Game Girls (15 page)

T
HE VILLA SPRAWLS on the side of a
hill. It is painted white. Vibrant pink flowers
splash colour across the garden. Alix doesn't
want to admit it, but it all looks fantastic.

'I take your bags. You go on in.' Carlos,
who put her in the back of his black Mercedes
for the journey from the airport, and who spent
the drive talking in Italian on his mobile phone,
leaves her at the front door. It springs open
before Alix gets the chance to knock and Mum
is suddenly there underneath the arch, hugging
her and chattering about how wonderful it is
that she's come and how Aaron arrived on the
late flight last night.

Alix can't feel the hug and she doesn't
return it, but she kisses the air beside Mum's
cheek and hopes that will do.

Mum's hair has grown and she's wearing it
loose, which Alix thinks ages her – and she's
put on weight. Alix is scratched by the idea
of Mum gaining weight like this. So what if
she's just given birth? She doesn't have to let
herself go.

The baby isn't in evidence.

'Where is she? I can't wait to see her.' Alix
takes in the cool elegant living space with its
polished wood floor and engraved, elaborate
furniture. She wants to get this first
introduction over with. She's already practised
what she's going to say. Oh, isn't she beautiful.
Congratulations. Look at her tiny hands.

Although she won't be beautiful, of course.

She'll be old walnut wizened and scrunched,
the way newborn babies always are.

'She's upstairs, but she's due to wake. Don't
you want a drink first? Or a look round.'

'No. Honestly.' Get it over with. Get it over
with.

'Come on, then.' Mum beams a smile at her.
'I can't wait for you to see my little Carla.'

Alix follows Mum, who walks painfully up
the polished wood stairs to the landing.
Apparently it was a difficult birth, but Alix
switched off when she was force-fed with all
the details. 'In here,' Mum whispers, pushing
open a dark oak door.

Alix expects Mum to go bustling in,
scooping up My Little Carla and oohing and
aaaahing and making irritating coochy coochy
noises.

She does none of these things. She stands
back, nudging Alix forward.

Alix makes herself walk into the nursery
alone.

At least the floor here is carpeted, and she
can tiptoe towards the crib.

It's a big room – too big for a baby – and
refreshingly cool, with a fan washing out a
humming breeze from the corner. The curtains
are closed and the light is very soft, a muted glow
lying like a film over the cream walls and
curtains.

Alix reaches the crib, and looks in.

My Little Carla is awake.

'Hello there,' Alix makes her voice baby soft
and wonders how long she'll have to keep this
up for. My Little Carla struggles to look up at
her with blinking, unfocused eyes.

Alix stares down at her. Maybe it's just the
way the light gentles the room, but My Little
Carla's skin seems smooth and clear; she has
fine wheat-blonde hair that already has the hint
of a curl, and such a perfect nose. Such a pink
petal mouth. Alix wants to hate her, and can't.

Carla yawns, waving her hands which are
bunched into tight tiny fists.

Alix reaches down to touch one hand,
stroking the perfect miniature fingers. The
baby lies still with the touch, as if she's letting
it soak into her, trying to make sense of this
looming stranger.

As Alix leans in closer she draws in a fresh,
sweet, untainted smell. A smell all baby and
new. Pressing gently against the tiny fist she
feels Carla relax slightly and then tighten her
hold again, this time clinging to Alix's index
finger. The grip is so fierce, so strong. It is as if
this brand new miniature person will never let
her go.

Mum tiptoes up beside her. 'She's got such
tiny hands, hasn't she?'

Alix bites back the stinging reply that says
something about her looking silly with anything
else, and nods. Carla's eyes are still searching
hers, her hold still locked onto her finger.

'I remember standing like this with you. I so
loved watching you. I could stand over you
forever.' Mum is murmuring, gazing down into
the crib.

Alix feels a rushed, 'What happened then?
Why did you stop?' But the accusation locks in
her throat. This isn't the time, or the place.

'I used to talk to you too, and you'd follow
me with your eyes – the way she's doing with
you now.'

Alix feels dazed by Carla's eyes. Such
brilliant blue. 'What sort of things did we talk
about?'

'Oh, I don't know. What Aaron was doing
at playschool that day. What Daddy was up to.
What you wanted to be when you grew up.'

Carla's eyes now move to Mum, the look
deep and intense, as if this is all incredibly
interesting information.

Alix wonders how much babies understand.
Maybe they are born knowing everything.
Maybe life just makes them forget, day by day,
until by the time they can talk all the knowing
is gone and they have to start learning from
scratch again.

'A dancer,' says Mum. 'We talked about
how you wanted to be a dancer. Although if
I'm honest, it was my dream for myself really.
It was me who had wanted to dance. I dropped
out of drama school when I met your dad.'

'You must have been gutted by me then.'
Alix glances sideways at her. 'I hated those
ballet lessons you dragged me to.' She
remembers Mum's various stabs at getting her
to classes. She hadn't minded the dancing – not
when she could be bothered to put her mind to
it – but she'd hated all the sweetly poisonous
little girls fretting their way through grades and
shows and competitions.

Mum smiles. 'No – you haven't wound up
as a dancer, but . . . ' She touches Alix's arm.
'I'm so proud of the way you
have
turned out.'

Alix tries not to flinch.

Mum leans down towards the crib, and Alix
suspects the ooohing and aaahing is probably
about to begin. 'We're proud of your big sister,
aren't we? She's clever. She's independent. And
she's making a success of her life. Not like her
silly mummy.'

Alix glances round the too-big nursery. She
thinks about the sprawling white-washed villa.
She thinks about Carlos is his sleek black
Mercedes. 'You look like you've done all right
to me.'

Mum sighs. 'I married too young. Wrong
man. Wrong dream. It went downhill from
there.'

Alix thinks about this downhill slide. She
finds a long-buried memory of herself, about
four years old in a silly bobbled hat, clinging
uncertainly to some 'Uncle's' arm. Aaron is
next to them with Mum, and the four of them
are sliding, skiing down the side of a mountain.
There was a photograph somewhere, once, but
she doubts if Mum has kept it.

Mum never carries any baggage from the
past.

Carla starts whimpering. Not a cry, but a
protest. You're ignoring me for too long. Alix
thinks maybe she should have done more of
that herself.

'She needs feeding.' Mum is leaning in over
the crib now and Alix steps back, easing her
finger away from Carla's grip.

The cry gets stronger – more of a wail.

Alix thinks, for one mad second, that
perhaps she hadn't wanted her to let go. The
thought gives her a rush of warmth, and she
stands uncertainly, wondering if she should
always be here. Move to Italy. Devote her life
to keeping this beautiful, new half-sister safe.

'Oooops, smells like we need changing now,
too,' coos Mum. 'Mummy will sort you all out.
Mummy will make everything all right.'

She smiles at Alix, and Alix smiles back. She
would like to tell Mum about her life back
home – not to shock her, but to stop her. To
stop her being the same with Carla as she was
with her. And to let her know that she didn't,
for Alix at least, make everything all right.

'What a pong.' A voice at the door stops her.
'Looks like I've chosen a bad moment.'

Alix turns to see Aaron bounding in
towards them. He kisses Mum – a proper lip-against-cheek
kiss. He kisses the soft downy
curls on the back of the wailing Carla's head.
And he hugs Alix, that warm and gentle big
brother hug.

'Great that you made it. Have you seen the
pool yet? It's humongously huge. We ought to
go for a swim.'

Alix glances at Mum, who has moved to the
far side of the room. She is laying the now
screaming Carla on a yellow plastic mat.

'Be with you in a sec,' she says to Aaron. 'I'll
find out where Carlos has put my stuff, and
grab my bikini.' She's going to be there for
Carla – if she ever needs her. She'll move out
here to Italy if she has to. But it's not going to
be yet.

* * *

F
ERN WATCHES Muscles Mick walk
away into the star-bright Saturday night, and
then closes the door.

Earlier, when he started to get rough, she
thought she might have to ring the buzzer, which
she has never done before. None of them have.
But she stopped him from hurting her – she asked
him not to twist her arms above her head, and he
did. He said sorry too, at the end, and he even
looked like he meant it. Sometimes blokes don't
realise what they're doing.

She's noticed that.

She thinks those ones are probably the most
dangerous.

She is bone tired. She should go back
upstairs and shower, and she will in a minute,
but she suddenly isn't sure it will help.

'Dirty girl.' Muscles Mick said this in a way
that made it sound like her being dirty was a
good thing, but all she could hear was Mum's
voice from forever ago. 'Fern – look at you –
you dirty girl – all that mud on your hands,
sweetheart. Let's get you all bathed up and
lovely again.'

She thinks now that Alix has made her
lovely on the outside – or at least lovelier than
she was – but something inside is all smeared
up and soiled.

She walks into the kitchen. She'll get her
usual hot chocolate before she does anything
else. She is longing to sit with it quietly, the mug
cupped in both hands, the taste sweet and hot
and safe. And then she'll find a way to tell Alix
she's had enough. If there are already bookings
for next week, then Fern will come back for
those, but after that, she'll be finished. Alix will
be cross – she'll probably cut her off, but Fern
isn't sure she even cares anymore. She just
doesn't want to keep feeling dirty on the inside.

'Fantastic news.' Alix looks up from sorting
the night's earnings into three neat piles.

Fern feels a moment of panic, scared she is
going to announce there's some new last
minute booking that she wants her to take on.

Courtney, who is sitting at the table
opposite Alix, rubs her eyes and yawns.

'I just had a call through from Aaron –
while you were both upstairs – and we're all
invited to a party. He did mention it when we
were in Italy last week, but I wasn't sure if it
would really happen, so I've been keeping quiet
about it. I didn't want to waste time telling you
if it didn't come off.'

'Count me out.' Courtney shakes her head.
'I'm shattered.'

'It's not tonight. It's in two weeks' time. One
of his mates from university knows this guy
who lives near here, and he's – well – mega
rich. Millionaire. And the party's at his place.
It's one of those huge houses with gardens that
run down to the river.'

'How come we've been invited?' Courtney
studies her nails, which Fern notices are ragged
and bitten.

Alix raises her eyebrows. 'It's simple – his
mate – I don't know who she is – she's trying to
get something going with this millionaire and
she's managed to wangle herself some invites –
but she needs a lift down.'

'And?'

'And Aaron's agreed, but says the deal is
he can bring who he wants – and he thought
as it was so near, we might want it to be us.'

'So is he picking us up from here?'

'I said we could get a taxi but he wants to drive
us and I couldn't push it. He thinks I'm a
struggling student and I can't risk shattering the
illusion.'

'Don't you ever worry someone will shatter
it for you? His mates have sent us enough
custom. What if someone gives him "the
word" one day?'

Alix shakes her head. 'It won't happen. I'm
sure of it. He wouldn't be interested enough to
follow it through.'

'Must be a real gentleman then.' Courtney
gives a sudden, hard laugh.

Fern stands, locked tight in the moment,
listening to the possibility that she will see him
again. She has the sense of something rushing
through her. An ache. A longing. She's not sure
if she's excited, or scared.

Courtney heads for the fridge. 'Why us?
Why doesn't he bring a girl for himself?'

Fern looks from Courtney to Alix.

The answer hangs like an axe over her head.

'He . . . ' Alix hesitates, looking down and
checking something in one of the piles of notes.
'. . . he's between partners at the moment. He's
not with anyone.'

Fern hears this like a song of freedom.

He's not with anyone. He's not with anyone.

All this time, since Alix's party, she has tried
not to let herself think about him. But thoughts,
daydreams, fantasies come drifting up and she is
lost in them before she even realises they've
happened. Sometimes they float in when she is
working in the boathouse. Sometimes they
nudge her at college when she's struggling with
the work. Once they brimmed up out of her,
making her cry as she stood by the river
watching geese fly.

She doesn't understand how it is that an
almost stranger can just scrape past her life and
leave such a mark. A gouge. A scalpel sliced
across soft clay.

'We'll get really glammed up – we'll go
shopping for something special – and we'll
have the weekend off. A night out together.
And . . . ' Alix hesitates again, picking up a ten-pound
note and blowing it a kiss. She lays it
back on the pile a small smile on her lips.
'. . .who knows who we might meet? Who
knows what contacts we might make for the
future?'

Fern waits for Courtney to take a can of Coke
from the fridge, and then gets out the milk. She
finds the mug and the hot chocolate amongst the
muddle in Alix's cupboards. Pulling out a
saucepan, she pours in the milk and lights the gas.
She can't tell Alix about giving up now. Not for
two weeks. She can't risk being dropped from the
invitation.

She has to at least see him. He's chosen her
and Courtney and Alix to go somewhere
special with him, and it might mean something.
It might be a complicated way for him to get to
see
her
again. She knows it's madness to think
like this – but it's a chance she can't just let go.

The milk bubbles up, boiling sooner than
she'd expected. She makes the drink all creamy
and steaming, and sits down at the table with
the others. She sips it and it's too hot – burning
her tongue, but she hardly notices.

If he
does
want to see her – if he shows
her he's interested again – at least she's learnt
something these last six months. At least
she'll know what to do.

* * *

Alix watches through the window as Courtney
and Fern arrive, both in taxis that pull up at the
same time.

She goes out to greet them. 'You look
fantastic,' she smiles.

'I hate this. It feels too tight.' Courtney
smoothes the black dress down round her hips,
and picks irritably at the low cut neckline
before following Alix inside.

'You look great too, Alix.' Fern hurries in
behind them. She is in a thin-strapped cream
dress, her hair crimped, a butterfly hair slide
pinning it back just above one ear.

One of the straps has slipped down over her
shoulder and Alix hoists it up again for her as
they stand in the hall. 'Keep your back straight.
They won't do that then,' she whispers.

Fern nods and bites her lip. Her eyes are
wide, anxious. Alix thought she might have
toughened up lately, but maybe that's
impossible. She's asked Aaron to keep an eye on
her again, and she hopes he remembers. She
might be a pain but she gets a lot of 'regs'. She
does better than Courtney most days.

'These are the pashminas – the shawls I
ordered in from The Dress Agency.' She lifts
three soft tissue parcels from beside the door
and makes her voice sound sales-lady posh as
she hands them out. 'Black with a cobwebby
silver weave for the dark-eyed diva, and sweet
butter cream yellow for the girl with the
gorgeous
hair.'

'Ladies, ladies.' Aaron appears at the top of
the stairs. Dark jacket. Silk cravat. The silk
cravat is undone. 'Excuse the state of undress,'
he grins as he moves towards them. 'I can never
get these beggars right.'

'Leave it like that then.' Alix's own dress is
just above knee-length, emerald-green silk, a
long thigh-length slit down one side. She has a
Dress Agency bag to match, her own green silk
pashmina, and silver stilettos that are a shoe
fetish guy's dream – although she's not going to
be working tonight. Scouting, yes – but working
– no. 'An undone cravat is more sexy anyway.'

'Then undone it shall remain.' Aaron turns,
offering his arm to Fern. 'Ladies, as your
official driver for the night, I shall escort you to
the car. I've already dropped Daisy off, so I
know where we're headed.'

Fern blushes. Takes his arm. Alix and
Courtney follow on behind. Minutes later they
are in Aaron's Saab, driving through the
evening. People are out cycling, walking dogs,
standing chatting.

The air is muggy with a heavy, weighted
warmth.

'It's so beautiful.' Fern is in the front seat,
looking from side to side. 'Look at the sky. It's
a sort of dusty lilac.'

Alix doesn't care about the dusted lilac sky.
She is thinking about Carla. It's curious, the effect
the baby has had on her. Mum sent her a photo
and she's stuck it on the fridge. It's incredible how
much she's grown, even in such a short time. She
comes into her head at all sorts of odd hours –
even when she's with a guy, which is never the
ideal moment. It is as if something has struck up
between them that she can't cut free from. In fact,
she doesn't even want to.

They drive over the bridge and into the quiet
lanes that run along the edge of the river – Fern's
shabby guesthouse lies on the other side, where
the shore is muddy and washed up with all sorts
of muck. This side is very different.

Aaron whistles. 'Look at these houses. This
lot must be dripping in gold.'

'I think it's sick.' Courtney folds her arms
and slumps back in the seat. 'Some of these are
even second homes. Having that much money
is grotesque.'

Alix glances at Courtney and wishes she'd
sat in the front, away from her. She looks out
at the luxurious, detached houses, and they
seem to taunt her. One day she wants to be
living in a world like this – not around here,
but somewhere where no one will recognise
her. Only it's going to take a lot more clients,
and
a new business plan, to get there.

Everything is great as it is, for the life she's
living now, but it won't be enough. Not for
much longer.

Maybe she could get in more girls? If she
upped her own percentage, and tripled the
income, she could just reserve her favours for
special occasions. Special guys. Maybe guys
like the ones she's going to meet tonight.

'This is it, ladies.' Aaron turns the car into a
long sweeping drive, crammed up with
Morgans and Porsches and BMWs.

Pushing the business dilemma to one side,
Alix gets out of the car and stares up at the house.

'Wow.' Fern is goggle-eyed. Entranced. 'It's
amazing. A real film star's palace.'

Alix turns to Aaron as he fires his key at the
Saab door, and then scrunches across the gravel
to stand with them. 'Your friend seems to have
picked herself a winner,' she smiles. And then
she spots the peacock-blue Ferrari.

* * *

Fern leans back on the bench, Alix's pashmina
wrapping her against the evening. She doesn't
need it. It's a warm night – the heat of the day
still choking the air. But Aaron has tucked the
pashmina round her. Sat next to her. Has his
arm stretched along the ornate iron back rest.

The cocktail is sweet strawberry, iced, and
with real fruit floating in the top.

She sips it, making herself savour it slowly,
reminding herself that behind its pink
innocence it's probably laced with brandy or
tequila or some other liquid demon that wants
to addle up her head. She doesn't want that.
She doesn't want addling. And anyway, it's
Aaron she's drunk on. Aaron spinning her
world around. He hasn't left her side, and
tonight is a cocktail of magic and dreams.

'It's an amazing place. I've lived in Long
Cove forever, and I've never been in any of the
houses round here. It's another world, isn't it?'
She struggles to keep talking, determined to
sound confident.

'Absolutely. Yes,' says Aaron.

'I can't imagine what it's like to live
somewhere like this though. Can you?'

'Absolutely not,' says Aaron.

'Would you even want to?'

'Absolutely probably,' says Aaron. And
laughs.

She laughs too, a thrill skimming her. They
are laughing together.

She sips more sweet strawberry and
wonders if she should put her hand on his leg.
And then she thinks it might be too soon. He's
got his arm along the back of the bench but
he's not actually touching her. She risks leaning
into him slightly, noticing that he doesn't move
away. 'I love those glass sculptures – those lilies
or whatever they are. They're lovely – but
strange.' She sips more cocktail and squints
towards a small pond, where organic-shaped
ornaments are lit by a dance of coloured lights.

'Surreal,' he says.

She's not sure what the word means so she
stays quiet, finding the courage to rest her head on
his shoulder. It feels so natural. So right. She
wants to find a way to tell him he could kiss her.
Wisps of music thread down through the garden
behind them. She thinks of the music as strings of
colour, crisscrossing the night. Disembodied
voices pass, murmuring. Someone – a woman –
shrieks, then giggles.

They've been quiet for too long. She needs
to get him talking again. Shifting slightly, so
that she is facing him, she asks brightly, 'What
university is it that you're at?'

'Sussex.' He doesn't look back at her, but
stays staring out across the pond where a small
fountain is showering silver into the silky
water. 'Near Brighton.'