Page 30 of We Used To Be Magic

‘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

‘IDON’T BELIEVEYOU,’CAROLINE SAYS,THROWING BACKTHEdoor 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.’

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