AUDREY

W E ’ RE IN THE BACK OF A CAB WHEN MY PHONE BUZZES .

‘It’s that guy from earlier,’ I tell Marika. ‘He’s sent the address to his party.’

‘Let me see,’ she replies, reaching for my phone. I lean over and watch as she taps on his profile. It’s a colourful mish-mash of food, local scenery and selfies. Reassuringly normal.

‘It’s not his party,’ she says, scrolling. ‘There’s no way this guy lives in Midtown.’

‘Maybe it’s a friend’s place,’ I offer.

Marika looks at me sideways, passing my phone back. ‘Did you fancy him? Is that why you want to go?’

‘No!’ I say hotly. ‘But he seemed nice, right?’

‘ “Seemed” being the operative word here.’

‘Okay, well – I won’t go if you don’t. I just thought it might be fun.’

‘You and I have different ideas of fun.’

‘Parties aren’t fun?’

‘Not house parties. They were tragic at school, they’re tragic now.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I admit.

‘You’ve never been to a house party?’

‘Well – one, actually. Once. It turned out weird. I kind of fell out with the girls that invited me, so …’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly, glancing out of the window. It’s embarrassing, talking to Marika about school. I don’t want her to know how crushingly unpopular I was.

The sixth-form college was the last school I ever joined. I was sixteen – my parents had agreed that we’d stay in the same place while I finished up my A-levels, and I was excited about the prospect of making some actual friends. There’d be other new kids, I figured, making me less of an anomaly. And for a while, everything actually went amazingly. I was partnered on an English Lit project with a pretty, syrupy-voiced girl called Becca, and she more or less adopted me. I started spending all my time with her gaggle of friends, who were, for lack of a better word, popular. I wish I’d been enlightened enough not to care about all that, but I wasn’t – I loved it. Because they’d deemed me worthy of attention, people started paying me attention. It changed everything. Suddenly I was striking and mysterious instead of gangly and awkward. Even the fact that my clothes were boring and I didn’t wear make-up was a bonus, because they loved to dress me up. And I wanted so badly for them to like me, even though they didn’t always seem to like each other that much.

I was stupidly excited when they invited me to that party. The house was big, the music was loud and I was wearing a borrowed, too-short dress that I felt ridiculously self-conscious in until I was about three drinks deep. That was around the time when a boy called Hugo from my biology class spoke to me for the first time – a big deal, seeing as I’d been nursing a crush on him since our very first lesson together, when he held the door open for me on my way in. We’d never spoken, but he sat a row in front of me and sometimes when I answered a question he would look over his shoulder at me and smile, and I’d feel myself melt into a puddle. ‘How come you’re so smart?’ he asked me that night. I don’t remember what I answered, but I do remember a curl of his soft, dark hair brushing my forehead when he leant in to kiss me.

It wasn’t my first kiss. There’d been other schools, other boys, other crushes. If a class was particularly boring, I’d sometimes pick someone within my eyeline and just decide that I liked them. Every so often they’d reciprocate, and I remember those interludes as stilted but sweet, nervous, pursed-lip pecks and scribbled love notes passed between sticky hands. Things evolved as I got older and the general enthusiasm for that kind of thing grew, but it never stopped feeling at least a little bit performative until Hugo. It was the first time I’d ever felt eclipsed by the enormity of my own desire, self-preservation slipping through my fingers as easily as silk.

He asked me if I wanted to find an empty room, and I did. He asked me if it was okay if we sat on the bed, and it was. And it was okay when his lips met mine, my dress riding up as we sank down on to the mattress – better than okay, it was good , and we only stopped because I somehow felt like I should want to. Everything was happening so fast, I explained, and he nodded and smiled and asked if I wanted a drink of water. I said yes, and as soon as he was gone, I started smiling so hard I thought my face might break, because in that moment my life was so, so beautiful. The boy I liked liked me, and he was kind, and he was handsome, and we were going to be boyfriend and girlfriend and spend the rest of the school year arm-and-arm in hallways, at parties, on weekends …

Except we weren’t, obviously. It quickly transpired that one of my new ‘friends’ had staked a prior claim on Hugo’s heart, and the fallout commenced that very night.

It was so awful that I still feel sick just remembering it, and though I tried to apologise, they either didn’t believe that I hadn’t known or they didn’t want to – given the dramatic mileage they got out of hating me, I’m inclined to think the latter. Either way, I was persona non grata for the rest of my academic life, spending the majority of that year in the library. Hence my near-perfect grades – so, silver linings, I guess.

I don’t know if Hugo ever looked at me in class again. I stopped answering questions and kept my eyes on my work.

‘Can you wait here for us?’ Marika says, and I snap back to attention to see her leaning towards the driver and handing him a neatly folded note. ‘We’ll be five minutes, tops.’

‘Will we?’ I ask, startled. We’re back at our apartment already – I hadn’t even realised.

‘Well, yeah,’ Marika says matter-of-factly. ‘If we’re going to a party then we need to change. I’m not about to let some drunken moron spill beer down this dress.’

‘You want to go? Really?’

‘It might be fun.’ She shrugs. ‘Probably not, but …’

‘Thank you.’ I smile, and she waves her hand like it’s nothing. It’s not, though. We both know that it’s not.

The address is a neat, red-brick building, probably old and definitely fancy. By the time we reach the apartment door I feel a little lightheaded, either from nerves or the four flights of stairs we had to scale to get here. Doubt is creeping in now. I can hear music coming from inside – voices, laughter. What if I feel like just as much of an impostor in there as I did in that ballroom?

‘You good?’ Marika asks, and I nod stiffly. Too late to back out now.

She raps on the door, three sharp knocks. I straighten, wishing I looked even half as cool as she does right now in her tight, flared jeans and retro-cool halter top, hair brushing the small of her back. My black dress feels pretty drab by comparison, but there’s no point agonising over it now. Instead, I attempt some positive visualisation. This is going to be fun , I decide. I’m going to have a good time. I’m going to meet new people—

And then the door swings open and my mind goes completely blank. It only takes me a second to place the familiar face in front of me, but when I do, no words come. What’s there to say?

‘Hey,’ the waiter says. I just stare, briefly meeting his gaze as his eyes flit between us. I can’t tell if he’s recognised me or not because his expression doesn’t flicker. But it’s him. Ezra. I’m almost totally sure that it’s him.

‘Hey. I’m Marika, this is Audrey,’ Marika says, oblivious to my mental turmoil. ‘Your friend Mac invited us.’

‘Mac, right. I’m Ezra. Uh – come on in.’

We step inside. It is him. That’s what the chef called him. God, this is so weird , made weirder by the fact that he apparently doesn’t remember me. I have to say something—

‘Hey, you two made it!’

I turn, and despite having met him approximately one hour ago I feel a strange surge of relief at Mac’s approach. He’s grinning in a pair of loose black overalls, a tangle of silver necklaces at his throat.

‘You sound surprised,’ Marika replies.

‘I thought you might have something better to be doing – I guess not. Lucky us.’

‘Well, the night is young,’ she says coolly. ‘We’ll see.’

Mac’s smile widens. They’re the same height and he holds her gaze steadily, head cocked as though there’s an unspoken challenge between them. It might not be an unwelcome one, either.

‘You can’t go,’ he says, still grinning. ‘Whoever brought speakers is using them to hold us hostage to this godawful playlist. I need help staging a hostile takeover.’

Marika glances at me, a silent you good? I reply with a tiny nod, seeing as there’s no way to silently communicate that the stranger she’s about to leave me with isn’t actually a stranger.

‘Fine,’ she says, eyes cutting back to Mac. ‘If only because I have excellent taste.’

He laughs and offers his hand. She ignores it but follows him anyway, and Ezra and I watch as they slip out of sight. A beat of silence, then – ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I must be making a horrible second impression.’

‘I – you do remember me, then!’ I splutter, turning to look at him. Or up at him, specifically. Without my heels he’s a full head taller than me.

‘Yes,’ he says, a grimace tugging at his mouth. ‘There was a very limited window to say something before it got weird. I missed it, obviously.’

‘But you didn’t even look surprised,’ I manage. ‘I mean – this is such an insane coincidence.’

‘Yes and no. I mean – it was when I saw you at the gala thing—’

‘You were there?’

‘Yeah, uh – I was working it. I saw you at the bar just before you left – I wanted to say hi but it felt weird.’

‘Weirder than this?’

‘No. I can’t imagine anything feeling weirder than this.’

‘So … Mac. Did you ask him to invite us here?’ I ask, confused.

‘No! I mean – I told him I knew you but I didn’t ask him to do anything.’

‘And you didn’t know that I was going to be there? At the gala?’

‘I – no. I swear to God, I’m not stalking you.’

‘I actually have no reason to believe that,’ I point out – half-joking, but he looks stricken.

‘I know.’ He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Just – in my defence, you looked like a celebrity and I was wearing a sweat-stained waistcoat. And not even my sweat, so – just an extra dimension of gross there.’

The tips of his ears are pink, I notice – he’s genuinely flustered. And so am I, but more so by his justification. The initial shock is wearing off, and I’m borderline giddy about seeing him again. I’d imagined it, hoped for it – even considered dropping by the restaurant under some made up pretence, like a lost earring. But I couldn’t get past how pathetic that felt, given the very real possibility that he’d forgotten about my existence the moment I left his line of sight.

‘You must think I’m pretty superficial,’ I tell him, attempting to play it cool.

‘No, uh – I just happen to have a very fragile ego. Huge, but fragile.’

I laugh, and notice his shoulders sag ever so slightly. Is he relieved that I haven’t run away screaming? Should I have? This is a very chaotic scenario, and Mac definitely could have spared a minute to outline exactly why he was inviting us to this party. Then again, it probably would have taken longer than a minute – maybe he didn’t want to hinder his odds of seeing Marika again.

In any case, I’m here now. And in spite of the weirdness, I don’t want to leave.

‘Drink,’ Ezra says suddenly, his eyes lighting up like he’s just solved an equation. ‘I mean – would you want a drink? Can I get you one?’

‘A drink sounds good,’ I say, and he smiles, obviously relieved by the diversion as we move towards the kitchen area, where a truly staggering amount of alcohol occupies a marble island. Speaking of which – this apartment is really nice. The ceiling is high, the floors dark, glossy hardwood. It’s old, probably pre-war but open-plan, a hallway leading out of the kitchen/living area. There’s not much in the way of decoration, though. Just a lone, half-dead plant and a few stacks of books, piled haphazardly against the walls. I want to look at the titles, if I get a chance. Then maybe snoop around to try and deduce exactly how someone who works in a restaurant could afford to live here.

‘What can I get you?’ he asks.

‘Uh, Prosecco?’ I venture. Ezra nods, and I watch him as he deftly selects a bottle, pouring with a steady hand. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and faded jeans, damp hair tucked behind his ears. He must have showered sometime before we got here and he smells like shampoo – it’s weirdly intoxicating. God – get a grip, Audrey.

He pushes a cup towards me. I take a small sip. It’s a little sour but I take another, hoping it’ll steady me.

‘So,’ Ezra says, watching me over the rim of his own drink. ‘Do you want to tell me again how modelling isn’t glamorous?’

‘Oh.’ I smile, remembering. ‘I’ve lost ground on that argument, haven’t I?’

‘A little. Any more black-tie events in the diary this week?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘All right. Good to know.’

‘Is it?’

‘Depends. When are you leaving the city?’

‘Um – not as soon as I thought, actually. Probably not for another week or so.’

‘Let me know if you want to hang out, then. I’ve been told I’m an excellent tour guide.’

‘Really?’

‘No. Want to hang out anyway?’

I laugh, feeling slightly hysterical. He’s just so … I don’t even know. Is there a word for feeling like you might have made someone up?

‘Yeah,’ I manage. ‘I mean – sure. Let’s do it.’

‘Cool.’ He grins. ‘Should we toast, then? To me overcoming social ineptitude?’

‘Surely we should toast to cosmic intervention?’ I point out. ‘This is a big city. The odds of us crossing paths again were ridiculous.’

‘You believe in stuff like that?’

‘You don’t?’

‘Nope. But Bigfoot is real, and I’ll die on that hill.’

‘What about manifesting?’

‘Manifesting. See, I’ve heard of that …’

‘Thinking about the things you want until they come true, basically.’

‘Did you manifest all of this, then? Is that why you’re always in a sparkly dress and I’m always holding a tray?’

‘Wow. There’s that ego again.’

He laughs, throwing his head back. I made him laugh, and it’s such a good feeling that I have to take another sip of my drink to hide the big, stupid smile threatening to overtake my face. I’m usually so weird and stilted with people I don’t know – I can barely manage small talk, let alone witty repartee. But the same thing happened the night we met – it was like I was talking to someone I’d known all my life. And I really, truly cannot get over the odds of us meeting again.

I’m suddenly gripped by this overwhelming sense of significance. Like somehow, this night was always going to end with him.

‘How about we toast to hanging out?’ I say then, straightening slightly. ‘Normal, non-cosmic plans. No sparkles.’

‘Sparkle-free zone.’ He smiles, knocking his cup against mine. And there’s just something about the way he’s looking at me all of a sudden – I feel my cheeks heat, dropping my gaze as I drain the remnants of my drink.

I think I liked it better when he was the flustered one.

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.