AUDREY

‘ H EY THERE !’ OUR SERVER CHIRPS , PONYTAIL BOBBING AS SHE bounces up to our table. ‘How are we all doing?’

‘Oh, just great!’ Imogene beams, leaning towards her. ‘Could we get these plates cleared?’

‘Sure thing! Was everything okay?’

‘ Amazing ,’ Imogene enthuses, tossing her honey-coloured hair over her shoulder. ‘And can we get some more water for the table?’

I stifle a yawn and glance away. It’s gone ten but this place is still brimming with people, all apparently very happy to be eating this late at night. The food is great, admittedly, and the restaurant itself is beautiful: raw plaster walls softened by hanging greenery and pendulous golden lights.

‘Audrey, sweetheart,’ Imogene says, resting a cool hand on my arm. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Oh, fine,’ I manage. ‘Just zoned out for a moment.’

Probably because I’ve been awake for eighteen hours and on my feet for most of them. No need to point that out to Imogene, though. She’s my agent in New York, and pretty much every aspect of my life here is guided by her perfectly manicured hand. What I wear, where I go, who I see; I live in anticipation of her instructions. Not that I resent it. Everyone she’s ever introduced me to has gushed about how lucky I am to have her – aside from being amazing at her job, she also happens to be gorgeous, stylish and a beacon of relentless positivity. Imagine a Disney princess in a leather trench coat, drafting an email on her phone while hailing a cab to the opening of an organic wine bar – that’s Imogene.

‘Are you sure?’ she presses, voice low. ‘You’ve been quiet all night.’

‘I know. I’m sorry,’ I tell her, abruptly chastened. Imogene used to model herself, and not that long ago – she knows so many important people in this industry, and a lot of them are currently sitting around this table. It’s an incredible opportunity to network and I’m totally squandering it.

‘No, don’t be sorry!’ Imogene says emphatically, eyes wide. ‘I’m worried, is all.’

‘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 look stunning tonight.’

‘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 – I have smoked, if that’s what you’re asking, but—’

‘Whoops,’ he says easily, tucking the packet away again. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.’

‘No, I – that doesn’t mean I mind if you smoke,’ I say quickly. ‘Like – you can have this one, if you want.’

I offer the cigarette back to him, realising too late that it was in my mouth approximately ten seconds ago. He takes it, though, smiling faintly as he flips it between his fingers. The end of it is smudged with my lipstick. The wrong end.

‘Oh,’ I say, awkwardly gesturing at it. ‘Bit of a giveaway that I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, right?’

‘That and your general aura of vitality,’ he replies, smiling as he slips it into his pocket. ‘I mean – I figure a lot of models do smoke, but—’

‘How did you know I’m a model?’ I interject, surprised.

‘Educated guess. You’re tall, clearly not from around here …’

‘I could say the same about you.’

‘And it’s Fashion Week,’ he concludes. ‘Though if that’s all it takes then maybe I should give it a go.’

‘Is it something you’re interested in?’ I ask, resisting the urge to look him up and down. He’s wiry as well as tall with a cutting jaw and an endearingly crooked nose. I could definitely imagine him sloping down a runway in some fashionably-distressed ensemble, scowling the way that the male models always seem to. All of this to say he’s cute, basically, but I’m pretending that I haven’t noticed to lessen my chances of getting flustered.

‘It’s tempting.’ He nods. ‘But leave behind the glitz and glamour of the service industry? I don’t know.’

‘If you’re implying that modelling is glamorous, I promise you it’s not.’

‘Said the girl in the silver dress.’

‘This dress isn’t even mine!’ I protest hotly, surprising myself. Surprising him too, I think – his grin widens, exposing a pointed incisor.

‘That wine your table was drinking is a hundred dollars a bottle,’ he tells me. ‘What do you have to say to that?’

‘That I’m not drinking it. And I’m definitely not paying for it.’

‘Is this a Cinderella scenario?’

‘Mm-hm. The carriage is out front.’

‘Better get moving, then. You’re about to miss your midnight window.’

‘I’m aware,’ I say, and I’m smiling too now. ‘Painfully so.’

‘Ah. Early start tomorrow?’

‘Uh-huh. I suppose you get to lie in, working here.’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve only had this job for twenty-four hours.’

‘For real?’

‘Yeah. But I’ve already been told that I’ve got a good handspan for trays, so I’m pretty sure I’m crushing it.’

‘Wow. Why are you here, then?’

‘This city or this restaurant?’

‘The city, I guess. I mean – you’re from England, right?’

‘More so than not.’ He nods, expression shifting slightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, abruptly realising I’ve overstepped. ‘That’s probably personal.’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ he says, meeting my eye. ‘I just—’

‘Ezra!’

We both start, turning in unison to see a woman in chef whites. My first thought is how pretty she is, tan and lithe with sun-streaked hair drawn back into a stubby ponytail. My second thought is that I really hope she’s not about to yell at us.

‘Your break ended five minutes ago,’ she tells the server – Ezra, apparently. Thankfully she seems more exasperated than angry.

‘My bad,’ he says lightly. ‘Gimme a sec?’

‘You’ve had several,’ she says, before glancing at me. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ I say, my voice suddenly small. ‘Um – sorry. I took a wrong turn.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she tells me, gaze sliding back over to Ezra. She cocks an eyebrow, and for the first time I see his cool composure slip, a dull flush rising in his cheeks.

‘Duty calls, then,’ he says briskly. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

‘You too.’ I nod. ‘Um – I’m Audrey, by the way.’

‘Audrey,’ he echoes, hovering. For a moment I think he’s going to say something else but instead he just ducks past me, disappearing into the building and out of sight. The chef follows and I’m left alone, then.

Alone and feeling a whole lot more awake than I did five minutes ago.

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