Game Girls (17 page)

He has walked in from outside and he
touches her arm as she turns to face him.

'Hi,' she smiles, feeling awkward with her
Dress Agency bag and pashmina. She should
have got someone to take them for her. There
must be a butler around, in a place like this.

'I know you,' he says. It isn't a question or
a battle with his memory. It's a statement.

'I know you too.'

He laughs, and the laugh seems to light up
in him. He looks almost attractive when he
laughs.

He calls the waiter over and gets her
another drink but she barely even sips it this
time. She is so aware of being near him. The
way he asks questions and then watches her
answer. Not listens, but watches. She is glad
she is beautiful.

'Tell me what you do,' he says.

'Just a student.' She wrinkles her nose. 'I'll
be leaving soon. I'm not sure what comes next.'

He laughs again. 'I left Oxford twenty years
ago, and I'm still not sure what comes next
either.'

She laughs with him. They are so close, their
bodies brushing against one another. Guests
jostle up and tell him it's a great party and
what an excellent location and they hope he
can make it out to see them in their place on
the Riviera soon. He nods and answers with
enthusiasm, but his eyes never quite leave her.

'I've booked fireworks for midnight,' he
says. 'It's nearly time. Join me.'

Taking her elbow he steers her out into the
sweetly scented garden. There is an orchestra
playing, people dancing. The garden is as
fantastic as the house.

'Champagne, sir?' The waiter gives a small
bow and Alix wants to giggle. How amazing to
have servants bowing to you. She remembers
learning once in history at school that Kings and
Queens employed people to wipe their bottoms.
Maybe Hugh has an official 'bottom wiper' for
himself. She stifles back another giggle.

Hugh takes the bottle and tips it into two
slender glasses.

'Let's toast,' he says.

'What to?' She smiles at him, glows for him.

He doesn't smile, just looks at her, his
expression almost pained. 'To beauty,' he says
at last. 'The sheer bittersweet joy of it.'

She lets herself giggle out loud now, and
raises her glass.

A wild fizz and splutter explodes above her.

Looking up, she sees the sky is drenched with
pink light. Then green. Then gold. There is a
long high swizzle of sound. The air thumps and
thuds. Showers of silver stars grow and
explode, raining round them like jewels.

She glances at Hugh.

He is not watching the fireworks. He is
watching her.

She warms him another smile. His arm
comes round her and pulls her close, very gently.
They stand together, faces tilted upwards, and a
new feeling sparks up in her. A fresh sense of
purpose. A clear direction.

The fireworks keep coming. Shushes of pink
light. Flashes of green. A golden snowflake
spreads and grows, spreads and grows. It fills
the sky, hovers, and then explodes. A thousand
sparks come sprinkling down. Dripping the
garden with gold.

Hugh hugs her very tightly, then lets go of her
to clap. Alix claps too, wondering what his next
move will be. Wondering how best to play it.

'Alix – I've found you.' Courtney's pale face
looms up through the darkness.

'What's up?' She wants to hiss and
gesticulate and make Courtney go away, but
she can hardly do any of that without Hugh
seeing.

'We've got to go.' Courtney sounds jaded.
Tired and irritable.

Alix moves away from Hugh, her back to
him, trying to block him from the
conversation. 'Why?'

'It's Fern, she's pissed.'

'Oh shit.'

'She's thrown up in a lily pond. It's
disgusting. She's disgusting. I had to wipe her
down with that shawl thing you gave me. I've
been looking everywhere for you.'

'Where's Aaron? I asked him to look out for
her.'

'Gone off, apparently. Fern keeps slurring
on about a girl. He gave her fifty quid so we
could get a taxi – because he thinks we're all
destitute students, of course. But anyway, I've
booked it – it's due any minute.'

'Where is she now?' Alix shoots a panicked
glance behind Courtney, suddenly scared that
Fern might come lurching up singing rugby
songs, or something worse.

'I've managed to drag her out the front.
She's sort of propped against the wall of the
house, moaning and groaning.'

'Oh God.' Alix closes her eyes. Vomit
splashed across the drive. Vomit on the
crammed-in cars. Probably even the peacock-blue
Ferrari.

Hugh mustn't know that Fern came here
with her.

She turns back to spin him a story but a
woman in a gold-fringed trouser suit has hold
of his arm and he is bending politely towards
her, listening.

This is the best she can hope for. No
explanations. Just slip away. 'Let's go then.'
She heads off with Courtney, weaving hurriedly
through the crowded garden. There is just a
moment back in the house when she pauses,
takes her green pashmina and loops it over the
wood-panelled banister.

It's pretty weak, as an excuse for coming
back, but it's all that she can think of at the
time.

* * *

F
ERN THINKS she's probably going to
die. Nobody could feel as ill as this, and
survive. Her head feels pressed in by tightening
metal bands. She is hot and cold and cold and
hot. Her hands shake. She daren't move
because she's scared of being sick again.

She forces her eyes to stay open and stare
up at the light shade that hangs from the
centre of her bedroom ceiling. The tiny
flower patterns on it are too busy. Too
hurried. But she makes herself keep staring.
Maybe a fixed point will stop the room from
rolling again.

She has no idea how she got home. How she
got into bed.

She can remember some things though. She
can remember Aaron. And the girl in red.

The room around the light shade tilts, then
spins slowly.

Fern concentrates on not throwing up.

When the knock comes on the door she rolls
sideways away from the sound, the effort of
movement sending spiked pains all through her
skull.

'Fern?' Mum comes in quietly – at least she
understands about being quiet – and sits on the
edge of the bed. 'How are you doing?'

Fern stays staring at the opposite wall.
More flowers. More hurry. 'I'm too ill to
speak,' she manages at last.

She feels Mum's hand on her shoulder.

'Don't.' Fern winces. 'It hurts. Everything
hurts.'

'It will do.' Mum takes her hand away but she
stays on the bed. 'That's what hangovers are like.'

Fern thinks, dimly, that Mum is sounding
calm. Maybe the mad rant will come later. 'It's
not a hangover,' she slurs. 'It's a slow and
horrible death.'

Mum laughs. 'I know it feels like that at the
moment.'

'How would you know?' Fern's tongue has
grown too big for her mouth. It's hard to shape
words. She wants Mum to go away.

'You think I was never young?'

'You only ever drank fruit punch. Or
champagne at weddings.'

'Ah – that's the "now" me. The one with
responsibilities.'

Fern shifts round slightly to look at Mum,
the effort setting the whole room tilting again.
'I don't believe you.'

Mum is holding a glass, and she raises it
slightly as Fern blinks and tries to focus on her.
'You should drink this. Even if you only have
tiny sips.'

'I'll be sick.'

'Just try it. Honestly.'

Fern raises herself slowly onto one elbow,
taking the glass, sipping the water. It is good in
her mouth but the minute it hits her stomach
she wants to retch. Handing it back, she
collapses downwards again. She closes her eyes
and the bed is liquid. Floating. She stares back
up at the light shade. 'What time is it?'

'Nearly twelve. I have to go and do the
lunches in a minute, but once I've sorted the
guests I'll come up with some hot sweet tea.
You'll be ready for it then.'

'I'll never be ready for anything, ever again.'
Fern feels the bed lighten as Mum gets up.

She wonders if Dad knows about the state
she's in. She wonders if he's ever been like it
too. And as this thought swims through her,
she wonders if Mum has only ever loved Dad.
Does she feel about him, the way she feels
about Aaron? Or is there a secret Aaron in her
past? Are Aarons and hangovers and general
stupidity all part of growing up?
Her bedroom door clicks shut, and Mum is
gone.

Her eyes ache from still staring at the light
shade. There is a pale trail of spider's web
caught up in the silky fringe, and she switches
her focus to that. She hasn't cleaned her room
for ages. Not properly. Not the way she used
to. Mum used to rant on about that too, but in
the end she seemed to give up.

Bits of last night – fragmented moments –
move in and out of her memory. Drifting
music. A gliding waiter. Strange glass lilies on
the pond. The pond – oh God. She remembers
kneeling beside it, her stomach heaving.

She squeezes her eyes shut at the thought,
and realises that she must have fallen asleep – or
passed out again, because suddenly Mum is
there with the hot sweet tea. And this time, Fern
finds she is right. She can manage to move, just
about. And when she sits up and shakily takes
the mug, the sharp sweet heat is beautiful. 'It's
like drinking the first cup of tea in the whole
world ever,' she says.

'I've brought paracetamol, too.' Mum is
pressing out tablets from a foil pack. 'I thought
you'd probably just bring it back up before.
And I've made some soup – very thin – a
chicken consommé. You'll find that goes down
well, with a bit of dry toast.'

Fern thinks about the consommé and the
dry toast. Is she hungry? She isn't sure. 'I still
don't get why you're being so nice,' she says at
last.

'I told you . . . I've been there myself. Not
often. And never deliberately. But I do know
what it's like. It's not something I'm proud of
though.'

Fern realises the hurrying wallpaper has
slowed. Almost stopped. The lilac elephant
watches her with his glass-bead eyes. Her green
crocodile seems to be smiling. It's so safe here.
The room is like a friend and she is tucked
away inside it.

She turns to look at Mum. 'I love you.'

Mum's face seems to move. A pained twist
to it. She pushes her hand up and through her
hair, holds it there, her eyes full of shadows.
'I've been worried,' she breathes out, her
shoulders sagging forward and her hands
dropping down into her lap. 'All this time spent
with Alix. It's changed you. You've been like a
stranger. I've – me and Dad both – we've
missed you – I've tried not to interfere because
it just seemed to make you worse . . . ' She
stops, as if the words have somehow stiffened
in her mouth. 'I love you, too,' she says softly.
'Both of us do. Very much.'

Fern sits still, her head bowed, not knowing
how to answer.

Mum stands, pats Fern's shoulder, and then
squeezes it gently. 'I'll go and get that soup
started.'

Fern feels the warmth of the squeeze, and
the strength of it. She listens as Mum's
footsteps fade back downstairs, then sips the
last dregs of the first tea in the whole world
ever. She didn't know Mum had noticed things
about her. She didn't know she'd been caring
that much.

She feels stunned by all the things that she's
been doing.

Mum said she's felt like a stranger, and it
feels like that to her too. She's been a stranger
to herself. But she's got to get out of it – Mum
might know about hangovers, but her heart
would break if she knew what else she'd been
doing. There's no way Mum would have been
there
herself.

She leans and puts the empty mug on the
floor, then sinks slowly down into the bed,
pulling the duvet over her head.

She's feeling sick again, but it's not the
hangover.

She's sick of herself. With herself.

Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad. Sorry sorry sorry.

* * *

Alix drives round three times before she
dredges up the courage to pull into his drive.

In her head she has played out all the scenes
of things that might go wrong. Played them
again and again, as if the repetition will
somehow guard her against the reality.

She has pictured the butler she didn't give
her pashmina to, handing it back. 'Very good,
madam.' Her shawl returned, Hugh might
never even know she came, and her flimsy
excuse for coming here will be gone. Or – there
is worse. Little Miss Lovely will answer the
knock, skim her a look, and then shut the door
again. And then – in some ways the worst scene
of all – Hugh is the one who answers. He greets
her politely, but with no interest. He finds the
shawl that he hadn't registered was hers, hands
it back with a distant smile, and turns away.

Switching off the ignition, she checks her
face in the mirror, and gets out. Her mind runs
a new scene where Hugh and Little Miss
Lovely are watching her from a security camera
video. They are cuddled together in the silk-sheeted
bed, and laughing. She makes herself
keep walking towards the door, only because
the idea of not finishing this fantasy is worse
than the idea of living with it and wondering
what might have been.

The day is bitingly hot – the hottest so far
this year. The air hangs sweet with the scents of
blossom. Birds call lazily from the trees that
edge the front lawn. A yellow butterfly flits
past, fluttering like a tiny kite up into the
burning blue.

The Ferrari is there. Her stomach rolls,
churning over and over. There is a knocker on
the door – heavy brass. A lion's head. Her hand
hesitates over it for a moment, then she chooses
the bell. It buzzes importantly, an interruption
in the unhurried day. Nobody comes. She waits,
shifts anxiously. Brushes an imaginary hair from
her denim jacket. She has gone for casual.
Careless. Just passing by. Maybe she should
knock after all? She lifts her hand.

'Hello?'

She jerks round, her hand still raised. He
has surprised her again, appearing this time
from round the side of the house. He is wearing
a black shirt, open down the front, and jeans.
She thinks, for the second time, that he looks
attractive. He must be growing on her. His face
and shoulders are freckled with a dusting of
flaked white paint, and he is sweating.

'You look busy.'

He holds up a fan-shaped metal tool.
'Scraping the window frames. The paint is
dreadful. Centuries old.'

She nods, as if she is an expert on dreadful
century-old paint.

'I . . . I left my shawl.'

He smiles at her, his mouth curving upwards
with an easy slowness. 'You melted into the
night like Cinderella. I've been searching for
the shoe.'

'I'm sorry. Something . . . happened. My
brother . . . '

'No need.' He reaches one hand out to her,
then notices the dust that has peppered his
fingers, and drops it away again. 'Can you
stop? For coffee? I can tidy myself up.'

'No need,' she smiles at him. 'No need for
you to tidy up, I mean. And yes, please. I'd love
a coffee.'

She follows him round the side of the house
and in through the conservatory. 'Sit here.' He
is watching her again, and she can feel the
intensity of the look firing into her. 'I'll bring it
through.'

She settles on a floral-cushioned chair,
taking in everything she missed on Saturday
night. There are plants along the window
ledge. A vine curving up one wall. A small pine
table with a paper – the
Guardian
– lies open
at the travel page. Everything has an easy
grace. An elegance. As if the whole place is
comfortable with itself.

Hugh comes through with the coffee, all
frothy and steaming in a fine china mug. She
can see that he is newly washed and freshened
up. 'This has got caramel sauce with it,' he
says. 'You'll love it. I hope.'

She watches him walk to the windowsill,
picking off dead flower heads. 'I'd have thought
you'd have had housekeepers. Gardeners.
People to paint your windows for you.'

'Not me,' he answers without looking
round. 'I like to be part of things. Properly
involved. But aside from all that, I'm trying to
get this place shaped up to sell.'

'Sell?' The conservatory walls seem to sway,
as if the ground has tilted. Somewhere beneath
the layers of butlers, Little Miss Lovelies, and
his just sending her away, she had played out
scenes of being here. Visiting. Staying over.

'I'm taking Zara round Europe for the
summer. It seems crazy to have this place sitting
here crumbling away. Places need people. I'll sell
it on and get something else when I come back. If
I come back.'

'Zara?' Alix nods calmly, sipping the caramel sauce
coffee without tasting it. The world inside
her is crashing. 'Is that the girl you were with on
Saturday night?' Her voice is hoarse, dust in her
throat.

He turns to look at her, his head slightly tilted,
as if he is thinking something through. Then he
laughs, a real lion's roar of sound. 'You mean
Daisy? No, no. She's a sweet girl but – no.
Nothing going on with her. I met her at a boat
show in Brighton – I think she was there with her
father – and she must have got my email address
from him, and plagued me for some invites. That
happens sometimes. I'm not even sure where she
went.' He laughs again. 'No doubt some young
stud lured her away.'

His voice softens. 'I'm sorry. I'm not
laughing at you but – stand up a minute. Come
over here.'

She stands, obedient, and walks across to
him.

'Look out there, down by the river.'

Alix can't work out what he's showing her.
From a gap in the bushes she can see the river
winding along past the dipped edge of his
garden. It sparkles up sapphire blue. A white
yacht is moored a little way out from the shore,
and two swans glide by, one behind the other.
His idyllic world. Everything fantastic. She still
doesn't like the sound of this Zara woman.

He puts his arm round her. She can smell
him, freshly washed but still all male. She could
definitely get to like him. He stands quietly for
a moment, as if he is breathing her in. 'Zara is
my yacht. All eighty-five feet of her. Her name
means "Princess" and she's like a miniature
palace inside.'

She puts her coffee down on the sill and lets
him hold her properly. Zara's a boat. A bloody
boat!

'I know so little about you,' he murmurs.
'But it doesn't seem to matter. It feels like I know
nothing, and everything. Does that make sense?'

She nods, not sure how to answer. She
doesn't want to break the moment, but there
are things she wants him to get a proper picture
of. 'I live on my own. My mum lives in Italy.'
She hopes she isn't gabbling. She hopes she's
saying what he might want to hear.

'Italy? Lucky mum. I plan to cruise round
Italy for a while. And your dad?'

She shrugs. 'Who knows.' The cut-off is
deliberate. To make him think – and feel.