Page 41 of We Used To Be Magic

‘Good to know.’ She laughs, turning towards the water. It’s glowing in the fading light, silhouetting her profile – suddenly I’m wishing I had my camera with me, but even if I could take a picture, she’d probably be gone by the time I got it developed. It’s a sobering thought.

‘I never thought I’d get to do anything like this,’ she says then, a half-smile playing on her lips. ‘I never thought I’d be in New York this long.’

‘I’m glad you are,’ I say, and she looks back at me, sunlight edging her pale skin like gold-rimmed porcelain. Her dark hair is catching in the breeze, and—

‘Oh, you’ve got …’ I reach out without thinking, only to withdraw my hand immediately. ‘Uh – bug in your hair,’ I conclude, embarrassed. ‘Not a big one.’

‘Oh,’ she says, her own hand hovering upwards. ‘Um – can you get it?’

‘Sure,’ I say, moving closer. It’s a tiny little greenfly, and I lightly take a strand of Audrey’s hair in my hand to try and comb it out without crushing it. She holds herself perfectly still with her eyes cast down, lashes fringed against her freckled cheek-

‘Got it,’ I hear myself say, proffering my finger for her inspection – there the bug sits, intact and alive and definitely real. I worry she might think I just wanted an excuse to be nearer, otherwise.

‘Make a wish,’ I add and she laughs, leaning forward – her breath is cool as she gently blows it away.

‘Now you have to tell me what you wished for,’ I say, knowing she won’t.

‘No I don’t.’ She smiles. ‘If I tell you then it won’t come true.’

‘Not unless it’s something I can help with. Is it?’

She seems to falter at that, opening and closing her mouth in rapid succession.

‘Nope,’ she says finally, but her cheeks are flushed – there’s a very real chance that she’s lying, I realise, and a grin splits my face.

Suddenly, I can’t remember why any of this is supposed to be a bad idea. What’s more, I don’t want to.

AUDREY

‘DID ITHURT?’

‘I almost cried while I was waiting for her to rinse the bleach off. And then I actually did cry when I saw the colour it’d gone.’

‘What colour was it?’

‘Pale orange. Like a traffic cone that’s been left out in the sun.’

Marika grimaces, baring her perfect teeth.

‘It went blonde after she toned and dried it, though,’ I conclude, pulling out a strand to scrutinise. ‘I think it looks okay now.’

‘Better than okay,’ she says firmly. ‘Editorial.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile – coming from Marika, there’s no higher compliment. She nods and resumes studying her copy ofVoguewhile I glance out the graffiti-etched windows of the overground train, yellow light filtering through the glass. It’s late in the day and we’re on our way to Julian Mars’s studio in Williamsburg for our photoshoots, about which I aminsanelynervous. It doesn’t help that I’m caffeine-jittery too, having gotten up at the crack of dawn for my morning appointment with Imogene’s colourist. It took five hours to take my hair from brown to platinum – five deeply uncomfortable hours. The texture of it feels weird, still, but not as weird as catching my reflection in windows and seeing a stranger.

‘Do you want me to wait for you once I’m done?’ Marika asks, delicately dabbing a perfume sample against her wrist.

‘It’s okay. You said you’re going out tonight, right?’

‘Well, yeah, but I don’t think this’ll take too long. I can hang around.’

‘It’s fine.’ I smile. ‘I’ll remember the way back.’

‘Get a cab. It’ll be dark by then.’

‘You think?’

‘Probably. Honestly, it’s ridiculous that he’s insisting on seeing us separately.’

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