Page 8 of We Used To Be Magic

‘Don’t be,’ I say quickly. ‘I – I think I’m just coming down from the day if that makes sense? It was a lot –amazing, but a lot.’

I walked five shows total. Imogene was at one of them and sent me pictures of myself stomping down the runway in a chainmail dress and buffalo boots, hair wet with gel. I recognised the outfit before I recognised myself.

‘I get it. But you did a great job, sweetheart. And you lookstunningtonight.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile, adjusting the strap of my dress. It’s skimpy, silver and belongs to Marika. I packed light, and she deemed the lone black dress in my suitcase to be ‘sad’. Harsh but fair, and this one is undeniably pretty. Designer, too, which means it was probably gifted after a shoot or a show. We get paid in clothes, sometimes. It was an exciting prospect before I realised that modelling has overhead costs.

Another server appears to start clearing our plates then, and I lean back in my chair as he reaches over to take mine, resisting the urge to let my eyelids droop. It’s embarrassing, how exhausted I feel. All I can think about is getting back to the apartment, crawling under the covers of my unfamiliar bed …

‘Should we order cocktails?’ someone pipes up and my fantasy of a full night’s sleep recedes a little further into the distance.

Forty minutes later and the evening has devolved into hushed, frantic gossiping about people I’ve never met. We’re no closer to leaving and I’m actively resisting the urge to rest my head on the table. Marika looks just as fed up, but we’re seated at opposite ends of the table so I can’t even openly commiserate with her.

‘I’m heading outside for a sec,’ I tell the girl next to me, pushing out my chair. Everyone else is deep in conversation and I figure that some cold air might help wake me up.

‘To smoke?’ she replies, her voice husky and French-accented.

‘Uh … yeah,’ I reply. I’m not, obviously, but maybe it’s weird to go and stand outside for any other reason?

‘There is an area,’ she says conspiratorially, gesturing towards the far end of the restaurant. ‘They do not like it when you smoke out of the front.’

‘Oh. Thank you,’ I reply, realising that she’ll think I’m an idiot if I go out through the entrance now. Smoking area it is, and no one seems to notice me leave. But as I make my way to the back of the restaurant, I realise that maybe I ought to have asked for more detailed directions. There’s a door, but there’s also a small metal staircase. Neither has any signage to indicate where they lead.

I peek through the door and see a hallway, narrow and nondescript with a fire door at the end. I don’t want to hover and make it obvious that I have no idea where I’m going, so I slip through. No one stops me, no alarms sound, so I think that I might be in the right place. When I step outside, I find myself at the top of a small set of steps leading down into an alley, fenced off and well-lit with a row of bins—

‘Are you lost?’

—and a guy, sitting on an upturned crate, watching me. It’s the server who took our plates earlier. And he’s English. I wasn’t expecting that.

‘Maybe,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Is this the smoking area?’

‘Technically. There’s a rooftop bar that you might prefer.’

‘Oh. Is that up the stairs?’

‘… Yeah,’ he says, and I realise then that I just asked this guy if the roof is upstairs.

‘Right.’ I nod, feeling my face heat. ‘Makes sense.’

‘Or you could pull up a crate,’ he offers. ‘Up to you.’

I falter, trying to visualise the alternative. A rooftop bar means that I’ll be surrounded by people who are older and cooler than me – drunker too, probably, and maybe friendlier than I’d like. Then again, it’s not like hunkering down in an alley with a stranger is so smart. But he does work here, so …

‘Is it okay if I just … lean?’ I ask, gesturing vaguely to the building exterior. It feels like a sensible compromise. The door is still open, plus my shoes are spiky enough to double as a weapon if needs be.

‘Sure. It’s an alley for all.’

He gets to his feet then, clearing the stairs in one bound. I’m startled until he proffers a packet of cigarettes, looking at me expectantly.

‘Oh, um – thank you,’ I manage, hesitating slightly before taking one and putting it between my lips. I guess I did come here asking about the smoking area, and I’m not sure how to justify my presence otherwise. But the waiter is looking at me strangely, brow slightly furrowed.

‘Are you – do you actually want that?’ he asks, and I blink at him, taken aback again.

‘The cigarette,’ he clarifies. ‘I mean – do you smoke?’

I take it from my mouth then, feeling heat flood my face.

‘Um … not particularly,’ I manage, startled by the fact that he’s apparently psychic. ‘I don’t – Ihavesmoked, if that’s what you’re asking, but—’

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