AUDREY
‘ I THINK I ’ M DYING ,’ I GASP , DOUBLING OVER . ‘ I CAN TASTE BLOOD .’
‘That’s because there’s pressure on your lungs right now. Your red blood cells are leaking into the air-sacs—’
‘Not helpful,’ I manage, fumbling for my bottle. Marika consults her phone as I gulp down water. She looks immaculate, of course, emanating health in a neon-blue unitard. I don’t think she’s even broken a sweat.
‘We’ve only gone a half-mile,’ she tells me. ‘When you said that you “literally never” exercise, I figured you were being hyperbolic.’
‘Then I wouldn’t have said “literally”.’
‘Noted.’
I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my hoodie, breathing raggedly. When Marika suggested a morning jog in Central Park, I was honestly just happy that she wanted to hang out with me. I did try and warn her that I’m not very fit but she waved it off – optimistically, it seems.
‘Can we walk after this?’ I plead. ‘Just for a little bit?’
‘Fine. But we’re doing this again tomorrow – your stamina is terrible. No wonder you nap all the time.’
‘What’s wrong with napping?’
‘Nothing, if you’re a toddler. Come on.’
And she’s off again. I suck in a breath, start shuffling after her down the wide, sun-dappled path – as gruelling as this outing has been, the beauty of the park isn’t lost on me. It’s too early in the year for autumn colour so the trees are a lush green canopy above our heads, the morning light filtering through the leaves. It’s hard to believe that all this nature can survive in a city so dense.
‘Do you do this at home?’ I ask, hoping that she’ll slow down if we’re talking. Mercifully, she does.
‘At a gym, yeah. There’s nowhere like this where I live. I’d just be breathing in exhaust fumes.’
‘In London, right?’
‘Uh-huh. With my parents.’
‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘I’d figured you lived with other models.’
‘Nope. No sense renting unless I have to. Not like here.’
‘… Here as in New York? Are you planning on staying longer?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. But we’ve only been here two weeks and we’ve booked a major campaign. You do the maths.’
‘But – it’s a whole other country.’
‘That’s not necessarily a negative. Besides, I’m sure you could come up with a few good reasons to stay. One in particular, maybe. A tall one.’
I blink at her.
‘With a crooked nose,’ she adds, smiling slightly as she jogs on.
‘His nose is not that crooked,’ I splutter, flustered. ‘And whatever you’re insinuating – it’s not like that.’
‘Mm-hm,’ she says, and I can tell that she doesn’t believe me. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have told her the story of how Ezra and I first met, or the series of events that led to us meeting again. It turned out to be really difficult to explain and I ended up rambling on about him for absolutely ages in the cab on our way back from the party. No wonder she read into it.
‘Besides,’ I add, attempting to sound self-righteous, ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’
‘Says who?’
‘Well, there was the Patrick Bateman reference.’
‘That was really more about his apartment. You have to admit, it’s weirdly bare.’
‘Only because he hasn’t been in the city long.’
‘Or it’s usually covered in plastic sheeting …’
‘… You’re not really bolstering your argument here.’
‘It’s a joke.’ She smiles, nudging me slightly. ‘I don’t actually think he’s a serial killer.’
‘You told me that pepper spray is legal here. Twice. ’
‘Well, that’s just worth knowing,’ she says airily. ‘Safety first and all that.’
‘What about you?’ I counter hastily, suddenly eager to move the conversation along. ‘You’ve made friends over here, right?’
She must have. She’s taken to disappearing for hours at a time with zero explanation, and always in a very cute outfit. Then again, Marika could make tracksuit bottoms and a flannel shirt look like haute couture.
‘Nice change of subject,’ she replies dryly.
‘I don’t have anything else to say about him! We’re hanging out. It’s nice. He’s nice.’
‘Were you with him yesterday?’
‘Yeah. I mean – we got breakfast, but I had to bail early for the meeting with Imogene. I haven’t heard from him since.’
‘Well, you left first. That means you should be the one to reach out.’
‘That’s what I thought!’ I exclaim, weirdly relieved. ‘I almost messaged but then I started to overthink what I’d written.’
‘Show me,’ she says, stopping dead and holding out her hand.
‘Uh – sure,’ I say, reaching for my phone. I hand it over and she studies the screen intently – the message I almost sent to Ezra is sitting at the bottom of our conversation, which I really hope Marika doesn’t scroll up and read – there’s nothing explicit, obviously, but I’d feel exposed all the same.
‘It’s a little wordy,’ she says finally. ‘Can I give it a go?’
‘… Okay.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she murmurs, tapping rapidly at the screen. ‘I’m good at this. Here.’
She hands it back. I read the new message, only to realise that she’s already sent it.
What are you doing tonight?
‘Marika!’ I splutter.
‘It’s better,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Trust me.’
‘What if he doesn’t reply?’ I ask, my chest knotting at the thought of it.
‘Then he’s an idiot. Bullet dodged.’
And before I even have time to process the nicest thing Marika has ever said to me, my phone buzzes. I blink at the screen in disbelief. He’s replied. He’s replied already , and –
whatever you want
‘Oh,’ I say. Marika peers over at the screen.
‘Not even a minute.’ She smiles. ‘You’re welcome. And you owe me a lap.’
Then she’s off again, ponytail swinging as she springs away. I stumble after her, wondering if my heart might now be pounding for an entirely different reason.