Page 1 of We Used To Be Magic

EZRA

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

‘… Yes,’ I reply. ‘I was invited.Youinvited 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.’

‘Acorduroyblazer. 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. ‘Wemight 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 goingto be aparty-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.

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