AUDREY
‘ I ’ D JUST FEEL BETTER IF YOU COULD TELL US MORE ABOUT WHAT ’ S happening.’
‘I know. I wish I had more to tell you.’
‘Have you spoken to Leanne? Does she not want you back in London?’
‘The London agency gets a cut of whatever I make over here. They don’t care.’
Mum sighs, the sound crackly down the phone. No doubt she’s pacing around like she always does when she’s stressed, except usually it has something to do with a shipment or a supplier. Not her newly evasive daughter who’s currently doing something similar, padding circles around a strange apartment in her bare feet. Except it doesn’t actually feel that strange – maybe because it’s Ezra’s, and Ezra’s never really felt like a stranger.
‘I don’t like it when you talk like that,’ Mum says quietly. ‘We’ve never even met Isabelle.’
‘Imogene. She’s lovely. And a really good agent, so …’
‘I just can’t stand the thought of you being alone in a big city and not having anyone to look out for you.’
‘Imogene looks out for me. And my friends. I actually have friends here.’
That last part slips out before I can think better of it, and it sounds almost comically petulant. My instant regret is mingled with a sense of self-righteousness, though – maybe she doesn’t realise that I’m hurt too. Every phone call home leaves me feeling sick, hollow – I can’t stand the questions, the needling little insinuations. Maybe she thinks it’ll get me home sooner, but that just goes to show how little she understands my life now.
Mum’s silent for what feels like a long time. Then, ‘Your dad and I need to know what’s going on with you,’ she says finally. ‘You barely call us.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘And that worries me too! You’re still a teenager, Audrey!’
‘And I already have a career. That’s more than most people my age can say.’
‘Is it, though? Because to me, it seems like you’re being exploited—’
‘I’m sorry I’m not better at keeping in touch.’ I cut her off, suddenly needing this conversation to be over. ‘I’ll do better. But I have to go now.’
‘Already? Your dad—’
‘I have a meeting,’ I lie. ‘I’ll message you later. Tell Dad I said hi.’
And then I end the call, tossing my phone on to Ezra’s sofa. I woke up here this morning, the sun in my eyes and a blanket laid over me. For a second I didn’t know where I was and couldn’t remember the night before. But then reality swept in, cold and ugly, and suddenly I felt so wretched and scared and fucking stupid that all I could think about was Mum – how she’d make it all okay if she were here.
She’s not, though, and the distance between us amounts to more than miles. It was a mistake to call her. She wants clarity, answers, reassurance that I’m on my way home – I just wanted to be reminded that my real life is elsewhere. To make what happened last night feel smaller.
I exhale and look around – I need to make myself useful before I think too hard and start crying again. I heard the hiss of the shower a few minutes ago, which means that Ezra’s awake. Coffee I can do, so I fill the moka pot and fire up the stove. Then I start tidying, and I’m in the middle of clearing away the takeout cartons from last night when he emerges from the bathroom in a striped T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, a towel around his neck. I’m still in Marika’s dress and his sweatshirt.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly, turning towards the sink. I didn’t want to run out on him again but that doesn’t mean I’m any less embarrassed about being here like this. Again .
‘Good morning,’ he says quietly. ‘Did you sleep okay?’
‘Like an emotionally unstable log,’ I joke feebly. He doesn’t laugh.
‘I’d have let you have the bed, only you’d already fallen asleep.’
‘No, don’t worry about it. You’ve done more than enough. I – I’m really grateful. I know I keep saying it, but …’
He’s standing at my side, now, gently lifting the bubbling coffee pot from the stove. I force myself to look up at him.
‘Thank you,’ I say. He meets my eye, but only briefly.
‘Thank you ,’ he replies. ‘You’re a very considerate houseguest.’
I smile, studying his profile. The curve of his nose, the weight of his lower lip – then I look away, abruptly ashamed.
‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ I mumble, turning and heading for the bathroom.
‘Are you hungry?’ he calls after me. I don’t reply, shutting the door behind me and resting my head against it.
It’s there, still – that needy, stupid want . Ezra is so good and funny and honestly kind of beautiful that when I’m with him it’s so easy to let all of the bad stuff fade into the background. But letting myself feel that – feeling anything other than awful – makes me wonder if maybe the bad stuff isn’t that bad. That it couldn’t be.
Last night I left the party in a daze. After Julian disappeared, everything was fuzzy except for the voice in my head telling me that I had to get out, get away, just fucking leave, and that’s exactly what I did. Or tried to, at least – I don’t know where I would have ended up if I hadn’t tripped and nearly fallen at the stairwell. So, I sat down, the steps cold and unpleasantly gritty against the back of my thighs. This dress is so short , I thought. Then I started to imagine telling someone what had happened, and their response being a string of awful, insinuating questions. Why did you go to a party at his apartment if that photoshoot was really so awful? Why didn’t anyone see him do that if you really were in the middle of the room? Are you sure he wasn’t just flirting? How much were you drinking? And how short was your dress, exactly?
I know – I know that I can’t think like that.
I’m not sure that I can think about it at all, actually – not if I don’t want to totally unravel. But it’s so much harder now that even my fucking reflection reminds me of him. My hair is blonde because he wanted it blonde, and I’d never even met him at that point. I don’t even think that the colour was important. Maybe if I’d been blonde, he would have wanted it red – it only mattered that he had the power to change it in the first place.
There’s no way that I can explain away his actions now. I don’t even know if I can avoid him, either. I don’t doubt that he’ll find ways to be near me, if that’s what he wants.
‘Shut up,’ I say, not even realising that I’ve spoken aloud until I hear the words. I clap my hands to my mouth, praying that Ezra didn’t hear.
This is exactly why I can’t let my thoughts get away from me.
Why I have to stay busy.
When I make my way back into the kitchen, Ezra is at the stove. I hover beside him, face clean, teeth brushed. The toothbrush that I used last time was still in the bathroom and sitting in a cup beside his own, which I tried (and failed) not to read too much into.
‘Oh. Eggs in a nest.’ I smile, peering into the sizzling pan. Inside are two slices of bread with circles cut out of them, an egg in each centre. The circles are in the pan too, toasting.
‘You’ve had them before?’
‘Uh-huh. My dad used to make them on weekends.’
‘Mine too,’ he says after a beat. ‘Weird.’
‘Does he live nearby?’ I ask, oddly touched by the parallel.
‘Tribeca.’
‘Do you see him much these days?’
‘Lot of questions for a Sunday morning.’
‘Are two questions “a lot”?’
‘No,’ he says after a pause, listlessly pushing the toast circles around with a spatula. ‘I’m deflecting, apparently. Sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say quickly, realising my mistake. ‘You never push me to talk about anything. The least I could do is return the favour.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ he says mildly. ‘I’ve pushed plenty.’
‘Very gently,’ I concede, watching the easy way he grips the pan, oddly transfixed by a vein running through his hand. I held that same hand last night, all the way down to the takeout place and back again. It seems surreal now.
‘What are you doing today?’ Ezra asks then, eyes cast down as he deftly flips one of the slices. ‘I mean – did you want to hang out here?’
Yes , I think. For ever, if that’s okay.
‘I should probably head back to the apartment,’ I say instead, wary of overstaying my welcome. ‘Check in with Marika. Run errands – boring life stuff.’
‘Right.’ He nods. ‘So – still no plans to leave, then?’
‘Oh, you mean New York? Um – no. Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Right. I just – you said you were staying for the shoot but that’s obviously done with now, so …’ He trails off, shrugging.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I just do what they tell me.’
‘Then I hope they tell you to stay,’ Ezra says mildly, gaze still trained on the eggs. ‘Selfishly.’
My heart lifts, but the happiness I feel at hearing Ezra say those words is mingled with an awful sense of revulsion at the truth of my own. Me coming to New York was supposed to be a chance to stake my independence, but all I’ve done since I got here is let other people make decisions for me – I’m like a doll with a pull-cord, only ever saying yes, yes, yes . Even to things I didn’t want.
Julian must have seen that inside of me – a deep, clawing desperation to be liked, praised, included. To be good, no matter what that looked like.
‘Me too,’ I hear myself say, and Ezra looks at me sideways, smiling.
I smile back, hoping he won’t notice that I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.