Game Girls (11 page)

The bag nearest to her is printed with a
daisy pattern. Fern breaks the neat lip of tape
that kisses the top edges together and lifts out
a parcel of lilac tissue. The white top is a thin
crepe fabric, soft and light. When Fern slips her
hand inside, the crepe makes her skin muzzy.
There's a silken white bra with it too – 'You
need something strapless' – and matching
knickers that Alix said were French. In the next
bag is a box with high strappy shoes and a
white gypsy skirt. Inside the smallest bag are
stockings and suspenders that she isn't sure
how to put on.

'Practise at home,' Alix told her. 'Learn to
do it quickly. You might sometimes want to
make a quick change.'

Standing now, Fern wrestles herself out of
her jeans and jumper, changes into the new
silky underwear, and then puts on the
suspender belt. It is white lace with a pale blue
bow at the front, and the stockings are cream.
The belt itches a bit, and the stockings don't
pull on straight the first time, so she has to
untwist them and start again. She fumbles with
the straps on the belt. It's hard to get them
straight too. She's never going to master the
'quick change', and although she twists round
she can't get an angle on the back view
properly, so she can't see what they look like
from there.

She picks out the high strappy shoes instead.
They're white too – even higher than the ones
she wore on the Khaki Steve Disaster day, but
at least she's not going to have to run in them.

She slips them on.

Taking her first steps, she wobbles across
the carpet to the other side of the room. Then
she wobbles back again. Across and back.
Across and back. She walks slowly, one leg
slightly crossing the other, trying to move in the
way models do.

She still wants to know how she looks.
There is a long mirror in the guest bathroom,
and none of the guests are in. Dad's asleep and
Mum won't be back till five. She opens her
door and does the leg-crossing model walk out
into the hall.

The guest bathroom smells of soft lavender
and the sharp tang of toilet cleaner.

She can't get the full effect in the mirror
because the room is too cramped, so she steps
back as far as she can. She has to press against the
wall, squinting at the reflection, which is from the
neck down because there still isn't room for her
face. She's not sure about the stockings – she
doesn't understand why Alix was so insistent that
she got some – but it's the shoes that really startle
her. They stretch her legs on and on and it makes
her think about the Hall of Mirrors in the small
fair that sets up in Long Cove every bank holiday
in August.

Strange.

A stranger.

And she thinks, strangely, that she likes this
long-legged faceless stranger.

She swivels sideways, watching the way her
body moves one way and then the other. Her
mind gropes for a word to describe herself.
Fantastic? No. Alix went too far with that. She
swivels again. Normal. That's how she looks.
Without her boggle-eyed, deer-scared face this
could be any teenage girl's body. This could be
someone that people wanted to be friends with.

* * *

Alix always makes it easy. But clear. They are
sitting on the side of her 'love nest' bed and she
smiles at him; takes his hand. He has L.O.V.E.
L.U.C.Y. along the backs of his knuckles. She
traces each letter with her finger. 'I've just got
to settle a few details with you first.' Her voice
purrs, as if she's telling him he's gorgeous,
fantastic, she's so glad he's here. 'You need to
wear protection. That means we both stay safe.
And you have to pay before we start. We
agreed the price on the phone, didn't we?'

He nods, pulling out his wallet and handing
her the notes.

She takes the money, counts it, and leans
past him to put it in the drawer. Fern and
Courtney's clients always pay downstairs – that
way she knows it's happened. She doesn't trust
either of them – but especially Fern – to be able
to make guys settle up in advance. Not once
they're with them in the room.

She glances at the clock, then edges closer to
him. He has a stubbled chin and strong,
muscled arms. There is something 'builderish'
about him, she decides. She can picture him out
drinking; singing and swearing, swaggering
loudly with a gang of mates. In here, now, he is
as meek as a puppy. 'Is there anything special
that you'd like?'

He swallows. 'Just – you know – straight,
thanks.'

So straight he will get. She has already
learnt that sometimes it takes them a couple of
visits before they start being honest. That's fine
with her. A couple of visits is a good business
record, as far as she's concerned. And if he
wanted anything drastically different it would
cost him more anyway, so it's best to build that
in slowly.

This guy doesn't make much eye contact,
but they all vary. She tries to care about each
one. For thirty minutes she can be whoever
they need her to be. Gentle. Wild. Wicked.
Sweet. Understanding. Pliant. Stubborn.
Controlling. Controlled. It's just like acting – a
series of mini plays where she directs,
produces, and performs the main part.

Sometimes they don't want anything much.

One guy, last week, just came to be held.

Now she unbuttons her blouse – buttons are
usually better than zips – she can make
undoing buttons into more of a show. She's
wearing fun undies – red silk with bits of white
fluff. She got a set for Courtney and Fern too –
ordered them from the internet. It's a
concession to mark the fact that it's Christmas
next week, although she's not sure that
Courtney is entering into the spirit of the whole
thing. She hasn't even taken hers out of the box
yet. Christmas. Bloody Christmas. Alix still
can't decide what she's going to do. Perhaps
she'll get away somewhere hot? Perhaps they
could all go? She just fancies turkey on the
beach.

She lets him explore her, unbuttoning his
shirt at the same time. Pulling it off him, she
leans her head against his exposed chest.
'You're gorgeous. Fantastic.'

His hands keep searching. More urgent. She
can feel him shaking behind the touch, and she
smiles slightly. 'I'm so glad you're here.'

They get locked into a kind of sitting down
tussle. He paws at her clothes. She removes him
from his.

He smells a bit. Stale sweat and last night's
curry. She'll have to use the air freshener when
he's gone.

Smiling up at him, she puts her hands on his
shoulders and pushes him onto the bed.

'Mmmmm, that's nice. You're gorgeous.'
She sits astride him, rocking, sliding one hand
down between his legs. He is looking at her but
his eyes have grown clouded and unfocused.

She knows she could be anyone. 'Fantastic.'

She glances at the clock. 'I'm so glad you're
here.'

* * *

'You working all day?'

Courtney shakes her head, her scalp prickly
with the crown of tinsel she has forced down
over it. She hands the bloke the packets of
batteries that apparently didn't get provided
with his son's remote control car. 'We finish at
two.'

The bloke winks at her, takes his receipt.
'Half an hour left. Well – you've been an angel.
We'd have had tears all over the turkey if you
hadn't been open. Merry Christmas.'

'Merry Christmas.'

As well as the scraggy halo of tinsel,
Courtney is wearing a flashing Christmas tree
brooch underneath her Easi Shop name badge.
That's as much as she is prepared to do.

'You should leave,' Alix had said, looking
up from cramming her suitcase full of skimpy
tops and bikinis and suntan lotion. 'You could
come with me then. It's not like you couldn't
afford it.'

But Courtney can't afford it – she can't
afford questions. Suspicion. Easi Shop is the
best explanation she's got for the new clothes
(they're all second-hand, Mum – there's a shop
in The Lanes that does it) or all the toys and
trainers and gadgets she keeps bringing home
for the boys. (I get them cheap through work –
they run a sort of warehouse catalogue.)

And anyway, she's not going to do what
she's doing with Alix and Fern forever. Not
once college finishes and she moves away. And
she's going to need a reference then – from a
job that hasn't involved her lying on her back
and panting.

'Any fresh double cream?' A middle-aged
woman races in as if she's being chased.

'Sorry, we've only got tinned left now. You
could try Texaco. I think they're open all day.'

The woman humphs in exasperation, looks
at her watch, then races away again.

'Merry Christmas,' Courtney calls after her.

The door rattles slightly as it slams.

Courtney tidies the counter, sprays it with
Anti Bact.

An impeccably dressed couple come in.
'We're lost.' The woman has on pearly-pink
lipstick to match her lamb's-wool jacket. 'Do
you do maps?' Courtney directs them down
Aisle Four and watches in the security mirror as
they pore over the
Long Cove and District Street
Finder
, making notes on the back of a folded
envelope. They leave without buying anything.

'Merry Christmas.'

'Merry Christmas.'

'Well – I reckon that's it.' Barry Ludd comes
through from the stock room and goes over to
lock the door. He is wearing a ridiculous green
headband with red plastic antlers springing up
out of it. He's got quite a wide head and
Courtney thinks the headband must pinch his
skin.

She folds the cleaning cloth and places the
Anti Bact back neatly on the shelf under the
till.

A car screeches up. Someone – Courtney
can't see who – bangs on the door. Barry Ludd
shakes his head. 'Closed,' he mouths.

The someone Courtney can't see shouts,
'Effing bastard!' in through the letterbox.

Barry Ludd follows Courtney down the
aisles and through to the stock room, turning
off the lights in the main shop as they leave.
'Are you in tomorrow?'

'Yep. Morning shift again.' Courtney
answers him without turning round, already
unbuttoning her overall. She folds it neatly,
slipping it into its carrier bag. As she reaches to
take down her jacket from the hook above, she
realises he is still behind her. Close behind her.

She half turns, and tries to smile at him. She
doesn't like him, but she's been feeling sorry for
him, working Christmas morning. He's in his
thirties and he lives with his mum and she's
sure that, like her, he probably prefers to be out
than in – even out somewhere like Easi Shop.
He's given her a Christmas present too – a box
of chocolates. She's been feeling guilty about
that, even though she knows they were on
special offer last week. It didn't even occur to
her to get him anything.

'I'd like a word,' he says quietly.

She realises he isn't quite looking at her. He is
staring past her left ear, at the wall. He is still
very close.

Courtney wonders if he's going to sack her
and she closes her eyes. A silent prayer. No
please, please don't sack me. I do all the
rubbish shifts. All the hours no one else wants.
Don't sack me please.

'I know what you're up to,' he says.

Her eyes open. Widen. What does he think
he knows? She's never nicked anything from
here – not even a packet of chewing gum. She'd
never risk that work reference. 'Honestly.' Her
eyes search his face and he's still not looking at
her. 'I'm not up to anything.'

'You and your mate. The slag who comes in
here to see you sometimes.' The word 'slag'
seems to tremble as he spits it out. She can see he
is shaking.

'Wh . . .what do you mean?'

'I know people who know people. I've been
hearing stories.'

Courtney has always known that it was
only a matter a time before the wrong person
got 'the word'. 'It doesn't matter,' Alix said,
when Courtney tried to talk to her about it. 'If
someone we knew ever showed up at the door,
what could they say? Just the fact they'd
showed up would implicate them. They'd want
to keep it quiet just as much as we would.'

'I want some.' Barry Ludd's voice is hoarse
and strange. He is looking at her now, nodding
at her, the red plastic reindeer antlers swaying.
'Think of it as my Christmas present.'

He pushes her against the shelves. There is
the roll and clatter of things falling. Forcing
one leg in between hers he wrestles her to the
floor, and then there is only his rasped
breathing as he takes what he wants. Courtney
stares over his shoulder, counting out the cans
of tomatoes that are stacked against the
opposite wall.

* * *

A
LIX DIGS HER FEET in the sand,
scooping up handfuls and sprinkling it down
over her toes. She'll lie out again in a minute,
but it's cooler than she'd thought it was going
to be. It's windier too and she has goose bumps
on her arms.

She could have gone to Italy of course –
'Darling, you
must
come for Christmas.' Aaron
is there even though she'd tried to bribe him to
be with her instead.

'Gran Canaria? But Mum wants us with her.
She'd be gutted if we did that. And even more
hurt if we asked her to pay for it.'

'She doesn't need to know. And I'll pay.'

'With what?' He'd laughed at her, so
suddenly innocent, a hundred years younger
than her now.

She thinks of Mum and her bulging belly,
and the image makes her cringe. There was
no way she was going out to Tuscany for
Christmas. Mum thinks she's at Fern's but
she's told her not to ring because the phone
might wake Fern's dad. 'He's in a bad way,'
she said. 'I'll call you on my mobile.'

'My legs ache
so
much,' Mum sighed. 'The
extra weight. I'll send you a picture of the latest
scan . . . '

Alix cut her off then. She does that a lot.
Mum never rings back.

There are other people on the beach – a
honeymoon couple from the same hotel. They
are holding hands, paddling in the sea. They
have a glow around them – an invisible circle
that cuts out the rest of the world. Alix would
like to catch the husband alone in the lift.

There are oldies too, all leg veins and
cellulite. There should be laws about baggy-skinned
women in bikinis.

Sitting near her – too near – is a family.
Mum and dad. Two boys. A pin-thin girl. The
pin-thin girl is grizzling, whining that she has
sand in her eyes. The mum rubs the girl's closed
lids with a towel. 'No, Mummy. No. It hurts, it
hurts.'

'Take her back to the hotel.' The moustached
dad is angry. The whole holiday is a painful
chore.

Alix slid glances his way all through
breakfast. He seemed distant – shut out from
all the others. Just once, he looked her way. She
held the look and saw him warming. Stirring. It
was like watching someone come out of a deep
sleep.

She'll have to move in a minute. The
grizzling is annoying. No, Mummy. No.

She remembers another Christmas – years
and years ago – they were staying at some
'Uncle's' house, helping him pin cards among
the wreathes of holly on the wall. Stepping
backwards, a sting of pain had stabbed the sole
of her bare foot. When he'd seen the drawing
pin, the round head flat against her skin, Aaron
had gone white and screamed. But Alix didn't
cry. The 'Uncle' wrenched the pin out with
tweezers and when it was finished Mum
promised her an extra present for being so
brave. She forgot, of course, but Alix hadn't
minded too much. She had been proud of the
braveness. Proud of not annoying the 'Uncle'.
Proud of always managing to be the way Mum
wanted her to be.

The family with the grizzling girl walk
away, heading back towards the hotel. The
boys kick sand sullenly. 'Don't do that.' The
moustached dad is striding ahead, glaring back
over his shoulder. 'We'll ALL end up with the
bloody stuff in our eyes.'

Alix watches them go, their footprints
weaving a straggled path along the beach.

She oils her body, straightens her towel, lies
back. She'll have to brave the wind so she can at
least go home with a tan. Courtney and Fern
couldn't believe she'd do a last minute deal like
this on her own, but it was her best option. It was
either really having to do Christmas Day at Fern's
– the offer had at least been true – or sitting it out
alone in her house. Courtney was working in the
morning, and said Christmas afternoon belonged
to her brothers. It wasn't a choice, she'd said. Just
one of those once a year essentials. Alix has
noticed before, that Courtney will do anything
for her brothers. She has filed this information
away in her head. Knowledge like that can be
useful sometimes.

She closes her eyes, the red heat of the sun
swimming under her lids.

'Hello. I join you?' She blinks her eyes open
again, squinting up.

It's Stephan or Stefano or something, one of
the waiters from the hotel.

He's handsome in that pretty Spanish-boy
way. Dark eyes. Curling lashes.

'You holiday on own?'

She smiles at him, shading her eyes so she
can see him properly. 'I needed a break. I've
been working hard.'

'What job you do?'

Her hair blows across her face and she pushes
it back, considering her answer. 'Student,' she
says at last.

'I student too. I study Madrid. Christmas
here just for money.'

She nods and smiles again and he smiles back.
His smile is beautiful. Wide and warm. A million
girls would fall in love with him immediately.

'I take you out tonight,' he says. 'I buy for
you some special Christmas meal?'

Dark eyes. Curling lashes. So sweet. So
gorgeous.

A million girls, but she doesn't feel anything
for him. She has stopped feeling anything for
guys. She gazes back at them, and works out
how much they might be prepared to pay.

She doesn't do this with the pretty Spanish
boy now though. She knows these waiters
scrape and bow to get their hard-earned euros,
and they're not going to part with it for a bit of
fun with her. Anyway, it's too risky – things
could get nasty if he turned her down and the
hotel manager found out what she'd been
offering.

And besides, she doesn't need it.

She's already busy tonight. She's got an
agreement with a bearded American whose
pale, freckled wife always has to go to bed
early.

* * *

Fern sits by the tree, the fairy lights twinkling,
glittering the room.

Mum is in the hall, on the phone to Gramps,
and Dad is asleep in the chair.

The television flickers out the annual film
which she never watches because she can't sit
and concentrate on anything for that long.

The day has been everything that's safe.

Presents by the bed. Presents under the tree.
Crackers and turkey and a Christmas pudding
that Dad poured brandy onto and then made
magic with a ghost blue flame.

She has loved it. She would like to hold it
here, in this moment, and play it back over and
over again and never have anything else
happen.

Outside, their house is wrapped in a soft
grey mist that cotton wools them in.

There is a scatter of pine needles across the
carpet, and she thinks she should get up and get
the vacuum cleaner to sort it out for Mum, but
not yet. Not just yet. Just beside her is a fallen
bauble – one of the timeless silver ones they
unwrap from mist soft cotton wool each year.
She lifts it gently, holding it by its tail of cotton
and letting it swing. It has caught the room in its
silver dome and she sees herself in it, very small,
distorted.

In the chair behind her, Dad snores. Once
she would have thrown cushions at him, and
he would have woken and grumbled, and then
laughed and thrown them back.

Now she is glad he is sleeping. Glad of the
rhythm of grunted sound. Just glad he is there
at all.

She's been so cross with him lately – with
both of them, slamming doors and shouting
and staying out late even though she knows
Mum can't bear it. Today she feels different.
Today she feels an ache for them as she thinks
about the way she's been.

She brings the bauble closer, holding it
between two fingers now to stop the swinging.

The small distorted reflection stares out at
her, a yellow paper crown that Fern had
forgotten she was wearing skewed untidily on
her head. Fern thinks that maybe there is
another world in the thin-silvered glass. Maybe
the skewed-crown girl looking out is as real as
Fern is. Maybe she is thinking Fern is the
distorted reflection.

Outside, the mournful voices of foghorns
muffle across the mist.

'Mince pies?' Mum pushes her head around
the door.

Fern nods, kneeling forward and looping
the tail of cotton back onto the branches of the
tree, a new rain of needles rattling down. 'That
would be great, Mum. Thanks.'

The silver bauble trembles, touched now by
the colours from the fairy lights. A world
where it is always magic. Always Christmas.

Fern thinks about the girl inside, and wishes
she could swap.

* * *

The bearded American is short and round. He
arrives at her room with a bottle of sparkling
wine and a bouquet of flowers. The flowers are
red. Velvet petals. Fragranced. Alix doesn't ask
how he got them past his wife.

He has even remembered a corkscrew.
'You've done this before,' teases Alix.

'I reckon maybe you have too.' He speaks
with a soft slow drawl.

She has dressed up for him. A piercingly
blue sundress. Matching blue gemstone necklace
and heavy hooped earrings. High high
shoes. She smiles at him again and holds out
two glasses from the tray beside her bed.

He pours the wine and it fizzes out, trickling
onto her thumb.

She licks it off slowly, watching him
watching her. Then she raises her glass.

'Happy Christmas.' He's paid extra. Her
Christmas bonus to herself.

'Happy Christmas.'

She pats the bed beside her. 'Just come and sit
by me. I've got to settle a few details with you
first.'

He nods, listens, his head on one side as if
she is explaining a long list of symptoms.

'Sure,' he nods. He pays her in euros.

She slips the notes under the tray,
wondering whether she'll spend them all
here, or have them changed when she gets
home. She turns her back to him and looks at
him over her shoulder. 'Could you unbutton
my dress?'

'Sure.' he leans towards her and kisses her
neck.

'Mmmmm. You're gorgeous. Fantastic.
What would you like me to do?'

'Why don't we take a bath together?'

'Mmmmm. Wonderful idea. Just give me a
minute while I get it lovely and warm for us.'
She kisses him deeply and then draws away,
running a bath full of silvery bubbles. 'Our
186
very own pool of magic,' she whispers as she
comes back out, taking his hand and leading
him through into the steaming room.

It is later, as he is buttoning back up his shirt,
that he pauses and looks at her. 'You might have
done it before,' he says, 'but you're still pretty
new. There are things you should learn.'

'What sort of things?' Alix is propped
against the pillows, feeling film star exotic in a
new silk robe that she bought from the local
town. In fact – she bought three. The other two
are presents for Courtney and Fern.

She can't decide whether to be offended, or
curious, about what he's just said.

He leans across, touches the necklace, and
then the earrings. 'You should steer clear of
these. And these.'

She puts her hand to her throat, her fingers
over his. 'Why?'

'Think about it.' He twists the beads
slightly. 'Just think.'

Alix feels the tightening pressure on her
throat. She stares at him, and swallows hard.
'No one's ever tried to hurt me.' Her voice grows
tense. No soft purring or sexy giggles now.

He drops his hand away, but his eyes rove
over her, examining the detail. 'Those earrings
would rip through your lobes in a struggle.
That belt on your robe – someone could
strangle you with it. You're asking for trouble.
There's some real hard-nut psychos out there.'

She edges away from him, iced fear closing
her in. Maybe he's really Fern's worst
nightmare. Maybe he has hidden an axe
amongst the blood-red bouquet.

He stands up and buttons his fly, and his voice
is suddenly tired. 'You've gotta take more care.'

She reaches for her wine, trying to keep her
voice calm. 'With what?'

'First thing – there's diseases. You can catch
stuff – real bad stuff.'

'I never let anyone do anything without a
condom.'

He reaches for his socks. 'Make sure you keep
it like that. Herpes and Aids are incurable –
although even condoms aren't one hundred per
cent. Sometimes they split. But there's other stuff
too. Always make your clients at least wash their
hands. Maybe even get them to take a bath, like
we did just now. That way you'll be sure they're
clean. They can still carry bacteria on their
fingers. And that's the side of it you can control.'

'What about . . . the other side?'

'Girls getting themselves roughed up.
Raped. Sometimes it's just been the bodies. You
don't ever know who is buying your time – or
what the guy really wants for his cash.'

Alix watches him lace his shoes as he talks.
The wine tastes flat, all the sparkle gone. What
does he mean by 'the bodies'? Do murderers
put their shoes on before they lunge?
He double knots his laces and rubs the back
of his hand against his bearded chin. 'Let's start
with your hotel door – look at it.'

She looks. 'What about it?'

'You've left the key-card on the wall beside
it. How d'you know I won't sneak off with it
when I leave – and let myself back in later?'

'I . . . '

'And you've been happily drinking wine
with me. What if I'd spiked it? I could've had
you unconscious in five minutes.'

Alix puts the empty glass down onto the
bedside table. Her hand is shaking. No one
even knows he's in here with her. Will the hotel
check if she doesn't go down for breakfast?
Will she make the front page of the papers back
home?

He stands up, checks his face in the mirror,
and turns back to her.

She is sitting very still, hands clenched,
wondering how quickly she could grab the
internal phone and scream for help.