AUDREY
E ZRA MAKES EGGS IN A NEST AGAIN , A PERFECT YOLK THAT SPILLS gold when I puncture it with my knife. I eat it all, drink a mugful of hot black coffee. I want this every morning for the rest of my life – I want this to be my life too. For the battered stovetop pot to be our pot, the chipped red plates our plates. I don’t want to go back to the sad tiny apartment that smells like damp and desperation. I don’t want to face Marika and talk about everything I’d rather forget. I want to be the girl that lives here.
It would be easier to lose myself in that fantasy if Ezra hadn’t been staring into space for the past five minutes, his brow furrowed.
‘That was really good,’ I say, wiping my mouth on a crumpled restaurant napkin. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem,’ he says, expression clearing momentarily. I wonder if he remembers the way that we were tangled together last night. I woke up in the early hours of the morning with hair in my face, and it was only when I moved to push it away and felt how soft it was that I realised it wasn’t my own. I was basically on top of him, my leg drawn up against his torso, his arm thrown carelessly over my waist. But I was half-asleep and none of that seemed strange so I let myself sink back into unconsciousness, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest.
But he doesn’t want to kiss me this morning. He was going to and then he didn’t, and I don’t know why.
‘Do you want me to walk you back to your apartment?’ he says suddenly.
‘Um – I don’t mind,’ I say, stung. ‘When do you need me out of here by?’
‘I don’t – not at all. I just figured you might have stuff to do.’
I nod. He knows that I’m actively avoiding Marika. Maybe he thinks I’m a loose cannon now, and he’s trying to extricate himself as delicately as possible. What if he only ever saw this as a casual thing, and I’ve scared him by implying I want to stay in New York?
‘I guess so,’ I reply. He lightly taps his fingers against the table.
‘We can walk,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘It’s a nice day. We can take the scenic route. Walk and talk.’
‘Sure,’ I say, nonplussed. ‘Um – do you remember seeing my phone, last night?’
The message from the journalist has been hovering at the periphery of my thoughts all morning. Bile rises in my throat again at the prospect of actually having to deal with it.
‘No,’ Ezra says. ‘Want me to look?’
‘It’s probably in the bedroom,’ I say, getting to my feet and wishing that he’d let me put off reality a little longer. It’s unfair, I know. Ezra’s so generous that I don’t know what to do with it most of the time.
I pad into his room. My phone’s nowhere in sight so I turn my attention to the bed, pulling back the duvet and blankets. I spot it tucked under a pillow, only to pick it up and realise it’s Ezra’s. The screen flashes to life in my hands, revealing a string of notifications, and I’m about to toss it on top of the sheets when I see my name amongst them.
I feel myself go still, then, instinctively glancing at the door. Ezra’s in the kitchen – I can hear him at the sink, washing dishes. Don’t , I think, except it’s already too late – I raise the screen and start to read.
Mac
22.42
marika asked me for your number and i gave it to her. cool?
UNKNOWN
22.45
I need to speak to Audrey and she’s not picking up her phone. I know she’s with you. Please get her to call me.
UNKNOWN
22.49
MISSED CALL
UNKNOWN
22.51
Please pick up. It’s about Julian.
‘Found it?’ Ezra calls down the hallway– I start, dropping the phone. It hits the edge of the bedframe, clattering on to the floor. I know I should pick it up, but I can’t. I hear Ezra’s footsteps –
‘You okay?’ he asks, appearing in the doorway. I just stare at him – I can barely form a thought right now, let alone a sentence. Maybe I’m asleep. Maybe I haven’t woken up yet, and this is an incredibly vivid stress dream.
‘Audrey?’ he says, moving closer. He sees the phone then – looks at it, at me.
He crouches to pick it up. It alights in his hand like it did in mine, his hair falling across his eyes as he straightens, silently studying the screen.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, privately marvelling at how calm I sound. I have to stay calm, though, because he can’t know anything for sure. Whatever he or Marika might think, I never told anyone anything. He can’t.
‘I’m sorry,’ he begins, his voice throaty. ‘I didn’t – I was going to tell you …’
He trails off, looking up at me. He’s so pale, eyes unblinking – I hold his gaze, trying very, very hard to look confused.
‘I – I met someone who told me what kind of a person Julian is,’ he continues stiltedly. ‘And I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to upset you. I thought – because of that night, at his apartment—’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I interject. ‘I—’
‘I spoke to Marika,’ Ezra says quietly. ‘She mentioned a photoshoot, at his studio …’
I recoil like I’ve been slapped, my vision blurring – when it clears, all I can see is Ezra’s ashen face, tendons jutting in his neck. I’d think he was angry if it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes have never been softer, spilling over with pity.
I realise then that maybe it doesn’t matter that I never said anything, because he’s seen it. Seen me crying, sick, scared – and then there’s Marika. She saw it too, and she fucking lives with me. If they spoke to each other, connecting days and events …
Just like that, my carefully constructed denial unravels. They know . Ezra knows, and no matter how fervently I insist that nothing happened, he won’t believe me.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ezra says again, voice so low that I can barely hear it. ‘I’m so sorry.’
A tear drips down my face, surprising me. I don’t feel sad. I don’t know what I feel right now.
‘It’s probably not as bad …’ I begin, but I don’t finish that sentence because suddenly my face is against Ezra’s chest, his arms around me. He’s holding me so tightly that I could let my legs go out from under me and I’d still be upright, aloft in the embrace. I can feel his heart beating, just as hard as mine. Harder, maybe, and I don’t want him to let go. I’m scared that when he does, all of the feeling will come flooding back in, and right now I’m numb to everything except the warmth of his body, the insistence of it. He knows and he knew and he’s here. Are those facts disparate or is it all connected? I can’t make sense of it in this moment. I don’t know if it matters.
He knows. And so does Marika.
‘I need to find my phone,’ I hear myself say, voice muffled. ‘Marika will be worried.’
Ezra’s arms slacken, and I instantly regret speaking.
‘Okay,’ he says, voice hoarse. ‘Yeah, uh – of course.’
‘It’s important,’ I manage. ‘There’s this journalist – she messaged me and she probably messaged Marika …’
‘A journalist?’
‘Yeah, uh – something to do with Julian.’
‘Right. Uh – which journalist?’ he asks, and I stare at him. It’s a strange question. Stranger still is the look on his face.
‘Just – it was a journalist who told me about Julian,’ he says haltingly. ‘I didn’t know when we first started talking, but – I might have mentioned you …’
His words become distorted, suddenly. He’s still talking and I’m watching his lips move but I can’t comprehend what he’s saying. It’s like all of the blood in my body has flooded to my head – I stagger backwards, and he moves forward in tandem, presumably to steady me.
‘You told a journalist about me?’ I choke out, throwing up my arm to stop him. He blinks at me, brow crumpling.
‘ No ,’ he says. ‘Not on purpose—’
‘Did you and Marika, like … engineer this? Before you even spoke to me?’
‘Audrey, no. No, it’s not like that at all – it was an accident—’
I’m moving, all of a sudden, striding out of the room and down the hall. I can’t be here – I can’t hear this but Ezra is trailing behind me, still talking, still trying to explain – explain what, though? What could possibly justify this?
‘Audrey – Audrey, I was going to tell you,’ he pleads, still at my heels. ‘I swear, the second we were out of the apartment I was going to tell you what happened.’
‘Why would you tell me what happened?’ I cry, wheeling around. ‘You don’t fucking know ! You don’t – no one knows anything! Anything! ’
I’m screaming. I’m screaming at him, and I want him to scream back – to provoke me into unleashing just a fraction of every awful fucking feeling I’ve been forcing down. But Ezra just stares at me, eyes big and wet and wounded, and I hate him for that. I hate him, and I imagine shoving him, then – seeing shock wipe the pity from his features. My hands twitch –
‘I’m sorry,’ he says brokenly, and the shame is awful and immediate and so much worse than anger. I turn away, wedging my feet into my trainers and grabbing my jacket, feeling a weight in the left pocket – my phone. I forgot it was there, just like I forgot that this wasn’t my life. That Ezra was a stranger.
My fingers close around the door handle, and I’m gone.