Page 42 of We Used To Be Magic

‘I don’t really mind killing some time in Brooklyn,’ I admit, stretching slightly. ‘Ezra told me about a couple of cool places I could check out.’

‘Right. Was this on your date?’

‘It wasn’t a date,’ I say instinctively.

‘The sunset picnic by a lake in Central Park wasn’t a date?’

‘No.’

She lowers her magazine then, fixing me with a flat stare.

‘Really,’ I say, a little defensively. ‘I think I would have noticed.’

There’s a chance I might be attempting to convince myself as much as I am Marika, here. I mean – yes, it was probably the most romantic evening of my life, but nothing romanticactuallyhappened. Him picking a bug out of my hair was the closest we got to physical contact, though I made sure to keep at least one hand unobstructed at all times, should he choose to hold it. He didn’t, though – not even as he walked me back to my apartment, where we lingered on the stoop before saying good night. I kept losing track of the conversation, embarrassingly, too busy imagining him leaning in to kiss me. Could he tell? When I got back inside and looked in the mirror, my pupils were blown wide, cheeks spotted with colour.He said you were pretty, I thought.He thinks that you’re pretty.

‘So, he didn’t make a move.’ Marika nods. ‘Interesting.’

I say nothing, ignoring the rising heat in my cheeks. I hate that I blush so much – how transparent it makes me feel. Like yesterday, when Ezra was pressing me about what I wished for.

‘I don’t think it’s for a lack of interest,’ Marika adds. ‘I mean – whatever the issue is, it’s definitely not that.’

‘It shouldn’t even matter,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ll probably be leaving soon. It couldn’t come to anything.’

‘If that’s what you want to tell yourself,’ Marika says mildly, turning back to her magazine and flicking on to a new page.

Marika’s portion of the shoot only takes about half an hour, all in all. She texts to let me know when she’s done and on her way back to Manhattan, and though it’s earlier than the time I was given, I decide to head over to the studio anyway. No one’s ever reprimanded me for beingtoopunctual, I figure, and I’m not doing anything besides wandering the streets and brooding.

The studio is on the top floor of a small, nondescript-looking building beside the river. The interior is bright and sparse, white-walled with linoleum floors – there’s no one else inside, not that I can tell, and the only way upstairs is a chilly stairwell, the squeak of my trainers echoing in the silence. My nerves are back in full force. Imogene assured us that this isn’t a casting, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not important.

I finally find myself in a narrow hallway with a door at the end. Taped to it is a piece of paper withDONOTDISTURB–PHOTOSHOOTINPROGRESSscrawled in capital letters – promising enough, I decide, and step inside. It’s a huge room, wide and cavernous with concrete columns and windows stretching from floor to ceiling. In the far corner is a white backdrop with big, square lights angled around it, plus a tripod, a rail of clothes and a small desk, where Julian Mars sits on a fold-out chair with a sleek silver laptop. He glances up – his palebrown hair is half-gathered in a claw clip and he’s wearing huge, gold-rimmed glasses.

‘Audrey,’ he says, closing the laptop with a snap. ‘You’re early.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t be,’ he replies. ‘It’s nice to officially meet you.’

He strides towards me and offers his hand. We shake – his grip is loose, relaxed.

‘You too.’ I smile. ‘This place is awesome.’

‘Thanks. The light is usually better – sorry we had to do this so late.’

‘No worries,’ I say brightly, shrugging off my jacket. I leave it by the door along with my bag, moving towards the backdrop. It’s the only bright space in the room.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks, moving over to the clothing rail. ‘I’ve got a coolbox – there’s water, some beers. A seltzer, maybe?’

‘I’m all good. Thank you,’ I say, relieved that he seems nice. I remember him looking moody at the Miranda Browning show – bored, almost, like he thought that the whole thing was beneath him. But maybe he was just tired – I know I was.

‘This your first Fashion Week?’ he asks, still rifling through the rail.

‘Yeah. It’s been crazy.’

‘I can imagine. You mind changing, by the way? Miranda sent over some pieces.’

‘Sure thing,’ I say, and he pulls a small white garment from its hanger and tosses it to me. I catch it, glancing around for a screen.

‘You can use the backdrop,’ he says, gesturing. ‘I’m going to put some music on.’

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