palatable version of events on my way to the apartment – I was going to tell Marika that Julian made a pass at me, yeah, but nothing scary happened. He’s probably just used to girls falling at his feet.

But she had already turned away from me, moving towards the bed. Crouching, she slipped a hand under my bunk, and I felt myself go cold even before she pulled out the crumpled camisole.

‘I found this last night,’ she said. ‘You were wearing it at the test shoot. I saw it in the pictures.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It was from the rail.’

‘You told me he didn’t ask you to wear anything from the rail.’

‘I – I forgot to give it back. I was too embarrassed to mention it.’

‘You’re an awful liar,’ she said softly, naked pity written across her face. And I hated her in that moment, just like I’d hated Ezra. I hated her for seeing right through me, for being smart and strong and perfect when I was so weak, so fucking stupid—

Suddenly I was turning, groping for my bag.

‘Don’t go,’ Marika said. ‘Please, we can talk …’

‘Talk to Ezra,’ I replied, and was startled to hear how cutting it sounded. Then I was gone.

She messaged not long after I’d checked into the hotel to tell me that the room was mine – that she’d be staying with Nicole for as long as I needed space. It hadn’t occurred to me until then that Marika probably would have spent all her time there if it hadn’t been for me. Instead, she slept half her nights on a squeaky bunk in a cold, dank little room, just so I wouldn’t be alone.

I don’t know why I had to be so cruel. Pretending that Marika did anything wrong didn’t make me feel any better, especially seeing as she’s only ever shown me kindness. My feelings about Ezra are a lot murkier, though. He hasn’t called, hasn’t messaged – I don’t think I want him to, but a small part of me wonders if maybe I should have listened to his explanation, at least to offer back a fraction of the patience that he’s heaped upon me. I’ve had time to think now, and I can’t comprehend a scenario in which Ezra did what he did maliciously.

An accident, he said – maybe. But that doesn’t change the fact that I never wanted him to know, and I hate that he does. I hate that it’s changed everything, because I’ve realised now that I was magic when we met. I wore sparkling dresses. I disappeared in and out of beautiful places. And I didn’t need to leave a shoe or a trail of breadcrumbs for him to find me, because he was magic too. And it never stopped feeling that way. He never stopped looking at me like I was something rare, someone special. Until he knew, and then I was just an object of sympathy. A rabbit who got her foot caught in a trap.

I incline my head towards the window, gazing out at the skyline. I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t think I can stay in this city, but even if I go home, I’m not the same girl that my parents waved off at the airport. I don’t know if I can slip back into her life, and I don’t know that I want to. I’ve felt more like a person these past two months than I have in years. Everything moved too fast for me to self-edit, to curate myself for others. I just … was.

I was, I was, I was. Everything good is in past tense now.

EZRA

‘YOU LOOK TERRIBLE,’ EDIE SAYS, HOPPING ON TO THE BAR STOOL beside me and shrugging off her coat.

‘Thanks. I got you rosé,’ I say, pushing the glass towards her. She looks very nice, conversely, in a grey knitted dress and red lipstick, which I mentioned liking once. I doubt she remembers.

I was meant to be working today, but I woke up on the floor of Mac’s bedroom with a hangover of biblical proportions and no discernible will to live. I messaged Romy a half-hearted excuse before heading off to get my go-to dumplings and tea, which I managed to keep down for about twenty minutes before vomiting up in a nearby alley. I practically crawled back to my apartment after that, and snatched a few hours of sleep before that awful, itchy-under-the-skin feeling returned. And now I’m here, in the bar where Edie and I first reunited. I was two drinks deep when I called her. I wasn’t sure that she’d even pick up, but she did – now she’s here too, and I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised by that.

‘So – how are you?’ I ask. ‘How’s work?’

‘Do you care?’

‘I’m interested.’

‘In hearing me talk about collating diaries and ordering flowers?’

‘What kind of flowers?’

‘You’re so full of shit.’ She snorts, taking a sip of her drink. ‘How about we talk about why I’m actually here?’

‘Does there need to be a specific reason for us to hang out?’

‘No. I’m just surprised, is all.’

‘That I wanted to go for a drink?’

‘That you wanted to go with me.’

I falter, trying to remember if I messaged Edie after we had dinner at her place. I don’t even know when that was. A few days ago? Longer?

‘Well, I did,’ I say finally. ‘I like spending time with you. Is that allowed?’

‘It’s fine,’ she says, pausing to take another sip of her drink. ‘You just like it less than you used to, clearly.’

I don’t know what to say to that, which means that we’re both silent for a moment. Then:

‘Do you think I have an anger problem?’ I ask. Edie stares at me for a moment, then glances down at my hand – the ol’ fridge-punching one. I’ve long since lost Mac’s bandage, and it’s pretty gnarly looking.

‘That’s a hell of a tangent.’

‘Do you?’ I press. Edie’s known me longer than most, so I figure that if she says no then I won’t have to think about it any more.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I mean – I don’t think you’re an angry person. You losing your temper – I think that’s more to do with you keeping everything bottled up all the time.’

‘It’s not like it’s an actual issue, though,’ I say, slightly alarmed by her clarification. ‘Like – you know I’d never hurt anyone.’

‘You hurt Hugo.’

‘Oh, come on. Don’t pretend he didn’t deserve it.’

‘He was your friend.’

‘You were my friend. He was just some guy I shared a room with.’

‘You knew what he was like. That he had a stupid sense of humour.’

‘Would you have rather I’d laughed along with everyone else?’ I retort, only to regret it when Edie winces and looks down at her drink. I remember more of that night than I’d like to. Maybe because it was a good time up until the moment it wasn’t

The leavers’ ball was our school’s answer to a prom, and notorious for spiralling into carnage. The whole boarding school set-up meant that most of us had spent too much time in this weird, liminal space between lessons ending and ultimate freedom, so there was a lot of pent-up energy. Plus, basically all of the students were eye-wateringly rich and unacquainted with the word ‘no’, so despite months of stern warnings, alcohol was a major presence. Just about everyone there was drunk, shrieking and swaying and laughing a little too loudly while the teachers pretended not to notice.

Suits and gowns had been arriving in the post for weeks prior, but Edie and I decided to raid the drama department’s costume cupboard instead. I wore a threadbare velvet suit and a paisley tie. Edie wore a beaded chiffon slip and ribboned ballet slippers, her hair in soft waves – the overall effect was somewhere between Zelda Fitzgerald and a fairy, and I spent most of the night watching her. So did Hugo.

‘This is fun,’ he’d said eventually, plucking at one of its straps. Hugo was like that – so casually tactile he’d make you feel like the weird one if you called him out on it. He was tall and broad with reddish hair, stupidly rich but weirdly stingy – he’d lose his shit if I did anything as mundane as borrowing his shampoo. We’d been rooming together for a year. Edie sometimes referred to him as ‘Bunny’ behind his back, an allusion to a book I hadn’t got around to reading.

‘Thanks,’ she said, offering a thin-lipped smile. A group of us had congregated outside of the main hall, our makeshift ballroom. It was a warm night, almost balmy, and I was leaning against the brick exterior. Jangling guitar music drifted through the open doors.

‘Is it your sister’s?’ Hugo pressed, and Edie’s brow puckered in confusion.

‘No. Why would you say that?’ she asked.

‘It’s got quite a sexy, homewrecker kind of energy, is all. I like it.’

‘Wow, thanks,’ Edie muttered, glancing away. Hugo grinned, apparently undeterred by both the obvious dismissal and the fact that I was staring absolute daggers at him.

‘What’s she up to these days?’ he continued. ‘Besides shagging other people’s husbands, I mean.’

Cue the asinine laughter. Enough, I decided, dropping a cigarette and rounding on him, ready to retort with something suitably cutting about his family – between the embezzlement charges and the libel lawsuits, it was a rich tapestry. But Edie silenced me by slipping her hand into mine, warm and soft.

‘I love this song,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back inside.’

I didn’t move. Hugo’s perma-smile was infuriating, and I was desperate to wipe it off his smug, entitled face.

‘Ezra,’ Edie said, a pleading note entering her voice. I looked at her then, and realised that she was genuinely upset.

‘Okay,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Sneaking off to consummate your love?’ Hugo laughed.

‘You’re an ugly fucking drunk,’ I spat, temper flaring as I turned back towards him. ‘You can apologise when you’re sober.’

‘Can I? Very magnanimous of you.’

‘Don’t use words you can’t spell, Hughie.’

His eyes seemed to harden, then, but his smile didn’t falter. Edie tugged at my hand again, but I barely registered it.

‘Maybe I’ll apologise now,’ he said, turning towards her. ‘Edie, I’m sorry for insulting your sister.’

Edie said nothing. Hugo looked back to me.

‘And Ezra,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry that Edie hasn’t even thrown you so much as a pity fuck by now. Have you tried playing the dead mum card?’

My memory gets hazy after that. I know I must have lunged at him because when my vision cleared, I was holding his shirt by the collar and he was bundled against the wall. I think that people around us were yelling but I could barely hear it, could barely process anything beyond his rapidly reddening face, teeth bared with fury. Clarity was swift and awful – I let go and was backing away when I felt a white-hot shock of pain explode between my eyes. I staggered, raising my hand to my nose – it came away wet, red. Then Hugo’s face turned grey and he crumpled to the ground in a dead faint. We later found out that he’d broken his thumb by tucking it into his fist when he hit me. That’s about all I remember until the hospital.

‘Was that the end of it, then?’ I ask Edie. She looks up at me with a furrowed brow.

‘It?’

‘Us. Is that why you dumped me?’

‘I mean – I was angry,’ she says slowly. ‘The entire thing was gross, macho bullshit.’

‘Bit harsh.’

‘It’s not,’ Edie says curtly. ‘What he said to you was fucking awful, and I’m sorry. But it didn’t justify what you did.’

‘But it wasn’t even about me. The whole thing started because of what he said to you.’

‘It doesn’t matter how it started! It ended with two broken bones and that is all on you, Ezra. Don’t you dare try and pin that shit on me.’

She turns away and takes another sip of her wine, cheeks flushed. I rub at my face and say nothing, discomfited. She’s right, of course, but I can’t bring myself to concede the point.

‘It was the cartilage in my nose that got broken,’ I say instead. ‘Not the bone.’

‘One broken bone, then,’ she says dryly. ‘That’s much better.’

I smile, relieved that she’s not actually mad at me.

“So, that was the reason? Me and my toxic masculinity gave you the ick?”

‘It’s not funny. And honestly, I don’t understand why you even care, still.’

‘Because it matters to me,’ I admit. ‘Still.’

Edie turns back to look at me, then, eyes intent and so, so green – they were the first thing I ever noticed about her.

‘That’s just it,’ she says quietly. ‘I used to think I knew.’

And then she kisses me.

It turns out that being kissed by Edie feels a lot like it used to even though nothing else is the same, least of all me. I can’t quite wrap my head around the contradiction of it all, actually – the fact that she left but she’s back, that she didn’t want me but now she does, or maybe she always did, but—

I feel her smile against my lips then, and I wonder if maybe this was always inevitable. If it was always us. If Audrey—

I abruptly pull back, then, breaking the embrace. Edie’s eyes are wide, her lipstick smudged, and I feel so sick with guilt that I have to look away.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just … I need a moment to think.’

‘Think?’ she echoes, looking bewildered. And I am too, because I wanted this for so long. I’ve loved Edie for so long. But—

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

Edie’s spoken so softly that it takes me a moment to process the question. It’s a simple one, of course, and the answer is no. Audrey and I – we never got that far, and whatever we did have is over. I’ll probably never see her again. It should make all of this so much simpler – a sad ending to a short story.

‘… No.’ I manage. ‘No, she’s not—’

For the briefest moment, I think I see Edie’s features contort with something like pain. But then her face is obscured by her hair and she’s on her feet, reaching for her coat. Time is suddenly moving too quickly for me to grasp as I reach for her arm – she wrenches it back and now she’s striding away with her head held high, too proud to run, and I’m on my feet too. I could go after her. There’s still time. But I know Edie, and I know that if I chased her down and caused a scene then she’d only hate me more, because she hates me now. She hates me and that makes sense – it was only a matter of time. It’s only ever just a matter of time.

I retake my seat at the bar instead, reaching for the remnants of her wine with a trembling hand. I know that it won’t numb anything but I drink it all the same, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. It comes away wet, red.

AUDREY

SOMETIMES IT FEELS LIKE I’M PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF KEEPING my hands still when I’m nervous. I’ve shredded a lot of napkins in my time, but this restaurant is too nice to have paper ones so instead I’ve pulled an unsuspecting flower to pieces. I didn’t even realise what I was doing until it was too late – the naked stem is back in the tiny vase, but I’m sweeping the scraps of petal into my coat pocket when—

‘Audrey?’

I leap to my feet on instinct. The legs of my chair squeak against the floor as I spring upwards, quickly brushing my clammy, floral-scented hands against my jeans.

‘Oh, that’s so not necessary!’ Miranda laughs. ‘Please, sit down. I’ll need a minute to find my way out of this jacket.’

And so I do as she says, watching as Miranda Browning unbuttons a beautiful shearling coat with her long, beringed fingers. She looks considerably younger than I know she must be, her auburn hair thick around her shoulders. She smells like leather and sandalwood, her eyes a stark, clear blue behind oversized tortoiseshell glasses.

‘It’s really starting to feel like winter, huh?’ she says, dropping into her chair. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

‘Uh – no problem,’ I stammer, abruptly realising that I haven’t actually spoken yet. ‘I mean – of course.’

She smiles, sits. I force myself to return that smile, feeling completely overwhelmed. Maybe it’s better that this all came about so quickly – I’m operating on pure adrenaline right now. I have been since Imogene called me less than an hour ago, sounding uncharacteristically frantic and demanding to know exactly where I was. The prescience of her call was almost as stressful as her opener, seeing as at that particular moment I’d been heading back to the apartment to pack my things and rehearse telling her that I was going back to England.

‘Um – near the park,’ I replied, not sure if it was true. ‘What’s up?’

‘What’s up is that I just got off the phone with Miranda Browning. Can you believe it?’

‘Oh,’ I said, immediately nauseous. ‘Like – her office?’

‘No! Miranda herself! And she wants to meet you for lunch!’

‘Me and Marika?’

‘Just you! If I send you the details of the restaurant then can you head straight there?’

I could. I did. And now I’m sitting opposite one of the most prestigious fashion designers in the world, which would be a dream come true for any model in the world except me.

Our waiter materialises – Miranda orders a black coffee and I do the same.

‘And do you still do that amazing salted caramel cake?’ she asks him brightly. ‘With the pecans?’

‘I’m happy to tell you that we do.’

‘One of those, please,’ Miranda says, then leans towards me. ‘You’ll love it. I know how hard you girls work, especially when you’re starting out. You definitely deserve a treat.’

‘Thank you,’ I murmur, discomfited. I still don’t know why I’m here, but Miranda seems like a genuinely nice person – kind and easy-going in spite of being mind-bogglingly important. It’s jarring. I’m torn between wanting to get the hell out of here and wanting her to like me.

‘Don’t even,’ she says, picking up her napkin and shaking it out. ‘Now – let’s get to why we’re here, because you’re probably kind of nervous, right?’

‘A little,’ I admit, and she grimaces.

‘I’m so sorry – I promise, not my intention at all,’ she says emphatically. ‘I just wanted to get to know you a little better. You’re a representative of the Miranda Browning brand now, and I don’t take that lightly. When we showcase fresh talent, we also want to nurture it.’

‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘It’s – I totally understand how huge a deal this campaign is. I know I’m not that experienced, and you’ve put a lot of trust in me.’

‘You’re very sweet. But it’s a two-way street, Audrey. You’re a new face, and this industry loves new. Reinvention is crucial. And it’s something that I’ve been thinking about a lot, recently – how do you like the sound of MB Beauty?’

‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘A make-up brand?’

‘Uh-huh.’ She smiles. ‘We’ll start small – glosses, gel shadows, liquid highlighters. Maybe cream blushes, some tints – youthful without being alienating. What do you think?’

‘That sounds amazing,’ I say, wondering why she thinks my opinion has any bearing.

‘Great, because you’re exactly the demographic we should be chasing! And I want the advertising to be personality-led. Real girls, real routines. Rollouts across socials as well as billboards. Have you done a beauty campaign before?’

I blink at her, startled. Is she implying that she wants me to be a part of it? I mean – the idea alone is enough to stir up that same giddy jubilation that I felt when Marika and I booked the first campaign. But if Julian is involved – my stomach sinks just as quickly.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Not at all.’

The waiter reappears, setting down two coffees and an adorable little pudding with a dollop of cream. I’m not hungry but Miranda is looking at me expectantly, so I dig out a small spoonful, take a bite.

‘It’s really good,’ I say honestly and she smiles, taking a sip of her coffee.

‘You looked like you could do with a sugar rush. This city treating you okay?’

‘Oh, it’s great,’ I say automatically. ‘It’s a lot, but it’s great.’

‘I was scared of everything when I first moved here. It was a full six months before I even stepped foot on the subway – I just walked everywhere. Put holes in every pair of shoes I owned.’

‘At least you got your steps in,’ I joke feebly, but Miranda laughs anyway.

‘One of my friends showed me the ropes eventually. Have you made many here?’

‘Oh, friends? Uh – I’m close with Marika – she’s my roommate.’

I don’t know if either of those things are still true, I realise with a pang. But Miranda’s eyes alight with recognition.

‘The other girl on the campaign, right? That’s wonderful. This city can be very lonely. And – can I be candid?’

I nod.

‘You’re very young,’ she says, her voice soft and conspiratorial. ‘I’ve been in your shoes, so I know that it isn’t always easy to figure out your own best interests. It’s why the people that you surround yourself with are so important. There are a lot of opportunists out there.’

‘Sure,’ I say, at a slight loss.

Miranda tilts her head, a frown tracing her features. ‘I haven’t offended you, have I? I don’t want to sound patronising.’

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘No, I think you’re right. That’s why I’m so lucky to have Imogene.’

‘Oh, Imogene’s great. I’m glad you have her guidance.’

‘Me too.’

There’s a pause then. It feels weighty, and I’m trying to think of something else to say when Miranda sighs softly, resting her elbows against the table.

‘Are you okay?’ I venture. She smiles, but it’s wan.

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long, long week, is all.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘No, no, it’s okay. Just – I’ve gotten word about an upcoming smear piece from an ex-employee with a grudge and some quote-unquote journalist she’s friends with. Total fiction, of course, but it’s upsetting. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been losing sleep over it.’

I stare at her, abruptly feeling like I might throw up all over the perfectly starched tablecloth.

‘It’s not so much the brand I’m worried about,’ she continues, looking down into her cup. ‘Just that it’s going to hurt a lot of people on our team if it ever sees the light of day.’

‘What’s the publication?’ I hear myself ask, having somehow managed to keep my expression blank.

‘Just some tawdry website looking for clicks. The whole thing is totally unscrupulous.’

‘Oh. Well … maybe no one will see it.’

‘Maybe,’ she says. Then, ‘No one has reached out to you about it, have they?’

‘No,’ I say – too quickly. ‘I mean – I don’t think so.’

‘Well, that’s something.’ She smiles. ‘I’d hate to see you get dragged into something so unpleasant. And as Imogene will tell you, it’s always a bad idea to engage with these kinds of people. I’d hate to see you accidentally hurt your prospects.’

She meets my eye as she says that. And while we’re looking at each other, I really look. I see the tightness of her smile. The determined set of her jaw. The coolness of her gaze. And acid rises in my throat.

She knows, I realise. She knows who Julian is, and she knows what he’s done. It’s why I’m here and Marika isn’t – why she’s plied me with kind words and sweet things and dangled an even bigger campaign in front of me. It was all in the hope of shutting me up before I could say anything they’d regret.

‘Thank you for the advice,’ I say stiltedly. ‘I wouldn’t want to do anything that might hurt my career.’

Miranda visibly relaxes, at that.

‘That’s admirable,’ she replies. ‘Ambition. Focus.’

And I nod, but all I can think is, How long have you known? How long have you protected him?

All of the fear inside of me is hardening now. I can feel it, settling into the shape of something new.

EZRA

I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF SOME RANDOM DOWNTOWN BODEGA WHEN I finally decide to turn my phone off. The steadily mounting stream of messages from Romy and Caroline is starting to make me feel edgy – I have no idea how many shifts I’ve missed, but I don’t really feel like being officially fired on top of everything else. I’ve missed some calls from Mac, too. Maggie messaged once. Nothing from Edie. Or Audrey, of course.

I yawn as I slip it back into my pocket, picking up a can of ginger beer. The evening bodega run is to stave off the mounting claustrophobia – I’ve spent the bulk of the past twenty-four hours watching TV on the sofa, occasionally getting up to eat a handful of cereal or mix another drink. I’m sure I must have slept, but it doesn’t feel that way. My eyes are painfully dry, my tongue thick and sour in my mouth.

I pay for my ginger beer with a crumpled note. There’s already a water bottle half-filled with whisky in my coat pocket, and once I’m outside I take it out, topping it up with the soda as best I can. My best is bad, it turns out, and I wipe my now-sticky hands on my jumper and toss the can in a nearby dumpster with more force than necessary. Then I start to walk. It’s a nice evening, the darkening sky streaked with pink and gold. The familiar impulse to take a picture tugs at my brain, but I don’t have my camera. Besides, I don’t want to remember any of this.

It isn’t long before I realise that I’m heading towards the Village. It’s weird – I usually avoid it, subconsciously or otherwise, but when I start recognising buildings, I realise that the route to our old street is still etched into my brain. Why not, I think gaily. I haven’t been back there since I first left for school. I was too angry with Dad for selling it, too hurt that I didn’t get to say goodbye, too fucking sad. Only I don’t feel much of anything tonight. Ever since Audrey left, I’ve been observing my life fall apart with the cool detachment of someone watching a natural disaster on the news.

But then I reach our house, and—

Not our house, I remind myself. What used to be our house, only it all looks exactly how I remember it – jarringly so. Black door, stone steps, chrysanthemums in the window boxes – Mum planted those, I’m almost sure. And the lights are on. Another family is probably inside, but I’m gripped with the impulse to knock on the door anyway, just in case she answers.

Instead, I cross the street and sit heavily on the shallow kerb, taking a swig of my drink. I feel a bit nauseous, struck by the sudden conviction that our furniture is still in there. None of it ever materialised in Dad’s new apartment – nothing did. Even the really mundane shit like bedding and cutlery was new, and sometimes I picture the old stuff in its own private landfill, a monument to that life. It can’t be gone. Not Mum’s things, at least not her books and her notepads, her mountains of folders. He wouldn’t have gotten rid of her battered wooden hairbrush, or the chewed-up looking Hush Puppies that she wore year-round. And someone must have kept the photo albums, meticulously chronologised and lined neatly on the shelf above her desk. She liked to keep them in her eyeline, she told me once, but never explained why.

I would have kept it all. The stuff, the house – I lost my shit when Dad wrote to tell me it’d been sold, just days before I was set to fly back for Christmas. To top it off, that Christmas itself was excruciating. Dad was trying so fucking hard to keep things festive, apparently unaware his forced enthusiasm only made everything feel bleaker. He’d even bought a tree for the new apartment, and they’d all waited until I was there to decorate it. But then Dad produced this box of decorations that I’d never seen before, and though I realise now that he probably thought it might be too painful to use the ones that Mum had so lovingly curated, I wanted them. I wanted that much if I couldn’t have her, and I briefly imagined upending the box from his hands, crushing the unfamiliar baubles underfoot, pelting them against the walls –

Instead, I left the room without a word. No one came after me, and when I reappeared for dinner, the tree had been decorated. We never spoke about it again, and we’ve gotten new decorations every year since.

Suddenly I’m on the verge of tears – I roughly paw at my eyes, embarrassed. This is exactly why I don’t like to think about this shit.

‘Hi there.’

I start, glancing upwards. There’s a woman looking down at me with obvious concern, a little kid with fluffy hair and a solemn expression clinging to her hand.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks gently.

‘Yep,’ I say quickly, getting to my feet. ‘Fine. Thank you.’

And then I’m striding away, hands tucked into my pockets, abandoning my bottle on the kerb. I don’t deserve pity, especially not from a stranger. What’s more, it’s jarringly familiar. Mum would have done the same thing, because that’s the kind of person she was – interested in everything, kind to everyone. And I don’t exactly remember when things started to get really bad, but that was part of it. The shape of her days didn’t change but it was almost as though there was less of her, somehow – I saw that, but I never tried to talk to her about it. I’ve always been a shitty son, apparently. I don’t even know where her grave is. I’ve never visited.

I don’t know where her grave is.

The realisation rattles me, and I stop by a streetlight and fumble in my pocket to turn my phone back on. I call Caroline’s number without looking at any of her messages – she picks up after the first ring.

‘Ezra?’

‘Hey,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘How are you?’

‘Worried, Ezra. You’ve been AWOL for days. What the fuck is going on?’

‘Not much. Uh – weird question, but where’s Mum?’

‘What?’

‘I mean – where’s her grave? Which cemetery?’

She’s silent for a moment. I can hear Romy in the background, whispering. I’m probably on speakerphone.

‘Where are you, Ezra?’ Caroline finally asks.

‘Just walking. I thought I might take some flowers.’

‘That’s a really nice idea. Come over. You can stay the night and we can both go tomorrow morning.’

There’s a lilt of unease in her voice. It occurs to me then then that I might be drunker than I realised.

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just tell me which one.’

‘It’s late, Ezra. It can wait.’

‘Obviously. I know she’s not going anywhere.’ I laugh, but it’s a flat, awful sound and an awful thing to say. I’m on the verge of an apology when a sob escapes my throat instead, and then I’m crying, and laughing because I can’t believe that I’m actually fucking crying, but the laughter just sounds like more crying. It’s humiliating, and I keep trying to pull in enough air to tell Caroline that I’m sorry but the breaths are too small, too shallow – I lower the phone, sink back down towards the kerb and put my head between my knees, trying desperately to calm the fuck down.

But it’s not working.

It’s not working, because this is never going to get better. I’ve pretended otherwise for so long but the hole she left is going to keep getting bigger, and bigger, and eventually it’s going to swallow me whole. I know it. I’ve always known it, from that first night when we were waiting for the phone to ring, except the doorbell rang instead, and Dad stood up—

I can hear Caroline’s voice coming from the phone. She’s not on speakerphone, which means she must be shouting – I raise it back to my ear with a trembling hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ I manage. ‘I—’

‘Where are you, Ezra? Tell me where you are.’

‘I’m not – I’m at the house.’

‘Whose house? Tell me the address.’

She sounds so scared. I know why, and it absolutely kills me.

‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘You don’t have to – I’m not—’

‘Don’t what, Ezra? You’re not making any sense.’

‘Don’t act like I’d do something, because I wouldn’t,’ I say in a rush, voice hoarse. ‘I wouldn’t. Even though I’m – I’m so fucking bad at this. And she was good. She was so good …’

Another sob escapes my throat then – I feel my face crumple and hide it with my hand, chest hitching. Shit.

‘Come home,’ Caroline says, her voice breaking – she’s crying too, I realise dimly. ‘Just get in a cab and come home. Please?’

‘I’m – I don’t know where that is any more,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t think there is one.’

‘There’s me,’ she says. ‘There’s always me.’

Caroline insists that I stay on the phone during the cab ride. When it finally pulls up outside her building, she’s waiting for me on the street in zebra-print pyjamas, her hair askew. I’m barely out of the car before she yanks me into a hug so tight that it hurts and I’m grateful, for that. For her.

We stand there in silence for a moment, just holding each other. Then she leads me inside, and out of the cold.

AUDREY

‘IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE THAT YOU WANT TO ASK ME?’

Demi meets my gaze as she says that, and her wording strikes me as oddly formal. Maybe because this whole thing has felt so distinctly un-formal, until now.

To passers-by, we probably look like two friends catching up over coffee – she was here when I arrived, sitting at a corner table in a cute pink boilersuit. I recognised her from social media. I spent hours poring over her feed last night, as if knowing where she went on holiday last summer might make this less terrifying. But she spotted me before I could second-guess myself, raising a hand in greeting. After the introductions she complimented my jeans and that was that – we were talking. Everything felt totally normal until the part where she reached for her phone and asked if it was okay if she started recording. And I said yes, because it was.

‘Um – I don’t think so,’ I reply. ‘I can’t think of anything.’

She nods, tapping at her phone – the recording ends with a beep, and she meets my eyes.

‘I’m really glad you came here today,’ she says softly. ‘I’m glad you felt like you could talk to me. But I know that this is a lot, and if you change your mind …’

‘I won’t,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m sure about this. All of it.’

‘Well – things are moving quickly, but I’ll make sure you see the article before it’s published. You can let me know if there’s anything you’d prefer to be omitted. And we won’t be using your name.’

‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘I mean – is that worth it? Miranda will know it’s me, still.’

‘Are you worried about that?’

‘No. I mean – I guess she might try and blacklist me, but I don’t really care at this point,’ I say, dropping my gaze. ‘Maybe having my real name attached to the things I’m saying might give them more … credence.’

‘That’s brave of you.’

‘Not really,’ I say, discomfited. ‘I’m sure there’re worse stories than mine. Like – objectively …’

‘Objectively, he assaulted you,’ Demi says evenly. ‘And you should recognise it as that, because I don’t doubt that he does. But he did it anyway because he didn’t imagine for a second that there would be consequences.’

I blink at Demi, my heart pounding. Hearing her lay it out so bluntly – it’s terrifying, but God, it’s such a relief. To be reassured that I’m not overreacting, not being dramatic – I needed it so badly and I didn’t even realise.

‘I can understand wanting to downplay it,’ she continues. ‘Like if you can somehow make it smaller, you can make it matter less.’

‘Right,’ I say, exhaling shakily. ‘That’s it. Totally.’

‘But it matters – every story I’ve heard and every person who’s told them. And if you feel strongly about me using your name, I will.’

‘But you don’t want to?’

‘No,’ she says after a beat. ‘Pieces like this – they have a way of provoking very strong reactions. It can get ugly, and I’d prefer to shield you from as much of that as possible. It’s not to say that people you know won’t recognise you, because they might – especially anyone who knows about your connection to the upcoming campaign. But it’ll protect you from wider public scrutiny.’

I nod. A part of me is relieved to still have some control over who does and doesn’t know what happened.

‘Another thing – I won’t be able to print any of what you’ve told me about Miranda,’ Demi says solemnly. ‘I should tell you that you’re not the only one with a story about her, but without any proof, Soil just doesn’t have the resources to handle a defamation suit. They’d sink us out of spite.’

‘But … you have proof about Julian?’

Demi nods wordlessly, and relief floods over me.

‘Everyone in the office is working overtime on this. The article could be live by the end of the week.’

‘Are you worried?’ I blurt out. ‘About things getting ugly, I mean.’

‘Sure.’ She nods, leaning back in her chair. ‘Sometimes it feels like the more I care about a piece, the bigger the backlash. It can get scary, but I’ve never regretted it. Can’t let the fuckers get you down, you know?’

‘I think you’re the brave one,’ I tell her sincerely, and she smiles.

‘We can both be brave, I think,’ she says. ‘That’s allowed.’

When I messaged Marika to ask if I could see her today, I figured that she’d probably wonder what brought on my sudden change of heart. But she only wanted to know where to meet me, and what time, which is how I come to find her in the biography section of a Lower East Side bookstore, a stack of hardbacks balanced casually on her hip. Typical Marika, making book shopping look like a high-fashion editorial.

‘Found anything good?’ I ask lightly, and she turns to look at me. For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then she unceremoniously dumps the books on to a stool and rushes forward, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug. Tears sting my eyes as her hair tickles my cheek – I’ve missed her more than I thought possible.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, voice muffled. ‘I’m so sorry. I should have …’

‘There’s nothing you could have—’

‘No, I should have come to you right away. I just wanted to be wrong; I wanted Ezra to be wrong.’

‘I’m sorry too. Everything I said … I didn’t mean it. And I never wanted to lie, I just—’

‘I should have known. And his studio, I – Audrey, I should have stayed—’

‘No,’ I say seriously, stepping back and putting my hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s not on you. It’s not on either of us, okay?’

Marika nods, lips pressed tightly together, eyes shining – she’s on the verge of tears, I realise, and if she starts crying …

‘We don’t have to talk about it all right now,’ I say quickly, voice wavering. ‘Tell me what’s new with you, okay? Please?’

Marika takes a second to compose herself, raising her eyes to the ceiling and blinking rapidly as she lets out a long, drawn-out exhale. Then-

‘Switzerland.’

‘Switzerland?’ I echo. She nods.

‘I booked a shoot there,’ she says haltingly. ‘It’s a campaign for a watch brand. Imogene called to tell me this morning. And it’s a long flight, so …’

She gestures vaguely to her abandoned pile of books, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

‘That’s amazing.’ I smile. ‘And … it’s a big brand?’

She seems to hesitate, then nods – of course it’s big. They’re flying her out to Switzerland – how could it be anything but? This is a huge deal, and though she’s trying to be modest, we both know that this could be it – the big, life-changing job that catapults her up into the stratosphere. And she deserves it. This, and every other incredible thing coming her way, which is why it’s easy to ignore the tiny little pit of loss in my stomach. Because I don’t know when I’ll see her after this. It’s another goodbye, only this time I’m on the receiving end.

It hurts. But right now, I only want my friend to know how happy I am for her.

‘That’s incredible.’ I beam. ‘Take pictures of everything, okay? I want to hear all about it.’

‘I will,’ she says, offering a wan smile. ‘Leaving feels weird, though. We’ve been here so long. Or – not so long, but …’

‘Long enough for it to matter,’ I conclude and something flickers behind Marika’s eyes.

‘Yeah,’ she says softly. Then, after a beat, ‘Are you hungry?’

I’m starving, it turns out, and so we take a table at a kitschy-looking diner nearby. It’s our last supper, we decide, so we go all out – hot dogs with relish, salty shoestring fries, vanilla milkshakes so thick that it’s a struggle to suck them through our straws. We eat it all, and we sit together for a long time after we’re done, huddled in a booth beside a window. I finally tell Marika everything that happened, and it’s different from when I talked to Demi. There’s no distance. She doesn’t ask questions – I’m monologuing, and I find myself going in circles, stumbling over words. I inevitably start to cry at one point, and when Marika wordlessly hands me a napkin, I see that she’s crying too. It cuts me to the bone, and I wonder if there’ll ever be a place for all this pain to go. It’s not fair that she should have to feel it too.

We order coffee afterwards and drink it slowly, sleepily. Hesitantly, Marika tells me that she’s scared to leave. Scared of losing momentum, scared of being forgotten. She doesn’t mention Nicole specifically, but I tell her that even a passer-by on the street would struggle to forget her, let alone a girl who’s so obviously in love. She smiles, then, and the way that the dying sun lights up her face – I’m suddenly so aware that this will all be a memory soon.

But a good one, in spite of it all. Something to hold on to.

EZRA

IT’S ABOUT MIDDAY WHEN THERE’S A KNOCK AT THE DOOR – Caroline’s door. I’m still pretending to be asleep on her sofa, so it’s an unwelcome surprise when she stretches her leg over from the armchair and nudges me with her foot.

‘I know you’re awake,’ she says. ‘Go get it.’

‘It’s your apartment,’ I reply thickly, keeping my eyes stubbornly shut. ‘If it’s a parcel then they can leave it outside.’

‘It’s not a parcel,’ she says, shutting her book with a snap. ‘Go on. I’ll make coffee.’

‘Jesus.’ I groan, forcing myself upwards and shuffling towards the door. ‘Are you staging an intervention?’

‘Good one!’ she calls back, just as I open the door to Maggie in a baggy blue sweatshirt, arms laden with bags.

‘I brought you some clothes,’ she says, proffering one. ‘Caroline mentioned you slept here.’

Fuck. This is an intervention.

‘Uh – thanks,’ I say, taking it. I didn’t even realise that she and Caroline were on speaking terms again. Maybe they weren’t, but my meltdown was the catalyst for reconciliation – a mortifying prospect.

‘I wasn’t sure what you guys would be in the mood for,’ she says, sweeping past me and dumping the rest of the bags on the coffee table. ‘I went to that deli near my office—’

‘Oh, that place is amazing,’ Caroline interjects, having reappeared with plates and cutlery. ‘Did you get the potato salad? The one with the fennel?’

‘Uh-huh. Tom is obsessed with it.’

‘Romy literally buys it in bulk. Are you going to sit down?’

I realise with a start that Caroline is addressing me now.

‘Yeah, uh – I didn’t realise that we were doing lunch today,’ I manage.

‘Among other things,’ she replies brightly. ‘We’ll multitask.’

There it is. I grip the bag tightly, fighting the impulse to run – I’m so comically hungover that I’d probably concuss myself on the doorframe.

‘We’re not trying to gang up on you,’ Maggie informs me, busily unloading cartons and boxes. ‘But it’ll be good for us to create an open dialogue.’

‘A what?’ I laugh, and her cheeks colour.

‘It’s something I’ve been working on with my therapist,’ she says. ‘Dialogue. Expression.’

Shit. I try to sneak a glance at Caroline but she’s back in the kitchen. This is brand new information, and now I feel a total prick for laughing.

‘It’s a recent thing,’ Maggie adds, clearly flustered.

‘That’s great,’ I say quickly, attempting to backtrack. ‘I mean – you’re liking it, right?’

‘It’s been productive. Difficult. But overall good.’

‘Good. Glad that it’s … good.’

‘It is,’ she says. Then, after a beat, ‘We talk about Mum.’

Oh God. Hungover or otherwise, I’m not equipped to deal with this. Caroline must have told her about last night’s performance – Maggie might even know more about it than I do, seeing as I don’t remember anything between vomiting in the bathtub and waking up on the sofa.

‘And – I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t,’ she continues solemnly. ‘Talk about her, I mean. What happened on your birthday …’

‘I told you, it’s fine.’

‘But it’s not,’ Caroline says – she’s back with the coffee. ‘If we hadn’t been bickering we might have noticed that you drank an entire bottle of wine by yourself.’

‘Who did?’ I demand, affronted.

‘Dad.’

‘Dad?’ I laugh. ‘He was too busy looking at his watch, surely?’

Maggie sighs, perching on the edge of the sofa. Caroline sets down the mugs and flops back into the armchair, their mutual silence weighted with disapproval.

‘What?’ I say defensively. ‘I thought this was an “open dialogue”?’

‘It is,’ Caroline says. ‘Which is why I can say that I think you’re too harsh on Dad.’

‘He does try,’ Maggie chimes in.

‘To avoid me? Agreed.’

‘Only because you act like you can’t stand him!’ Caroline retorts. ‘And don’t think that he’s oblivious to it, because he’s not.’

‘So what? He’s the one that shipped me off to a different country.’

‘You agreed to go, Ezzy. No one forced you.’

‘Only because he so obviously wanted me gone!’

‘No,’ Caroline says flatly. ‘He wanted you to be safe. He wanted you to have structure. He didn’t want you to skip school and roam the city getting wasted with a bunch of random dirtbags, which I happen to think is fairly reasonable.’

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. She’s referring to the one time I got picked up (and dropped home) by two plain-clothed officers in the park after puking a stomachful of Bacardi on to a memorial bench. The dirtbags in question were the guys who’d bought me cigarettes a few hours prior – they bolted, which is fair, and I got off with a warning after Maggie relayed our sob-story to the cops. I always wondered if I might have gotten away with it entirely, had Caroline been the one to answer the door. But she wasn’t, and I didn’t. A month later I was in England.

‘He missed you, Ezra,’ Maggie says. ‘He tried to call – he wrote you all those letters. You never wrote back.’

Sure, yes. Letters were received. Actual hand-written letters recounting every mundane thing that had happened the week prior. They were sad – unknowingly so, which made them even sadder. And they undermined my self-righteous anger, so I ignored them. Eventually they dwindled into the occasional email and an annual birthday card, and I was relieved. It made it easier to convince myself that he didn’t really care, and I don’t know why I wanted that. Or why it’s only just occurring to me how fucked-up that is.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’m a terrible son. Is that what we’re all here to talk about?’

‘You’re not—’

‘No, I am. A shitty brother, too. A worse friend – a bad person, basically.’

It all comes out in a rush, and it’s the first time I’ve given voice to it – the deep, gnawing conviction that there’s a reason why everything I touch turns to shit. I thought it might make me feel better, admitting it – nope. I’m mortified by how pathetic I sound, which isn’t helped by Caroline’s abrupt bark of laughter.

‘Sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘Just – do you really think that anyone who was actually so awful would spend as much time agonising over it as you apparently do?’

‘You’re not a bad person,’ Maggie confirms. ‘Have a sandwich.’

She proffers a box of them, crustless and neatly cut. I hesitate, then sit beside her on the sofa and take one.

‘And we’re not here to talk about anything in particular,’ she adds. ‘We’re just … here.’

‘Because I’m having a breakdown?’

‘Are you?’ Maggie asks, eyes big and soft.

‘No,’ I say instinctively. Then – ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t have to know,’ Caroline says. ‘We’ll just take each day as it comes. Today, lunch. Then maybe a movie …’

‘You could have a bath,’ Maggie interjects. ‘Baths always make me feel better.’

‘Mags has a point. You stink, actually.’

Maggie responds by picking up a pillow and tossing it at Caroline’s head. I laugh, taking a bite of my sandwich. A mouthful is enough to make me realise that I’m ravenous. I take another huge bite, and for some reason my eyes are suddenly flooded with tears. Because I’m sad? Because I’m not? I have no idea, so I just keep eating, tears dripping down my face as I chew.

Maggie and Caroline continue bickering, both kind enough to pretend that they haven’t noticed.

AUDREY

THE ARTICLE COMES OUT ON A FRIDAY.

Marika and I are at the kitchen table, eating breakfast in companiable silence and scrolling through our phones when she suddenly goes completely still, her eyes darting up to meet mine. I know, then, and it’s no particular surprise. Demi sent me the finished piece a few days ago, as promised, and I okayed it without reading. Maybe someday I’ll want to hear the other stories – to see my own in immutable black-and-white typeface. But not today. Today, Marika shuts her screen off with a click and puts her phone face-down on the table, and we resume eating our toast.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world doesn’t get the memo. My own phone starts to ring less than ten minutes later, and I show the screen to Marika before raising it to my ear – it’s the AVW office number, and Imogene’s assistant, Kady. To her credit, she sounds totally calm and pleasant, like there’s nothing strange about the fact that she’s calling instead of Imogene. She asks if I can come into the office today, the sooner the better, and after I say yes and hang up we wait to see if Marika also gets a call. She doesn’t, which confirms what I already suspected – the name change wasn’t enough.

So I set off for the AVW offices, breath billowing in front of me as I walk. Marika tried to come with me, of course, but I felt like this was something I needed to do by myself. It’s a cold, misty day, the tips of the skyscrapers lost in a layer of thick grey cloud. It might seem ominous ordinarily, but I feel eerily calm. Like everything that happens from this point onwards is already fixed in time. Inevitable.

When I finally arrive, the office is as quiet as I’ve ever heard it. People are talking in hushed voices, frowning at phones, frantically tapping at laptops. A few furtive glances are cast my way, which would have been enough to send me spiralling just days ago. But I don’t feel much of anything until I’m ushered into Imogene’s office and she turns to me with watery, red-rimmed eyes.

‘Hi, Audrey,’ she says, quickly fixing her features into an approximation of a smile. ‘Sit down.’

I sink into a comfortable chair opposite her desk. Imogene stays standing, rubbing a thumb against her collarbone. I’ve never seen her look so – so imperfect, I suppose. Her trousers are crumpled and her jumper is on inside-out, the tag only half-obscured by the ends of her haphazard ponytail.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask hesitantly, and she blinks at me with surprise, like it’s somehow not entirely obvious that she’s been crying her eyes out.

‘I’m fine,’ she says after a beat. ‘I just – I thought we could have a catch-up. I got Kady to buy doughnuts.’ She gestures vaguely to a box of them on her desk, pink-glazed and totally untouched.

‘Oh – thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m okay, though.’

‘Can I get you a coffee, then? Or water?’

‘I’m good. Thanks.’

She nods absently, perching on the edge of her desk. I can see that she’s working up to whatever she needs to say so I wait, and –

‘Someone sent me an article about Julian this morning,’ she says finally. ‘Several people, actually.’

And there it is. It’s not a shock hearing those words leave Imogene’s mouth, but it doesn’t make what I have to say next any less difficult.

‘I haven’t read it,’ I tell her. ‘But – I spoke to the journalist who wrote it.’

Imogene stares at me for a moment, eyes huge and glassy.

‘Oh,’ she replies. ‘You—’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say without thinking, and Imogene visibly flinches.

‘You – why would you ever say sorry? You have nothing to apologise for – it’s my fault, Audrey—’

‘You didn’t know,’ I say, realising in that exact moment that I’ve never doubted otherwise.

‘I didn’t,’ she echoes, her voice trembling. ‘I didn’t, but I should have. I …’

She abruptly shakes her head, falling silent. When she does start to speak again, her voice is barely above a whisper.

‘I – I think I told you that I used to model too,’ she begins. ‘And when I decided to become an agent, part of that was wanting to look out for girls in the way that I wish that someone had looked out for me. And – I didn’t – I didn’t do that for you. And I – I didn’t …’

Her voice breaks and she falls silent again, her lips pursed as she roughly wipes at her eyes with the heel of her palm. Her face is flushed and blotchy, and in that moment the cool, beautiful woman in front of me is a girl my age. Younger, maybe. And suddenly my chest is tight, stuffed full of so much pain and anger that I can barely breathe.

‘You did look out for me,’ I tell her, my own voice unsteady now. ‘You’re amazing, Imogene. I’ve been so lucky to have you, and it’s really important to me that you know that.’

She manages a watery smile, but then her phone buzzes on her desk and it abruptly disappears. I can see from the lit-up screen that there are dozens of unanswered messages.

‘You know – when I first saw the article, I thought it was a really bad joke,’ she says quietly. ‘Julian – I’m friends with his ex-girlfriend. But then I’m reading, and I see her name, and I didn’t – she never …’ She trails off and shakes her head again, looking dazed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Did – do you want to talk about it?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I say. Then – ‘Do you? I mean, your …’

‘No.’ She sniffs. ‘No, I think- I think maybe we should talk about what’s next, instead. Is that okay?’

‘Sure.’ I nod. ‘I know that this’ll change things …’

‘The campaign will be pulled,’ she says briskly, wiping her eyes again. ‘It doesn’t matter – there’ll be others.’

‘No, um – I just meant that if you recognised me in the article, other people might too. If I stop getting jobs …’

‘Why would that happen?’ Imogene asks, sounding genuinely appalled. I falter, wondering if I should tell her what really happened during my coffee with Miranda.

‘I don’t know,’ I say instead. Demi mentioned that there were other stories about Miranda – with everyone talking about Julian, it might not be long before one of them reaches Imogene’s ears. Today isn’t the day.

‘No. Don’t even think that,’ Imogene says firmly. ‘You’ve got an incredible career ahead of you, if you want it.’

And in spite of it all, I think I do. The world feels wider than it did two months ago. My life feels so much bigger, so loaded with possibilities, and Miranda and Julian can go and fuck themselves for trying to make me think that they could take that from me.

I have one last thing to tell Imogene, though.

‘I think I need to go home,’ I say. ‘Not forever, but – for a little while, at least.’

‘Oh, sweetheart, of course,’ she says softly, attempting another smile. ‘I can book your flight for Monday, if you want – you and Marika can leave for the airport together. Is that soon enough?’

Monday. Monday is two days from now, and it somehow feels too soon. Just like Marika, there’s a part of me that’s scared to go. Scared that the time I spent here will fade away into nothing – a story that I’ll be telling at parties ten years from now, always wondering what if, what if, what if—

‘Monday is good,’ I hear myself say. ‘Thank you.’

EZRA

‘JESUS. FREEZING, ISN’T IT?’

‘Mm,’ I say, hunching into my new coat. It’s navy wool, long and sharply cut – it was among the clothes that Maggie bought for me, so I know it must have been eye-wateringly expensive. I feel vaguely guilty about liking it as much as I do.

‘What a time to quit smoking,’ Caroline continues with a huff. ‘I’d kill you both for a cigarette right now.’

‘Love you too,’ Maggie says, voice muffled by her scarf.

‘I smoked my first cigarette on a day like this,’ I tell them. ‘I thought it would warm me up.’

Caroline snorts with laughter. Maggie frowns.

‘I don’t know if it’s appropriate to laugh in a cemetery,’ she says. Then, after a pause – ‘It is fucking cold, though.’

‘Come here,’ Caroline says, throwing an arm around her. Maggie stiffly accepts the gesture, brow furrowed. I know that she’s probably struggling the most today, but she’s here anyway. We all are.

This is a nice place, against the odds, on the edge of a quiet Downtown neighbourhood. It’s gated and shrouded by trees, rust-coloured leaves carpeting our path as we watch Dad tend to the grave, replacing wilted violets with fresh ones. He looks strangely at ease amongst the headstones, head bowed, gently sweeping loose petals aside with his hands – he comes here every week. Both Caroline and Maggie knew that, I’ve since learned, but today is the first time that all three of us have joined him.

It’s not at all like I’d imagined. I’d been picturing rain, actually – a slate-coloured sky and black umbrellas, the perfect backdrop for some tearful, snotty catharsis. But the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and I don’t feel her here. Not like when I’m reading a book or watching a film and there’s a line or a joke that I know she’d like so I make a little mental note to mention it to her before I remember, and then …

In the back of my mind she’s alive, sometimes.

‘Need any help?’ Caroline calls over to Dad. He turns and looks over his shoulder at us, then offers a hesitant thumbs up.

‘He can’t hear,’ I murmur and start walking towards him. Dad gets to his feet as he sees me approach, wiping his hands on his trousers – he’s wearing khakis and a jumper underneath his waxed jacket, a very different ensemble to his usual get-up of crisp suits and tasteful ties.

‘She was asking if you need any help,’ I tell him once I’m in earshot.

‘No, no. All done here.’ He nods, glancing back at the grave. ‘Ready to head off?’

‘I guess,’ I say, hands firmly tucked into my pockets, and we head back for the path. ‘Maggie and Caroline are pretty cold.’

‘Right, of course,’ he says. Then, ‘Caroline said that it was your idea to come here today.’

‘Yep,’ I say, picking up the pace a little. ‘Thanks for having us.’

Shit. That sounded sarcastic, which is definitely not what I’m going for today. I quickly rack my brains for something nicer to say but before I know it, we’re back on the path.

‘The flowers look good,’ Caroline tells him. ‘Mum told me once that you nearly called me Violet.’

‘But then you were born and we realised that you were Caroline.’ Dad nods. ‘It was the same for Maggie. She was Lucy, almost.’

‘What was Ezra’s almost-name?’

‘Oh, Ezra was always Ezra,’ he replies. ‘We knew that from the very beginning.’

I think Caroline can tell that I don’t really know how to respond to that – she claps her gloved hands together, a muffled smack.

‘Food,’ she says decisively. ‘It’s gone twelve and I’m hungry. Who’s in?’

Dad glances at me. They’re all looking at me, actually.

‘Sounds good,’ I say and Maggie smiles.

‘Great. We’ll find a place,’ she says, taking Caroline by the arm and turning on her heel. Dad and I slope after them at a slight distance, dutifully accepting their less-than-subtle invitation to talk amongst ourselves. Take two on the whole be-a-better-son deal.

‘So – how are things?’ he begins, which feels like a loaded question. I don’t know how much he knows about the past few days.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve taken a break from work.’

‘Oh. Is everything all right?’ He frowns, sounding genuinely concerned – maybe because he is genuinely concerned, I remind myself.

Everything is not all right, no, but it’s starting to feel like it might be someday. I’m still at Caroline’s. I’ve been hanging out at the apartment while she paints, watching movies and helping Romy with dinner in the evenings. Caroline and I are both trying to quit smoking, too, which I think she’s finding harder than me – she’s been chewing her fancy paintbrushes so aggressively that there are flakes of paint in her teeth, sometimes. And I’ve stopped drinking, too, which is where I’m struggling. A lot, if I’m honest.

To put it plainly, I miss it. I miss the routine drinking offered, the ritual – I miss knowing that I had something to look forward to at the end of each day. I miss being able to soften my ugly feelings and thoughts with it. I miss the taste, be it that of a bottom shelf vodka or a beautifully mixed cocktail. I even miss the feel of a wine glass or a whisky tumbler in my hand, and when I told that to Caroline, she started putting my soda into a gin balloon, which is another thing – I miss the sugar. Turns out there’s loads of it in booze, so now I’m drinking soft drinks all the time like a kid. I’ll probably be toothless before the year is out.

But I won’t miss the hangovers. The memory lapses. The puking, sometimes so propulsive that my throat would hurt for days afterwards. And worse, the shame, vague and formless and near-constant by the end. The idea that I could bid goodbye to all of that for ever is, for lack of a better word, intoxicating. I just wish I could be sure that it’ll be enough, because the prospect of being sober for ever is terrifying. A part of me wants to keep bargaining – to convince myself that I can start reining it in, now that I know how bad it can get. I’m the master of my own universe, after all, and if I really want a drink then I can just have one. I’m still young – plenty of people my age drink like I do, then they ease off as they get older. It’s normal. It’s fine.

The illusion of control is very appealing, I’m realising, when you lack the actual thing.

So I’ll drink my soda. I’ll read the books that Caroline bought me – The Recovering, The Outrun, The Trip to Echo Spring – all these sober books seem to start with a ‘the’, I’ve noticed. And I’ll take each day as it comes.

It doesn’t feel like such a good idea to relay all of that to Dad, though.

‘Yeah,’ I say instead. ‘Things are all right.’

‘Right,’ he replies, and I can sense his trepidation – the unwillingness to overstep. But it’s my turn to try and bridge the gap between us. I know that now.

‘And – I want you to know that I did think about what you said regarding the whole NYU thing,’ I venture. ‘I mean – I’m still not sure about university, but I do want to get back into taking pictures, so – yeah. I’ll keep you updated how that goes.’

It might be the longest unbroken speech I’ve made to him in years. He looks distinctly startled by it.

‘Well – that’s great,’ he replies. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘Maybe. I think it makes sense.’

‘So long as you’re happy. That’s all I care about.’

A week ago, I wouldn’t have believed that. But today, I do. I decide to.

‘I’m getting there,’ I say, offering a smile. ‘So – how are you?’

‘Oh, fine. Busy. But – I might take some time off for Christmas this year.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes, well – it might be nice to do it properly, now we’re all together again.’

‘Ice skating and cookie decorating?’

‘If you want,’ he says seriously.

I laugh. ‘I mean – whatever, yeah. You don’t have to go out of your way, though.’

‘I’d like to,’ he replies. ‘I’d like to spend more time with you all.’

‘Well – me too,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Like – I’m aware that I could be doing better as a member of this family. And I’m going to work on that, so …’

‘No,’ Dad says, stopping in his tracks. ‘You being a part of this family isn’t conditional. I’m the only one that should be trying to do “better”. I’m your dad, I’m – that’s my job. It’s the only one that matters, and I didn’t – I know that I haven’t …’

He seems to falter, then, resting his hand on a low stone wall as if to steady himself. His wedding ring catches the light, glinting in the midday sun.

‘You did your best,’ I say. ‘I just haven’t felt like admitting that, before.’

My dad smiles at that. It’s a strange smile – lopsided, sad, but infinitely better than any of his forced grimaces. And while I’m looking – really looking at him, I realise that he’s getting older. There are lines around his mouth and a papery quality to his skin beneath his eyes. Even the grey coming in at his roots looks more substantial than it used to, and it occurs to me then that maybe he didn’t stop smoking and start jogging because of his own vanity. Maybe he’s just trying to stick around a little longer for his bratty, ungrateful kids who never tell him how much they love him.

I’m struck by a sudden (and deeply jarring) impulse to hug him, then. I mean – I can’t. I don’t even know how many years of therapy it would take for me to be able to express emotion in such a conventionally healthy way – therapy that I should look into, probably. But I manage to clap my hand on his shoulder instead, and it’s something.

If anyone can understand that, it’s him.

AUDREY

‘MONDAY? WHY SO SOON?’

‘It’s just the way things worked out. If it’s a problem, then I can get a train from the airport—’

‘No, no problem!’ Mum says quickly. ‘I couldn’t be happier that you’re coming home, Dree. Just – everything’s all right, isn’t it? Nothing’s happened?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say hesitantly. ‘I just – I figured it’s time.’

‘Are you – are you done with the modelling now? Or …’

‘No,’ I say flatly. ‘I am not done with the modelling.’

Marika glances up, then averts her gaze just as quickly. We’re sitting on a bench in Central Park, taking a break mid-jog – she’s made me promise that I won’t give it up and I’m slowly coming around to the idea. It clears my head, which is nice, and it doesn’t make me feel like puking any more – also nice. But a consequence of that aforementioned clarity was the realisation that I desperately owe my parents a life update.

‘I’m not trying to be critical,’ Mum says slowly. ‘I just – I wonder if you might have got swept up in the idea of being a model, and the reality—’

‘Mum, I really don’t want to have this conversation right now.’

‘You don’t want to have any conversation. This is the first time I’ve heard your voice in a week.’

‘I – it’s been hard.’

‘Hard? Hard how?’ she asks, sounding panicked.

‘Hard like – different,’ I amend. ‘But it would have been different if I’d gone to uni as well, so …’

‘I don’t exactly think the two are comparable.’

‘Mum,’ I say, my voice pitching upwards. ‘Can’t you just be happy that I’m coming home? Do you have to try and make me feel bad?’

I feel Marika stiffen in my periphery. She’s the one who urged me to call my parents instead of messaging, but I guess she’s paying for it now. I get to my feet, walking over to a nearby patch of grass to spare her the second-hand stress.

‘I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, Audrey,’ Mum says stiffly. ‘I just think that this was too much, too soon. Too much pressure, too much responsibility.’

‘Maybe,’ I admit. ‘But it was my choice and I don’t regret it.’

Neither of us says anything for a moment. Then:

‘Well – we’re almost done with the renovations on this one,’ she says. ‘It’s just the main bathroom left to do.’

‘Then what?’

‘… What do you mean?’

‘Are you staying?’

‘Of course. For a while, at least. We’ve had a few interested locals enquiring, but nothing’s set in stone.’

‘Right. I guess was hoping that you guys would like this one enough to stay for good.’

‘Oh. Well, you’ve hardly been here, Dree. I’m surprised that you feel attached.’

‘That’s just it, though,’ I say evenly, steeling myself for what comes next. ‘I want to be. Attached, I mean.’

‘To this house?’

‘To anywhere. I mean – being here’s made me realise how nice it would be to go home and just feel … home. But instead, I’m coming back to another half-empty house that I don’t really know, and – I mean – you always talked about the forever home, but … it feels like it’s never going to happen, and – and it’s kind of too late, now. For me, anyway.’

I feel sick after I’ve said all that. This is a conversation I’ve wanted to have for such a long, long time, and the distance has finally made it possible. Mum is silent on the other end, and I press my lips together to stop myself from saying anything else.

‘I – I think you’re old enough to understand that even parents don’t have it all figured out,’ she says finally. ‘We make choices without knowing the outcome, just like everyone else. And we’re not always right.’

‘I know,’ I say, staring down at my feet. ‘I know that.’

‘Your dad and I – neither of us have roots. Not like other families.’

I know that too – they’re both only children, and Dad hasn’t seen his parents since he was a teenager. They live in Australia, and to this day I’m not sure if they know that I exist. I think that’s probably intentional. He doesn’t talk to them, and I’ve always innately understood not to ask why.

‘The houses … it started out as necessity,’ Mum continues. ‘After your Dad lost his job—’

‘When was this?’ I interject, totally lost.

‘Not long after we said goodbye to Grandma,’ she says, voice wavering slightly. ‘Selling the house – it was meant to be a short-term solution. But working on it meant we got to spend so much time with you – neither of us wanted to let go of that. Only now you’re gone, and this place feels so empty.’

She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears.

‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly, rubbing away my own tears. ‘I’m coming back.’

‘We waited too long.’ She sniffs. ‘You’re all grown up – you’re starting your own life, now, and we – we’re sorry, Dree. I’m sorry.’

Hearing her finally admit that – it’s all I needed, I realise. The anger, the resentment – it evaporates in an instant, and all I feel is tired, small, and like I really want my mum and dad back.

‘It’s okay,’ I say, voice wobbly. ‘I just – I’ve really missed you guys.’

‘We’ve missed you too, Dree. So much. Your dad – I can’t wait to tell him. Unless you wanted to? He’ll be back in an hour or so.’

‘You can tell him.’

‘We love you, Dree. Stay safe. And keep in touch. Please?’

‘I will. I love you,’ I say, and then it’s over. I feel breathless as I lower the phone – still a little nauseous, but overwhelmingly relieved and surer than ever that I’m making the right decision.

I don’t expect things to be perfect, once I’m back. I doubt Mum will come around to the modelling any time soon, though I know now that she’s right to have reservations. I also know that one phone call isn’t enough to expunge six years’ worth of repressed resentment, but today, it’s enough. And it’s like Mum said – I’m starting my own life, now. It can be whatever or wherever I want.

I walk back over to Marika, who’s watching me expectantly.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Just about,’ I say, dropping back on to the bench beside her. ‘My mum – well, you heard.’

‘Is she happy you’re heading home, at least?’

‘Yeah. Is yours disappointed that you’re off to Switzerland?’

‘Uh-huh. I got a half-hour lecture about the dangers of skiing.’

‘Nice.’

‘Yep. And I told her about Nicole, which was a mistake – she’s demanding I bring her home for Christmas now.’

‘Oh, that’s sweet!’

‘Sweet, yes. Realistic, no.’

‘I thought you guys were going to try long-distance?’

‘Sure,’ Marika replies flatly, staring up the sky. ‘But Nicole has a great life here, and I can’t be a part of it. Not properly.’

‘Don’t you remember what you told me, though? About not closing yourself off to things because you’re scared you might lose them?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘So, you see the point I’m trying to make, right?’

‘That it’s easier to give advice than follow it?’

I laugh. She inclines her head towards me, fixing me with her cat-like gaze.

‘What about you?’ she asks. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘And – that’s different.’

‘Is it?’

Of course it is. Marika should know – I told her everything, including the awful parts. The fact that I looked at his phone. That I screamed at him. And that for a moment, I wanted to hurt him for no other reason than that I was hurting.

‘He never reached out,’ I remind her, ignoring a stab of pain at the memory. ‘And it’s too late to do anything now.’

‘Okay,’ Marika says mildly. ‘If that’s what you think.’

What I think is that I miss him. That I maybe, probably loved him. And that no matter what, I was always meant to know him. The universe was sure of that, even if I wasn’t. But none of that stopped me from ruining it, so …

‘Yeah.’ I say quietly. ‘I do.’

EZRA

I SEE EDIE BEFORE SHE SEES ME. I WATCH THROUGH THE FOGGED window of the restaurant as she lightly jogs across the street in a sage-coloured Lycra ensemble, exhaling at the sight. She came. She’s fifteen minutes late and may well be stopping off here on her way to the gym, but she came.

I couldn’t imagine her reacting well to a long, sentimental screed, so when I messaged her last night, it was a clear-cut invitation – a time, a place, a promise to pick up the bill. The place in question is an old-school restaurant in SoHo, a New York staple –think dark wood, yellow light and copious amounts of butter in almost every menu item. Romy’s suggestion, of course.

I drop my gaze as Edie approaches the hostess. I don’t dare wave her over, knowing that she’ll want to make an entrance on her own terms – said entrance turns out to be dropping into the chair opposite mine without a word of greeting.

‘Surprised you wanted to meet for breakfast,’ she begins, picking up a menu and turning it over. ‘Bit early for a drink, surely?’

‘For some.’ I nod. ‘But don’t discount the humble mimosa.’

‘Hm. Are you surprised that I’m here?’

I’m relieved. She’s being spiky, and spiky is good. Reassuringly on-brand, at least.

‘Pleasantly. Thank you for coming. Genuinely.’

‘God – if this is going to get sappy then maybe mimosas are a necessary evil.’

‘I’m actually not drinking right now,’ I admit. ‘You go ahead, though.’

Her eyes flicker upwards, her expression inscrutable.

‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘Is that her influence?’

She doesn’t put any particular inflection on ‘her’, but it’s weighted all the same.

‘I’m trying to make better choices,’ I say, shifting in my seat. ‘It doesn’t have anything to do with anyone else.’

‘Yeah? Have you quit smoking?’

‘An attempt is in progress, yes.’

‘Good. I don’t know why you ever started.’

‘Because that’s what disaffected youths do. Smoke and write bad poetry.’

‘You never wrote poetry.’

‘None that I could show you, anyway.’

A smile ghosts her lips. But she’s still avoiding my gaze, tugging lightly at a strand of hair.

‘Would apologising be sappy?’ I venture. ‘I’d like to, so …’

‘No need,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Things change. I get it.’

‘Edie …’

‘Ezra. Let’s just forget it, okay?’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Very,’ she says. Then, after a beat, ‘You look well. Better than last time, anyway.’

‘I’ve been staying with Caroline and her girlfriend. They have this weird routine of eating three meals and sleeping eight hours.’

‘That’s nice of her.’

‘Very, yeah. How’s your family?’

‘Same old, I suppose. Mum and Dad are in Cannes.’

‘Nice. And have you spoken to Eleanor?’

Edie looks up at me with something close to alarm. She wasn’t expecting me to mention Eleanor, clearly – why would I, when I learnt the hard way not to? And I can see the struggle behind her eyes – her instinct is to shut this down, to shut me out. But—

‘She’s reached out,’ she says finally. ‘The show is airing as we speak. Some columnist called it “a candy-coated microcosm of everything wrong with our society”.’

‘So it’s a hit?’

She sighs. ‘People love to hate it, which means they have to watch it first.’

‘Have you? Watched it, I mean?’

‘I just read about it online and torture myself,’ she says colourlessly. ‘Eleanor says she wouldn’t have done it if she knew I’d leave. But she’s never quite grasped the concept of her actions impacting other people.’

‘Right,’ I say, surprised by the admission.

‘Mm. She also says she wants to come and visit me out here.’

‘Oh. What do you think you’ll do?’

‘What do you think I should do?’ she asks dryly. ‘Let her come? Hug it out? Enter my healing era?’

‘Not no,’ I admit, and Edie scoffs, turning away.

‘It’s your choice,’ I say quickly. ‘Just – I’m currently trialling the whole “benefit of the doubt” thing myself, actually.’

‘With your dad?’ she asks, looking at me sideways. I shrug – she raises her eyebrows but says nothing, gaze sliding back towards the window.

‘I’m not sure how to feel about this new, enlightened version of Ezra,’ she says flatly. ‘But I suppose I’ll get used to it.’

‘Yeah?’ I smile. ‘Want to do this again sometime?’

‘Maybe, if you actually want to.’

‘Of course I want to. I know a lot’s changed, but not everything.’

‘Not the fact that I’m in love with you,’ she says, eyes still firmly averted. ‘You’d probably guessed as much, though.’

I stare at Edie for a moment, wondering if she’s fucking with me – she wields sarcasm so lightly that it isn’t always easy to tell when she’s joking. But her expression is set, her jaw tight like she’s bracing for some kind of impact. My heart clenches like a fist.

‘No,’ I manage. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Sorry if that’s weird for you,’ she says, tipping her chin back. ‘I know you’ve moved on.’

‘God, Edie –’ I begin, but she’s already shaking her head.

‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘As shitty as this is for me, you not being in my life is shittier. So – eventually I’ll get to the point where I’m just happy that you’re happy. I promise.’

And then she looks at me and smiles. It doesn’t quite meet her eyes, though, and I consider telling her that there is no one else – not any more, because it was over before it could even begin. But …

‘You can do better,’ I say instead, and she laughs.

‘Yep.’ She nods. ‘Probably.’

But don’t think I’ll ever stop caring about you, Edie,’ I add seriously. I never did. ‘I wouldn’t know how. It’s pretty much non-negotiable, at this point.’

‘Of course you do,’ she says dryly, picking up her menu again. ‘You’re buying me twenty-dollar eggs.’

AUDREY

MY FIRST NIGHT IN NEW YORK, I WAS WANDERING AROUND NEAR the apartment, looking for somewhere to get food when I looked up to see a rooftop party. Or the periphery of it, at least – a few stragglers leaning against the edge of the terrace with drinks in hand, backlit by the fairy lights strung around them. I remember thinking what cool, beautiful lives they must all lead. Only now I’m on a similar rooftop at a similar party, and no cooler or more beautiful for being here. I’m just … here. And tomorrow I’ll be elsewhere.

‘Wow,’ Nicole says, appearing at my side in a fringed, sparkling cape and matching eyeshadow. ‘Audrey, you look stunning.’

‘Oh – you too.’ I beam, awkwardly adjusting the strap of my dress. It’s the one I wore the night I met Ezra – Marika gifted it to me while we were packing and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’m glad that she insisted. It feels like I have a tangible grasp on those memories now.

‘Aw, thanks.’ She smiles back. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Great. This party is amazing, Nicole. Really.’

Amazing feels like an understatement. Nicole pulled this together in less than twenty-four hours, according to Marika, and the décor is a wild mishmash of every conceivable theme. It looks like someone ran through a party store blindfolded – there’s a pumpkin-shaped punch bowl on a table draped with princess-patterned cloth, a blow-up cactus wrapped in tinsel stationed beside it. It’s deranged, and I absolutely love it.

‘Well, I had to give you two a fitting sendoff.’ She grins. ‘My apartment may be the size of a shoebox but this rooftop makes it all worth it.’

‘You get to throw parties up here whenever you want?’

‘After Irene okays it. She owns the building – she’s over there, actually.’

Nicole points and I turn to see a wiry, white-haired woman wearing a paisley kaftan, twirling slowly on the makeshift dancefloor while an ABBA song plays.

‘She’s my muse,’ Nicole says reverently. ‘Honestly – if you get a chance to talk to her tonight, take it. She has some unbelievable stories – she’s a true New Yorker.’

‘Do you have to be born here to be a New Yorker?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s kind of intangible. A vibe. An attitude.’

‘Sounds like Marika.’

‘Yeah, she’s got it.’ Nicole smiles. ‘But she might find another city that suits her better.’

I glance over at Marika; she’s in an iridescent lilac dress, standing next to a polystyrene snowman and talking to a girl I vaguely recognise. But her eyes keep drifting back towards us – towards Nicole, specifically.

‘I don’t think so,’ I say mildly. ‘I think this might be the one, for her.’

‘What about you?’ Nicole smiles. ‘Tempted to come back someday?’

‘Someday,’ I nod. ‘For now, I need to spend some time at home.’

‘Right,’ Nicole says, her eyes softening. ‘Marika told me that things didn’t work out with you and that Ezra guy.’

‘Oh. Yeah, uh – I’d forgotten you two had met.’

‘Uh-huh. I liked him, actually. But if he screwed you over then I hate his guts and I’ll help you egg his apartment.’

‘No.’ I laugh. ‘No, I – it was a mutual clusterfuck, unfortunately,’ I say, brushing a strand of hair out of my eyes. I noticed quite a lot of brown peeking in at the roots when I was getting ready tonight, which’ll probably be obvious before long. But I’m sort of used to the blonde now. I’ve stopped associating it with Julian. It’s just my hair.

‘Well, time heals most wounds,’ Nicole says easily. ‘Promise me you’ll get in touch if you find yourself back here? We can grab dinner or something.’

‘I will.’ I smile. ‘Thanks.’

Nicole grins back, squeezing my arm before moving away to rejoin the party. I’ll follow her in a moment. But for now, I stay where I am and gaze up at the sky. There’re no stars, obviously. They don’t stand a chance against this city, so I put my drink down and lean against the edge of the building to look down at the street below. We’re not particularly high up. I think I could recognise Ezra if he passed by, though of course he won’t. The universe doesn’t owe me any more favours.

For days I’ve been telling myself that it’s too late to reach out. But now that it almost definitely is, it’s all I can think about. I take out my phone, pulling up his number. He never reached out, I remind myself. But neither did I, and I’m the one who left. I was so angry, in that moment – I thought I hated him, and what if he saw that? What if …

Fuck it, I think impulsively, and hit call, raising the phone to my ear. My mouth is dry and I have no idea what I’m going to say, too focused on bracing myself for the sound of his voice as the phone rings, and rings, and—

‘I’m sorry, the number you have called is currently unavailable. Please leave a message or try again.’

Oh. Well – that’s anti-climactic. And slightly devastating, actually, because as much as I’d like to believe that he’s busy, it’s just as probable that he saw my name and deliberately ignored the call. I quickly hang up, resting my elbows on the ledge of the terrace and pressing my phone to my forehead.

Maybe it’s for the best – I probably would have made some stupid, dramatic declaration and humiliated myself. But I’m embarrassingly close to tears all the same, and I shut my eyes tight to keep them at bay. I refuse to cry tonight. All I need is a moment to pull myself together, and then I’m going to finish my drink, find Marika and drag her to the dancefloor. I’m going to enjoy my last night in this city. I’m—

And then my phone buzzes to life in my hands. I blink away my tears, heart leaping as I see Ezra’s name. I fumble to answer – I fumble, and there’s an awful moment of clarity when I realise what’s happening. But my brain is quicker than my body, and before I can react, my hands are empty. And then I hear a dull, distant thwack from the street below.

I gasp, craning my neck. No pedestrians in sight, which – thank fuck, but also – fuck. I race through the party and down the stairwell, praying for a miracle. But when I finally reach my phone, it’s painfully obvious that it’s a goner. The screen is still valiantly flickering with light but it’s obliterated, shards falling away as I gingerly pick it up from the pavement.

I have no way of calling Ezra back, now. But he called me.

He called me, and suddenly I’m walking, fast, because he’s out there and he called me, and that means that he wants to talk to me. To say what, I have no idea, but I also have no intention of not finding out.

Marika invited Mac to the party, tonight – he said he’d come by after work, which means that Ezra could be working too. And if he’s not, then Mac will know where he is. And if he doesn’t, then … then I’ll figure it out. Ezra’s out there somewhere, and he wants to talk to me. It’s all that matters.

I break into a run before I’ve even reached the end of the street.

EZRA

‘WHO ARE YOU CALLING?’ MAC ASKS.

‘Audrey. She tried to call and I missed it,’ I mutter. ‘I’m calling back, but it keeps going straight to voicemail.’

I try again, lifting the phone to my ear.

‘I’m sorry, the number you have called is currently unavailable. Please—’

‘Fuck.’ I groan. She literally called two minutes ago – I saw it as soon as I got into my locker. I’m still standing here, bedraggled and sweaty after my first shift back. If I hadn’t stopped to take all that stupid laundry – what could have happened in two minutes that she’s suddenly unavailable?

‘I didn’t realise you guys were talking again,’ Mac says, watching me.

‘We weren’t – we’re not. But …’

But, but, but. This could mean anything, and the fact that her phone’s not even ringing is driving me wild. Did it die? Did she turn it off? Maybe calling me was an accident, or she changed her mind –

‘If only I could offer you advice.’ Mac sighs theatrically, pausing to pull his shirt over his head. ‘But seeing as you refused to tell me anything about the extremely mysterious fight that you guys had, I can’t.’

‘I – I don’t think I called it a fight.’

‘Conflict, fracas, whatever. The point is, she was mad at you. Right?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, stomach clenching unpleasantly at the memory. ‘Or – upset, I guess. But it was bad.’

‘Because of something you did?’

‘… Yeah.’

‘On purpose? Like – did you know that it would hurt her, and you did it anyway?’

‘No. No, the opposite. I was trying to avoid hurting her. But I’m an idiot, so …’

‘I’m aware,’ he says, tugging on a tight white T-shirt. ‘I’m just trying to gauge the situation.’

‘The situation is that I fucked up,’ I say, sinking down on to the lumpy sofa beside the door. ‘The situation is almost always that I fucked up.’

‘Sure. Like when you ghosted me for over a week, and I had to find out from Romy that you weren’t dead.’

I glance up, startled. Mac is rifling through his locker, so I can’t see his face to figure out if he’s serious or not.

‘Oh, um – sorry,’ I say uncertainly. ‘I didn’t – were you actually worried?’

‘Of course not,’ he says dryly. ‘You were so stable and normal when you came over to my place. Why would I worry?’

Shit. He’s right, of course, and I didn’t even apologise when I saw him again today – he made some prodigal son crack before I could even say hi and then we were knees-deep into the dinner rush, so I assumed that everything was fine. I’d also figured that being one of Mac’s many, many friends, my absence wouldn’t be too jarring.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say – with actual sincerity this time. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘Honestly, it made me wonder if you think I’m just this grifter who uses you for shit,’ he continues, turning to face me. ‘Like – I thought that we were friends – actual friends, not work friends. But then you have an actual crisis and you shut me out?’

‘I shut everyone out,’ I tell him. ‘And it was stupid, and selfish, but it wasn’t personal – you’re a great friend, Mac. I don’t take it for granted that you even want to hang out with me, let alone …’ I trail off, struck by an errant thought. An idea. A good one, maybe.

‘Care?’ Mac finally prompts.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Also – would you want to live together?’

He stares at me, expression blank. Then: ‘You’ll have to buy me a ring first.’

‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘You hate your flatmates. I hate living alone. We’ve got the whole mutual caring thing going on – what more do we need?’

‘A second bedroom?’

‘We can find somewhere new, right? It might take a while …’

‘Are you being for real? Anywhere I could afford would be a hole compared to your current set-up.’

‘It’s not so great. I think the ceilings are too high. And don’t even get me started on all the natural light.’

‘Have you forgotten we were in the middle of a conversation about what a flake you are?’

‘I know. And I am,’ I concede. ‘But I’m trying to do better. To own my shit, you know?’

‘Which is great, like – hand on heart, I fully support that,’ Mac says seriously. ‘But I don’t want to get fucked over by it.’

‘Let me do the legwork, then. I’ll start looking into places – let you know if I find anything, yeah?’

Full disclosure – I’m well aware that finding an affordable, non-disgusting two-bedroom apartment to rent in this city is about as likely as finding a unicorn in Central Park. I also know that I won’t be able to do it without a significant financial contribution from my dad, but maybe we can work out a loan system, or he knows someone looking to sublet. In any case, I’d like to be marginally less passive in my reliance on him. Baby steps and all that.

‘Fine,’ Mac says after a pause. ‘It’s not an entirely awful idea, so I am tentatively condoning this.’

‘Great.’ I smile, getting to my feet and grabbing my backpack. ‘We can talk about it more tomorrow – I’m heading out.’

‘Where to?’

‘Audrey’s apartment,’ I admit. ‘I mean – if she actually doesn’t want to see me then she can just tell me to fuck off, right?’

‘Sure,’ Mac says after a beat. ‘But she’s not at her apartment.’

‘She – how do you know that?’

‘Because she’s at the party that I’m going to tonight,’ he says matter-of-factly, tousling his already-tousled hair. ‘And I guess that you could come with me on the off-chance that she does actually want to see you. But! I’m going to make you wait outside until she confirms as much, seeing as I still don’t know what actually went down.’

‘Fine,’ I say quickly. ‘Great. Let’s go.’

‘You’re not going to change?’

‘Nah, fuck it. Let’s just go.’

Mac rolls his eyes but concedes – I’m actively resisting the urge to jog on the spot while he gets his stuff together, holding us up to fuss with his hair some more. When we’re finally outside I insist on a cab even though the address is less than a dozen blocks away – I can’t shake this crazy sense of urgency, of momentum, even though I have no idea what’s going to happen, or what I’m going to say to her. If she even wants to see me, that is.

‘Cool it,’ Mac says, placing a firm hand on my knee. I’ve been bobbing it absently ever since we got stuck in a tangle of traffic – it’s started to rain, which means that everything has ground to a near-total standstill.

‘Sorry,’ I say, peering through the windscreen. ‘Maybe we should have walked.’

‘We’re fine. We’ve got time.’

‘We don’t know when this thing is wrapping up, though. What if—’

But I never finish that sentence, distracted by a girl on the opposite side of the street. I notice her hair, first, so pale that it seems to glow in the mist of the rain.

‘What if … ?’ Mac prompts, but I barely hear him, wiping the condensation from the window beside me to squint at the figure in the distance. She’s tall, I can tell, and wearing a green jacket – Audrey has a green jacket. And she’s moving quickly, slipping past strangers …

‘I think that’s her,’ I say. ‘I think that’s Audrey.’

Mac leans over, eyes narrowed. ‘That’s definitely a blonde girl, yes.’

‘She’s going the way we came,’ I say, unclipping my seatbelt and craning my neck to see through the rearview window. ‘What if she left the party to come find me?’

‘Why would she – what are you doing?’

‘Sorry,’ I say, fumbling for my wallet and shoving a wad of notes at Mac’s chest. ‘I’ve got to go after her.’

‘It might not even be her!’ he protests, but I’m already out of the car.

I know, I know I’m being crazy, but this is exactly the kind of crazy that’s followed me around ever since Audrey and I first met. I can’t just sit still and risk losing her – I won’t, I fucking refuse, and so I start to run, feet slapping against the wet pavement, wondering if she knows she has my heart in the palm of her perfect, freckled hand. That same heart is in bad shape, though – I lose sight of her, and it’s pounding hard by the time I spot her again, a flash of blonde disappearing around a corner.

‘Audrey!’ I call, but she’s on the other side of the street, too far ahead for my voice to carry. I glance up at the lights beside the crosswalk – green, and I’m off again, moving—

Then the world turns sideways. Some unseen force sends me flying and I land hard, face first on to the tarmac. My first thought – How humiliating. The second – Did I just get hit by a car?

‘I’m fine,’ I say to no one in particular, dimly aware of a crowd forming around me. I’m struggling into an upright position, so I must be more or less unscathed. ‘It’s fine. I—’

‘You should sue,’ I hear a woman beside me say. ‘That light was green.’

The cab that clipped me shunts forward, pulling up beside me.

‘Shit, I’m sorry, pal!’ the driver says, leaning out of his window. ‘You good?’

‘Fine,’ I say, head spinning – the lights around me are blurred, a slur of colour. ‘It’s fine …’

‘Oh my God!’

One voice carries above the others, and I flinch at the note of concern. A girl is stumbling out of the back of the cab. A blonde girl in a silver dress, whose dark eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. It occurs to me then that I might have hit my head.

‘Ezra!’ Audrey says, dropping to her knees beside me. ‘Oh my God, Ezra …’

It’s her. This time, it’s really her.

‘Forget the fare!’ the driver yells, pulling around us and speeding off into the night. The lights have changed and the rest of the traffic is slowly resuming, the crowd dispersing, and Audrey is here, right in front of me.

I force myself on to my feet, then, pulling us both out of the road. Audrey’s hands are on me, roaming my torso.

‘Does any of this hurt?’ she asks, voice wavering. ‘Do you think you broke something?’

‘I’m fine.’ I laugh, feeling mildly hysterical. ‘I thought I was chasing you. You’re everywhere. You’re nowhere and then you’re everywhere.’

‘We need another cab,’ she says, frantically looking around. ‘You need to go to the hospital—’

‘No, no …’

‘You’re concussed,’ she says, eyes wide as she reaches up to brush wet hair out of my eyes. ‘Oh, Ezra, your face.’

Her hands are trembling. I take them in mine, clasp them together – they’re so cold. She’s getting sodden in the rain, her thin dress clinging and sticking.

‘It’s fine. I was coming to find you. You called me.’

‘You’re bleeding. We have to go to the hospital—’

‘We don’t—’

‘You just got hit by a car!’

‘That you were in. Aren’t you the one who believes in cosmic whatever? Don’t you think it’s a sign?’

‘Don’t say that,’ she wails, face crumpling. ‘I thought …’

And then she sobs, butting her head against my chest and throwing her arms around me.

‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, hugging her back. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

‘I love you,’ she says, voice muffled. ‘I love you, and for a second I thought I might have fucking killed you.’

I wonder then if maybe that cab didn’t kill me – if this isn’t all just some beautiful dream, conjured by my dying brain.

‘I can’t be killed,’ I hear myself say. Audrey laughs, then looks up at me with huge, watery eyes.

‘It’s not funny,’ she says seriously. Then she laughs again, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.

‘You love me,’ I say, still dazed. ‘When did that happen?’

‘I – I don’t know.’ She sniffs, wiping her eyes. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No,’ I say, and without thinking I place my hand on the side of her face, cupping her cheek. It’s warm, wet with the rain – there’s some hair plastered to it and I gently push it away. She stares at me, lips slightly parted.

‘I love you too,’ I tell her. ‘I love you, and I think that this is fate, and I swear to God I’m not concussed.’

Audrey lets out a strange, hiccupping sob at that, burying her face back into my chest.

‘I – I think it’s fate too,’ she says, half laughing, half crying. ‘I just wish it hadn’t involved you getting hit by a car.’

‘These things happen,’ I say lightly. ‘Though if my inevitable facial scar is going to be an issue, I’ll understand if you want to bail. The nose is bad enough, and now …’

AUDREY

‘STOP IT,’ I SAY CROSSLY, AND HE LAUGHS – HE’S LAUGHING, AND it’s the only sound I want to hear for the rest of my life. I glance back up at him, gently tucking his hair behind his ear to get a better look at his cheek. The blood is mingling with the rain, dripping down his face and staining his shirt collar pink.

‘We’ll need to dress it,’ I say weakly, trying not to get distracted by the pull of his liquid-brown eyes. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him – I feel intoxicated by his mere existence.

‘Yep,’ he says, though it’s clear he’s not really listening – his gaze has taken on a glazed quality, hovering over my lips. ‘How’s tomorrow for you?’

Tomorrow.

Somehow, amongst the chaos and the carnage and the sheer, dizzying joy of this moment, I almost managed to forget the immutable reality of my packed suitcase, waiting for me at the apartment alongside my passport. My heart sinks and Ezra sees it on my face, his own brow furrowing in concern.

‘I won’t be here tomorrow,’ I tell him quietly. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Ah,’ he says after a beat, attempting a smile. ‘I guess I already kind of knew that.’

‘Really? Who told you?’

‘I just knew,’ he says simply, and if he were anyone else, I wouldn’t believe it.

‘I’m sorry—’ I begin, but he’s shaking his head.

‘No, don’t be sorry. I just – I want you to know that I’ve been doing better, these past few weeks,’ he says stiltedly. ‘Trying to be better. You have no reason to believe that, I know. I’m not sure if you should, even, but …’

‘Ezra—’

‘I mean it. I’m not drinking. I’m not smoking. I’m trying to fix things with my dad. I might even get therapy – apparently everyone else in my family does, so maybe they can fix me up with someone—’

‘Ezra,’ I say firmly, placing a hand against his chest. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because I want you to come back,’ he says seriously. ‘I want to be a good enough reason for you to come back.’

I have to swallow a lump in my throat before I can reply.

‘I’ll come back,’ I manage finally, voice wavering. ‘Of course I will.’

‘You have to. You don’t want to offend the universe after it put in so much work to get you here.’

‘Right.’ I smile. ‘Except I thought you didn’t believe in “that stuff”?’

‘Yeah, well – life happens. You happened.’

I laugh, rolling my eyes like I’m embarrassed at the cheesiness and not about to melt into a puddle of pure joy.

‘Either way,’ he continues. ‘I don’t think we need it any more.’

‘Because you love me,’ I say, a painfully heavy-handed prompt. I don’t even care. I just want to hear him say it again. And again. And again.

‘Because I love you,’ he says, grinning. ‘I have done for ages, actually. Way before it would have been normal.’

‘It’s not even been two months,’ I point out, trying to deflect from the colour creeping into my cheeks. ‘We’re miles from “normal”, still.’

‘Too late. You already said it back.’

‘I said it first, actually.’

‘… That’s true. How can I make it up to you?’

‘You don’t—’ I begin, but then I meet his gaze and it becomes distinctly obvious that he’s not really asking a question. My heart thuds hard against my chest, and I distantly realise that I must look like a mess right now – all damp and smudgy, pink-nosed and tear-stained. But the way that Ezra’s looking at me, you’d never know. He’s looking at me like I’m magic, actually. And when he puts his hand on my face and guides my lips to his, that’s exactly what it feels like.

In all the time we’ve been standing here, not one passer-by has done a double-take at the wet, bleeding teenagers declaring love for each other in the downpour. That’s New York for you, I guess, but in this moment they might as well not exist. There’s only us – only me and him. His mouth, his hands – one on my jaw, the other tangled in my hair. I want him to keep it there – to hold on to this, to him. When we do finally break apart, I’m clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering me to this planet.

Tomorrow is the flimsiest thing in the world, a totally ephemeral concept that has no bearing on us at all. I think about telling Ezra that, but as he leans in to kiss me again, smiling crookedly, I realise that he probably already knows.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I AM SO, SO GRATEFUL TO MY INCREDIBLE AGENT RACHEL PETTY, WHOSE support, guidance and trust has made all of this possible. The Blair Partnership team has been amazing throughout this process, and I’d love to thank Rhian Parry for your insightful and generous notes. I also owe so much to my brilliant editor Lizzie Clifford at Hachette – you’ve made every single step of this journey a total dream and I couldn’t be luckier to have you in my corner, working incredibly hard to make this book and this experience the best that they could be. Everyone at Hachette has been so wonderful – I’m especially grateful to Jenna Mackintosh for your amazing editorial work and endless patience, as well as Bec Gillies and Dominic Kingston for your kind words, enthusiasm and creativity. I also want to thank Joana Reis and Sam Perrett for your beautiful work on the cover, and for being so lovely and receptive throughout the design process.

It’s never been lost on me that I only get to do what I love because of the people I love, without whom this book wouldn’t exist. I want to thank my amazing friends, who’ve supported my writing for years even though I was always too embarrassed to share anything with them. My parents, for equipping me with my first library card and never, ever doubting that I could do this, despite having very little evidence to go on. My sister, who always has and always will be my best friend and favourite person (honourable mention to her very kind and understanding partner for letting me live with you both for as long as I did, especially when I was unemployed and averaging three Gone Girl rewatches a week). And Charlie, the best boy – if anyone who reads this is lucky enough to have him in their nearby vicinity, please give him a treat on my behalf.

I also want to give thanks to independent record stores, 99p black filter coffee from Pret, the automatic save function on Word, teachers who write ‘keep going!’ in the margins of creative writing assignments, trains with tray-tables and plug sockets, the earth-angels otherwise known as booksellers, Stephen King’s On Writing and Stephen King himself. And to you, the person reading this. Words fail x

ORION CHILDREN’S BOOKS

First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Orion

Text copyright © Bea Ingalls 2025

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

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ISBN 978 1 510 11337 4

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