Game Girls Read online

  'Use both oars equally.' She cups her hands around her mouth, calling to them across the water.

  She's heard Dad shout that at guests a thousand times, but rowing is harder than it looks, especially when the tide is really running. Beginners usually give up and come back in again, full of exclamations about the pull of the undertow.

  Dad used to row guests himself on a Sunday – he even took Alix and her mum when they stayed – but he couldn't do it now. Every step 'outside' is a giant effort, her and Mum holding him up, all of them drained – and somehow more defeated – when it's over. Dad was ill before he was ill, the disease already eating into him before the symptoms showed. Fern thinks about how bad things can be pulling at you, even when you don't know they're there. The undertow of life.

  They have a small shingle beach just to the right of the slipway. Amongst the beiges and browns, the sun catches now on a glint of glass. It glitters up at Fern, bottle-green starlight amongst the mud and stones.

  She jumps down onto the beach, lifting the glass and wiping the dirt away with her thumb. It is smooth, hazy, beaten soft. When she was small she used to pretend things like this were jewels washed in from an underwater castle. She made the castle once, all sequins and tinfoil, placing the glass treasure in a magic circle round the outside. She was the mermaid princess, the glittering turrets her home. She can picture that Princess now, diving deep into the silent depths, her long hair streamed like reeds. She'd loved the silence of this underwater fantasy. Loved the freedom as she moved through it. In her real life, even now, she cannot swim.

  Pushing her hand in her jacket pocket she checks her mobile for about the millionth time.

  No messages.

  No missed calls.

  Loosening her mind to a fresher fantasy, she lets herself imagine him coming to find her, jumping down from the slipway, his trainers crunching on the stones as he lands. She won't turn round. It's more romantic for her to be gazing out across the water. He'll stand behind her and put his hands over her eyes just like someone in a film. 'Guess who,' he'll say.

  'I guess you,' she'll reply. Her voice, as she says this, will be dreamy and soft. And she'll turn round and he'll be standing there, probably smiling, arms stretched out to pull her close.

  And then she hears a car scrunch in round the corner, and her loosened-up mind seizes tight with panic. What if it's really him? She squints in the direction of the sound. A door slams. Footsteps.

  'Hi.'

  It isn't Aaron – it's Alix.

  'Hi.'

  'Thought I'd drive over and check that you survived last night. Are you hung over?'

  'I didn't drink much.' What did Aaron tell her? Maybe it's him who really wants to know how she is?

  'I felt like death when I woke up. I'm never touching alcohol again.' Alix wrinkles her nose as she jumps down onto the shingle and stands beside Fern. 'It's a foul stink today, isn't it? The river, I mean.'

  'The tide's coming in. It doesn't smell once the mud gets covered over.' Fern fingers the glass treasure and then spins it out towards the slinking water. It falls short, vanishing beneath the liquid mud. 'That glass will keep sinking and sinking and sinking. All the way to the middle of the earth.' She pictures the glass sliding down, gathering slime.

  'The middle of the earth?'

  'Well – a long way anyway. I watched a dog get sucked down there once. Its body was never found. Gone forever. It's terrible to think about, isn't it?'

  'Terrible,' says Alix.

  'Aaron . . . ' Fern turns to Alix, fumbling through questions in her mind. Is it all right to ask about him? Is it all right to look 'too keen' to someone's sister? '. . . is – is he still at your place?'

  Alix sounds bored. 'He went early. They all did. They had a match.'

  'Oh. Right.' Fern gets a dropping down feeling. Sinking and sinking and sinking.

  'I came to ask you something.' Alix seems to switch back into a brighter mood.

  Fern feels a fresh rush of heat. Has he sent Alix with a message?

  'I got some vouchers. Virgin Records. I wondered if you fancied a drive into town so I can spend them?'

  Fern turns back towards the river. The yellow jacket guests are under way now, already some distance off. The sun splashes down onto the water, sparking it with silver. Close by two swans glide, one behind the other. Even a day ago this would have been brilliant – the whole thing of Alix driving over to ask if she'd go shopping. Today it feels flat. A 'nothing' thing to do.

  'Fern – did you hear me?'

  Fern looks round at her slowly. She doesn't want to go shopping. Not today. She wants to lie in her room with the curtains closed and to try not to think. The dinghy has stopped moving, the guests dropping the anchor over the sides. They'll be all right now. She doesn't need to keep a check on them anymore.

  'I've got loads of food left too. A whole bowl of chilli. I thought you might want to come back and help me eat it after we've shopped? Courtney's already said she's up for it.'

  Fern thinks Alix's blue blue eyes are painful to see.

  'Fern – stop it. You're staring at me like a zombie. Do you want to come with me or not?' Alix is spinning her car keys round and round her finger. Fern still tumbles up endless questions about Aaron, and knows suddenly that she'll never have the courage to ask them. She won't want to risk him ever finding out she was too keen. The whole Aaron dream drops away. Of course he wouldn't be interested. There must be a million girls after him at Surrey or Sunbury or wherever it is.

  She rushes out a smile. Alix has driven over because she wanted to check she was all right. She wants to go shopping with her. She's invited her to dinner tonight. Fern should be grateful for all these things. 'Sorry. I sort of switched off then. Yes. I'd love a trip into town. Thanks.'

  Alix smiles back. The sun shimmies her hair with a soft gold halo. Fern thinks she looks like an angel. She could never really say no to Alix.

  * * *

  'HOW WAS WORK?'

  'Boring.' Courtney watches Mum scrub down the new granite worktops in the kitchen, scouring them over and over again. She wonders whether kitchen surfaces can erode over time, like cliffs worn down by the sea. Except they won't keep the kitchen that long. Mum changes décor like most people change underwear.

  'Dad wants a roast tonight.' Mum straightens up, smoothes down her sleek bobbed hair, and glances at the clock on the cooker. 'He's out on the bikes with the boys at the moment. Can you do the veggies for me? I want to get the carpets vacuumed before they come back.'

  Courtney opens the larder and pulls out a bag of potatoes, then empties them into the bowl by the sink. 'I'm not here for dinner though. I'm going over to Alix's. There's some food from last night to finish up.'

  Mum passes her the vegetable knife, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. 'You should be here for Sunday dinner. It's a family day. Honestly! Just one day of the week – is that too much to ask?'

  Courtney doesn't answer, and with the sigh of a thwarted saint, Mum goes tutting away.

  Courtney starts peeling the potatoes.

  The drone of the vacuum cleaner hums out from the dining room.

  'How are you doing?' Mum is back, pulling a mustard-gold duster from the cleaning unit. 'Make sure you get all the eyes out, won't you? And cut away any bruises.'

  Courtney's hand moves mechanically. The knife has a thin blade, slightly curved. The serrated edge catches a spark of light as it strikes in through the window. Every eye is off. Every bruise is out. She is a potato-peeling machine. Seven. Eight. Nine. She has to do more. Ten-year-old boys eat roast potatoes as if it's the last chance they'll ever get to eat anything ever.

  As if on cue the front door slams open. Seconds later, the boys spill in. Jamie and Lucas. Cheeky blue eyes and dimpled grins, their faces freckled with flecks of mud.

  Courtney keeps peeling, listening as Mum fusses about the dirt on the carpet. 'I've just spent ALL afternoon cleaning up.'

  Courtney is always glad that they ar
e boys. She could never have coped with the worry of sisters. She would have had to keep sisters very safe. She can love them, but she doesn't have to protect them. They'll never need her like that.

  Then she feels her back stiffen. Something in her stomach curls. He is there in the doorway. She knows it before he speaks. Over the years she has grown antennae that can pick out every tiny trembling vibration of his key in the lock. His breath in the hall. His tread on the stairs.

  'We did eight miles – all along the river's edge.' His voice is as eager as the boys. She won't turn round, but she can picture his lean, tanned face and knows his eyes will be all lit up.

  'You should've thought about the puddles.' Mum is still fussing, telling the boys to 'get those things off' so she can put them in the washing machine. The boys rattle out stories about mega skids and Jamie falling in a puddle that was 'this deep'. Courtney knows that, in spite of the fussing, Mum will be all lit up too. Mum sparks like light on steel for Dad.

  Courtney lays the knife on the edge of the sink.

  'Potatoes are done. I need to go now.' She says this to Mum, not letting her eyes move to Dad, edging away as he comes over to pour himself a glass of water. If he touches her, even brushes against her, she will carry the touch for the rest of the day.

  Not that he touches her now.

  It's been four years.

  But it wouldn't matter if it was forty years. Four hundred. Four thousand. She'll never escape from the horror of the times when he did.

  * * *

  'Wednesday then. Afternoon.' The bright up for-anything smile slides from Alix's face as she clicks off Dale's mobile. She stays staring at it, as if it holds secrets. Which in a way, it does.

  She heads back to the kitchen, watching Fern stir the chilli. It bubbles up slowly, whispering soft phuts of sound.

  'Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble,' mutters Courtney. She is washing the salad, blasting cold water over everything.

  Alix wishes she could get Courtney on her own. She has been running an idea through her head all day. A bad idea. A wicked witch of an idea. But every time she thinks about it, she feels less shocked – and more excited. 'I need some wine,' she says, taking a bottle from the fridge and putting it on the side.

  Fern looks round and widens her eyes at her. 'You said you'd never . . . '

  'Changed my mind.' Alix rummages through the clutter of cutlery in her top drawer, and pulls out a corkscrew. 'There's still loads left from last night. It would be criminal to waste it.'

  Courtney rinses three glasses for her, and she carries everything through to the table in the front room. Fern passes her on her way back out, taking the chilli. She smiles at Alix anxiously, and Alix smiles back. What a lovely time they're all having.

  She edges close to Courtney, murmuring, 'Don't go home when Fern does, will you? I need to ask you something.'

  'Ask me now,' Courtney murmurs back as she sets out the salads. 'Otherwise I'll spend all evening trying to guess.'

  Fern appears behind them. 'Just need the bread. Everything's ready.' Her voice is earnest and bright.

  'Fantastic, Fern. Thanks. We'll bring the rest through.' Maybe she and Courtney can have a bit of fun – she can try and run the conversation over Fern's head. 'Come on, everyone. Let's go eat, drink, and be merry.'

  As Alix slides into her seat, she thinks Mum would be impressed – her and her mates all sitting down to eat at a table.

  Although she wouldn't be so impressed if she knew what turn the conversation was about to take. Well tough shit, Mum. I don't care what you think. She rang twice earlier – left messages – but Alix isn't going to call her back.

  'That card.' She doles chilli onto Fern's and Courtney's plates. 'The one you saw in the phone box . . . '

  Fern reaches for the bread. 'You mean like a birthday card?'

  'No, not a birthday card.' Alix takes some bread too, breaking it into pieces and chewing it slowly. 'It was a sort of business card – left by a lady of dubious repute.'

  Fern stares at her blankly. 'Oh. Right.'

  'A prostitute.' Courtney begins on her salad. 'A woman who has sex for money.'

  Fern looks down at her food, studying it as if it might be an exam she is going to get tested on.

  Alix struggles not to laugh. 'The thing is . . . ' She forks up her first mouthful for the day. It is tangy hot. Rich spicy meat and beans and mushrooms and peppers. It feels like the first meal she's ever really tasted. Wonderful. Exquisite. She eats hungrily, talking between mouthfuls. '. . . the thing is – I mean, do you think it's that bad?'

  Fern stays staring at her food.

  Alix keeps pushing. 'Sex. For money. I don't see anything terrible about it. It's no worse than just going with someone – some stranger – for one night. In fact, it's better. At least you'd be in control.'

  Courtney cuts a slice of cucumber into four tidy quarters, and then presses her fork down on one of them. 'It's exploitation.' She spits the words, as if they've been boiling up in her. 'Guys using girls just to get what they want.'

  Alix pounces on this. She has expected it, and she is more than prepared. 'Surely it's the other way round. Girls using the guys. And you're just as exploited in Easi Shop, if you ask me. Having to jump when that creepy manager clicks his fingers. And I bet the pay is rubbish. Prostitutes earn good money – I mean REALLY good money.' Alix reaches for her wine glass, raises it. 'By the way – cheers, everybody.'

  'Cheers.'

  'Cheers.'

  Courtney squashes down another quarter of cucumber. 'You have to have a pimp. And they'd use and abuse you. That's what they do.'

  'I don't see why you'd have to have a pimp. You could just do it yourself. Work from home.'

  'You wouldn't be safe.' Fern glances at Alix as if she's worried she might be saying the wrong thing.

  Alix notes that Fern has a red stain of sauce at each corner of her mouth. She scrapes up the last of her own chilli and then doles herself some more. 'Why not?'

  Fern starts eating again, very slowly. 'If you left a card with all your details on it in a phone box, a mad lunatic might turn up. He could really hurt you. Even kill you. No one would even know.'

  'You'd be safe if there was more than one of you around.' Alix starts running her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. She is answering Fern, but her words are for Courtney. 'Suppose there were always at least two of you in the house together? That would be the deal – always.'

  'It's still abuse against women,' says Courtney. 'And apart from that, someone would be bound to find out. What about the law? Tax people? Neighbours?'

  'How could anyone prove anything? We'd just be entertaining "friends" at home. No one could have a problem with that. As long as you don't work the streets, you're OK.'

  Fern manages to look up at last. 'What does "working the streets" mean?'

  'You know, women on street corners, trying to get kerb crawlers.'

  'Trying to get what?'

  'Guys in . . . oh look, doesn't matter. Just trust me. You shouldn't do it outdoors. But inside . . . ' Alix can feel the laugh wanting to spill out of her again. She feels elated with this whole conversation. High on it. 'Inside, it's actually better to charge for sex than it is for cooking. You need certificates and inspections and things to sell cooked food.'

  'That's true.' Fern reaches for her wine. 'We're always being checked up on at home. We have to—'

  'Exactly.' Alix cuts her short. 'And if the food's rubbish, I bet your guests send it back. And if they end up with a jippy tummy, they'll probably even sue you. But I can't see anyone wanting to complain to any sort of legal watchdog if they've had a bad screw.'

  'What about people you know?' Courtney stabs a tomato, the soft flesh squirting pips and juice. 'Even if the law doesn't catch up with you, your family or friends are bound to find out.'

  She looks across at Alix and their eyes lock and Alix can see that she knows where this discussion is headed. She smiles. 'I don't see why. It's that "watchd
og" thing again – if anyone you knew ever turned up at your door, they're not going to broadcast where they've been, are they? It's a secret thing. Private. And you could get a new mobile phone – just for business purposes. That way no one will ever even recognise your number.'

  'Diseases?'

  'Condoms. That would be a basic every time.'

  'And what would be on offer? You know – what would you actually do?'

  'It's a client-based business strategy, so obviously you try to meet the customer's needs – remember that triangular sales diagram we looked at in business studies the other week? But you can say "no" sometimes, too. You draw your own boundaries.'

  Courtney is watching her carefully now; they are talking across Fern, as if she isn't even in the room. 'I still don't get how you can do it without a pimp – or someone starting you off. How would anyone know how to come to you in the first place?'

  Alix shrugs, stabbing up one final stray kidney bean. 'Word of mouth, perhaps. That would be safest. Fern's right about the phone box thing, you wouldn't know who you were getting. But if everyone who came knew someone else, like a sort of long chain of clients, it makes it a bit more exclusive. And I don't think that would be dangerous at all.'

  Courtney's eyes search Alix's, but her expression is closed. It is impossible to tell how she's reacting.

  Alix makes her argument sound speculative, choosing her words carefully. 'Maybe you start off with someone you've been with already – offer them something extra. Explain you're a bit desperate for cash.'

  'Bit of a risk, surely? How would you know they'd be up for it?' Courtney raises some meat to her mouth, and then drops it down on the plate without eating it.

  Alix shrugs again. This is the only clouded area. Is it gut instinct? Or is it already knowing something dodgy about them – already sharing a secret?

  The conversation hovers, unfinished, as they all eat in silence.

  'They're not called prostitutes anymore, anyway,' Alix says suddenly. She finishes her wine, pours herself more and then tops up Courtney and Fern. 'They're called Sex Workers. It's more like a kind of social service. I've been looking the whole thing up on the internet.' Pushing her plate aside she slides another look at Courtney. Maybe she should let the whole thing drop – for now at least. She's planted an idea – she should just be patient and see if it grows. But she's not feeling patient. She's feeling buzzy. A strange dangerous anticipation is razoring through her. 'I've got a suggestion.' Her voice is now practical. Businesslike. 'Let's call it a social experiment. Aaron's two mates want to come over Wednesday afternoon – and I haven't got anything timetabled in at college, so I'm free. I think you are too, Courtney, but I'm not sure about Fern. They're supposed to be collecting Dale's mobile, but I don't really believe it. I mean – you don't need two guys to carry a phone.'