Page 6 of We Used To Be Magic

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 Iwanther 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 wantthem to feel brave and beautiful andpowerful.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

IWAKE 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.

---