AUDREY
‘ I S THERE ANYTHING ELSE THAT YOU WANT TO ASK ME ?’
Demi meets my gaze as she says that, and her wording strikes me as oddly formal. Maybe because this whole thing has felt so distinctly un -formal, until now.
To passers-by, we probably look like two friends catching up over coffee – she was here when I arrived, sitting at a corner table in a cute pink boilersuit. I recognised her from social media. I spent hours poring over her feed last night, as if knowing where she went on holiday last summer might make this less terrifying. But she spotted me before I could second-guess myself, raising a hand in greeting. After the introductions she complimented my jeans and that was that – we were talking. Everything felt totally normal until the part where she reached for her phone and asked if it was okay if she started recording. And I said yes, because it was.
‘Um – I don’t think so,’ I reply. ‘I can’t think of anything.’
She nods, tapping at her phone – the recording ends with a beep, and she meets my eyes.
‘I’m really glad you came here today,’ she says softly. ‘I’m glad you felt like you could talk to me. But I know that this is a lot, and if you change your mind …’
‘I won’t,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m sure about this. All of it.’
‘Well – things are moving quickly, but I’ll make sure you see the article before it’s published. You can let me know if there’s anything you’d prefer to be omitted. And we won’t be using your name.’
‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘I mean – is that worth it? Miranda will know it’s me, still.’
‘Are you worried about that?’
‘No. I mean – I guess she might try and blacklist me, but I don’t really care at this point,’ I say, dropping my gaze. ‘Maybe having my real name attached to the things I’m saying might give them more … credence.’
‘That’s brave of you.’
‘Not really,’ I say, discomfited. ‘I’m sure there’re worse stories than mine. Like – objectively …’
‘Objectively, he assaulted you,’ Demi says evenly. ‘And you should recognise it as that, because I don’t doubt that he does. But he did it anyway because he didn’t imagine for a second that there would be consequences.’
I blink at Demi, my heart pounding. Hearing her lay it out so bluntly – it’s terrifying, but God, it’s such a relief. To be reassured that I’m not overreacting, not being dramatic – I needed it so badly and I didn’t even realise.
‘I can understand wanting to downplay it,’ she continues. ‘Like if you can somehow make it smaller, you can make it matter less.’
‘Right,’ I say, exhaling shakily. ‘That’s it. Totally.’
‘But it matters – every story I’ve heard and every person who’s told them. And if you feel strongly about me using your name, I will.’
‘But you don’t want to?’
‘No,’ she says after a beat. ‘Pieces like this – they have a way of provoking very strong reactions. It can get ugly, and I’d prefer to shield you from as much of that as possible. It’s not to say that people you know won’t recognise you, because they might – especially anyone who knows about your connection to the upcoming campaign. But it’ll protect you from wider public scrutiny.’
I nod. A part of me is relieved to still have some control over who does and doesn’t know what happened.
‘Another thing – I won’t be able to print any of what you’ve told me about Miranda,’ Demi says solemnly. ‘I should tell you that you’re not the only one with a story about her, but without any proof, Soil just doesn’t have the resources to handle a defamation suit. They’d sink us out of spite.’
‘But … you have proof about Julian?’
Demi nods wordlessly, and relief floods over me.
‘Everyone in the office is working overtime on this. The article could be live by the end of the week.’
‘Are you worried?’ I blurt out. ‘About things getting ugly, I mean.’
‘Sure.’ She nods, leaning back in her chair. ‘Sometimes it feels like the more I care about a piece, the bigger the backlash. It can get scary, but I’ve never regretted it. Can’t let the fuckers get you down, you know?’
‘I think you’re the brave one,’ I tell her sincerely, and she smiles.
‘We can both be brave, I think,’ she says. ‘That’s allowed.’
When I messaged Marika to ask if I could see her today, I figured that she’d probably wonder what brought on my sudden change of heart. But she only wanted to know where to meet me, and what time, which is how I come to find her in the biography section of a Lower East Side bookstore, a stack of hardbacks balanced casually on her hip. Typical Marika, making book shopping look like a high-fashion editorial.
‘Found anything good?’ I ask lightly, and she turns to look at me. For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then she unceremoniously dumps the books on to a stool and rushes forward, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug. Tears sting my eyes as her hair tickles my cheek – I’ve missed her more than I thought possible.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, voice muffled. ‘I’m so sorry. I should have …’
‘There’s nothing you could have—’
‘No, I should have come to you right away. I just wanted to be wrong; I wanted Ezra to be wrong.’
‘I’m sorry too. Everything I said … I didn’t mean it. And I never wanted to lie, I just—’
‘I should have known. And his studio, I – Audrey, I should have stayed—’
‘ No ,’ I say seriously, stepping back and putting my hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s not on you. It’s not on either of us, okay?’
Marika nods, lips pressed tightly together, eyes shining – she’s on the verge of tears, I realise, and if she starts crying …
‘We don’t have to talk about it all right now,’ I say quickly, voice wavering. ‘Tell me what’s new with you, okay? Please?’
Marika takes a second to compose herself, raising her eyes to the ceiling and blinking rapidly as she lets out a long, drawn-out exhale. Then-
‘Switzerland.’
‘Switzerland?’ I echo. She nods.
‘I booked a shoot there,’ she says haltingly. ‘It’s a campaign for a watch brand. Imogene called to tell me this morning. And it’s a long flight, so …’
She gestures vaguely to her abandoned pile of books, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
‘That’s amazing.’ I smile. ‘And … it’s a big brand?’
She seems to hesitate, then nods – of course it’s big. They’re flying her out to Switzerland – how could it be anything but? This is a huge deal, and though she’s trying to be modest, we both know that this could be it – the big, life-changing job that catapults her up into the stratosphere. And she deserves it. This, and every other incredible thing coming her way, which is why it’s easy to ignore the tiny little pit of loss in my stomach. Because I don’t know when I’ll see her after this. It’s another goodbye, only this time I’m on the receiving end.
It hurts. But right now, I only want my friend to know how happy I am for her.
‘That’s incredible .’ I beam. ‘Take pictures of everything, okay? I want to hear all about it.’
‘I will,’ she says, offering a wan smile. ‘Leaving feels weird, though. We’ve been here so long. Or – not so long, but …’
‘Long enough for it to matter,’ I conclude and something flickers behind Marika’s eyes.
‘Yeah,’ she says softly. Then, after a beat, ‘Are you hungry?’
I’m starving, it turns out, and so we take a table at a kitschy-looking diner nearby. It’s our last supper, we decide, so we go all out – hot dogs with relish, salty shoestring fries, vanilla milkshakes so thick that it’s a struggle to suck them through our straws. We eat it all, and we sit together for a long time after we’re done, huddled in a booth beside a window. I finally tell Marika everything that happened, and it’s different from when I talked to Demi. There’s no distance. She doesn’t ask questions – I’m monologuing, and I find myself going in circles, stumbling over words. I inevitably start to cry at one point, and when Marika wordlessly hands me a napkin, I see that she’s crying too. It cuts me to the bone, and I wonder if there’ll ever be a place for all this pain to go. It’s not fair that she should have to feel it too.
We order coffee afterwards and drink it slowly, sleepily. Hesitantly, Marika tells me that she’s scared to leave. Scared of losing momentum, scared of being forgotten. She doesn’t mention Nicole specifically, but I tell her that even a passer-by on the street would struggle to forget her, let alone a girl who’s so obviously in love. She smiles, then, and the way that the dying sun lights up her face – I’m suddenly so aware that this will all be a memory soon.
But a good one, in spite of it all. Something to hold on to.