Page 16 of We Used To Be Magic

A good question. It warrants an honest answer, but I’m not sure what that answer is.

‘Structure, maybe?’ I venture.

Mac snorts. ‘I can think of better things to structure my life around than waiting tables.’

‘Fair point,’ I concede, stubbing the remnants of my cigarette against on the crate I’m sitting on. Mac is perched on another – we’re in the back alley behind the restaurant, and he’s chain-smoked three in the time it’s taken me to finish one. Mac’s deal is as follows – he’s nineteen, he’s been working in the restaurant for six months and he originally moved to New York to attend Juilliard, which he’s informed me is the best performing arts school in the world. The only hitch is that they won’t let him in – not yet, anyway. He recently applied to audition there for the second time, the tenacity of which is more impressive to me than getting in on the first attempt.

‘Romy’s girlfriend is your sister, right? What does she do?’

‘She’s an artist.’

‘Her and half this city. Specifically … ?’

‘Paintings. Oil portraits.’

‘She any good?’

‘Yeah,’ I say honestly. ‘Really good, actually.’

‘Why aren’t you doing something like that, then? Creatively fulfilling but low stakes.’

‘Please don’t labour under the assumption that I possess artistic talent.’

‘God – you know that you soundexactlylike that dude fromPride and Prejudicewhen you say shit like that, right? That accent is something else.’

‘Something other than American, yeah.’

‘I bet girls love it. And boys. You dating anyone?’

‘No,’ I say simply.

‘That’s all I’m getting? Okay. A little mystery is cool.’

He stubs out his own cigarette and stands, then, running a hand over his tight, bleached curls. His tawny skin glows in the midday sun, his septum ring catching the light – Romy has cheerfully informed me that roughly three-quarters of the waiting staff here are in love with Mac, a fact that he seems all too aware of.

‘Hey – what are you doing tonight?’ he asks suddenly, turning back to me.

‘Nothing,’ I reply, realising too late that ‘nothing’ might be a commitment to ‘something’.

‘A friend of mine messaged me about a catering gig tonight,’ he tells me. ‘They’re looking for extra hands, if you wanted to tag along.’

‘Oh. Sure.’

‘You don’t sound sure.’

‘No, I’m up for it. I just thought you were going to suggest going out or something.’

‘There’s always a party afterward. We lift bottles, head back to someone’s apartment. And not that you need it, but these things are always cash in hand.’

‘It’s just holding trays, right?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t matter that I haven’t been doing this long?’

‘Probably not,’ Mac says after a beat. ‘But I’d lie, if they ask.’

The restaurant is half empty by the time that Mac and I get back from our break, and we set about clearing the post-brunch carnage. I’m tasked with hand-washing the delicate champagne flutes we serve mimosas in, their paper-thin edges smudged with expensive lipstick.

‘Looks like you made a friend.’

I glance up to see Romy leaning against the side of the sink.

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