Page 65 of We Used To Be Magic

‘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 actuallyhavefriends 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 mefeeling 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 fuckingstupidthat 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 ofthe 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.

‘Thankyou,’ 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, stupidwant. 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 stuffisn’tthat 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 fuckingleave,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 – Iknowthat 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 fuckingreflectionreminds 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.

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