Page 15 of We Used To Be Magic

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 knowsme, period, and sometimes when it’s late at night andI’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. ‘TheWaverly Gala. Don’t tell me you forgot.’

Oh God. I forgot.

‘Youneeda 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 abigdeal – 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. Imogenetold 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 workssohard. 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 UNDERSTANDYOU ATALL.’

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’rerichrich,’ 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 tolive– what are you getting out of it?’

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