Game Girls Page 9

  'You . . . you don't have to stay. I mean – I'm sorry.' She can't look at him and drops her head, her hair swinging forward to cover her face.

  'Ah just – ah don't do stuff like this. Not normally.'

  She shakes her head, whispering, 'I don't either.'

  'Could we mebbe just talk?' he says.

  'Talk?' She makes herself look up then, straight at him. He is still by the door, and squinting across she tries to get a sense of what sort of person he is. He is medium height, medium build, and has brown hair down to his collar. His fringe is swept sideways across his forehead and she tries to think about him washing his hair, combing it across like that, worrying how it might look.

  The idea of him doing these things softens something in her. 'Do – do you want to come over and sit down?'

  He walks across, not looking at her, and sits on the bed. They wait in silence, both staring at the wall. Fern wants to be home, in the boathouse, making figures out of clay.

  'I'm sorry,' she says again.

  'Ye don't need to be.' The lilting voice is awkward. Shy.

  She risks a glance at the clock. Seven minutes gone already. Alix said it should take twenty. There can't be too much time left. 'So where are you from?'

  'Scotland.'

  'No – I didn't mean that.' She forces out a giggle. 'I mean where in Scotland?' Not that she knows one end from the other, but it's something to say. She should, at least, think of things to say.

  'Glasgow.'

  'I know where that is.' She feels stupidly pleased to have found this common ground. 'My gran and gramps live near there. Just outside. I've been there for holidays.'

  'Did ye like it?' He shifts slightly, edging closer.

  'Yes. It's cold though. Or it always is when we go.'

  'Aye. That's Scotland fur ye.'

  She realises, touched now with a different sort of cold, that he has put his hand on her leg.

  Her head races with questions to ask about Scotland. Anything. Anything.

  'Is this OK to touch ye like this?'

  She stares down at the hand. It's a pale hand. Slightly freckled. She doesn't want it to start touching her anywhere else.

  And then she gets a rippled memory of trying to learn to swim. She'd been terrified that day too, her tummy in knots for the whole car journey to the pool. The changing rooms rang with strange echoes, the tiled walls scaring her with their endless whiteness. She had to use a foot-pool, and a shower where the water rushed out too cold and made her yelp. The big pool itself boomed noises, people splashing and shouting. Sometimes screaming.

  Her lesson was at the shallow end. 'It's all right,' Mum had whispered, leading her round. 'It's not very deep. Your feet will be able to touch the bottom. I'll be watching from those seats on the other side.'

  Fern stood, awkward and skinny in her angelfish swimming costume, at the end of a row of chattering children. The teacher asked if she wanted armbands or a float. Fern glanced sideways at the others. She was older than all of them, and not an armband in sight. 'Float, please.' Her voice came out all shaky and small. The teacher smiled and picked out a float from a huge basket. Fern took it, gripped it, her fingernails cutting into the pale blue polystyrene. The teacher said, 'OK, let's do it. In your own time – everybody in.' There were whoops and shrieks and splashes like explosions and Fern dropped the float and ran, back through the foot-pool and past the showers, huddling in the white-tiled cubicle with her head pressed down onto her knees.

  'Oh, Fern.' Mum had come hurrying to find her. 'Come on. We live by a river. You've got to learn. It'll help keep you safe.' But she never had.

  And it's like that now. If she doesn't learn how to put her hand on a boy's knee, to unzip his fly, to roll a condom down onto his banana, then she never will.

  And she'll stay that stupid, pathetic, deer-with-a-firework person forever.

  Bracing herself, forcing herself, she slides her hand across to touch him. It's clumsy and uncertain but at least she's doing something. At least she's putting a toe in the water.

  'Ah'd like to kiss ye,' he says. 'If ye don't mind.'

  She tilts her face backwards slightly and closes her eyes, letting his mouth press down and move across hers. His hand moves from her leg, finds her breasts, and then slides down to her leg again. There is fumbling and he shifts, leaning away. Opening her eyes, she realises he is undoing his trousers. She battles against fresh panic. That desperate run back to the changing rooms. 'This,' she manages to squeak out, reaching to the table for the condom. 'We have to use this.'

  She struggles. He helps. They are both clumsy. Both flailing about in the shallow end. When it is on, she remembers Khaki Steve and the way he made her hand move. She does this now, hoping she's getting it right. The Scottish Banana Boy is sighing, the sound still lilting. Almost a song.

  And then it is over. Before time. Ahead of time. Looking at the clock she can see there are still minutes to go.

  He stands up, his eyes not meeting hers, zipping his fly back up and holding out the condom like a limp sort of apology.

  Fern understands now what the tissues are for.

  * * *

  'You're great.' Courtney makes herself whisper the words. 'I like you.'

  'I like you too,' he whispers back.

  She'd told him her name was Isadora and he had said, 'Isadora – I adore ya.' She'd kept her cringed response hidden. She isn't allowed to ask his name and she's glad about that. Knowing his name would make him a person.

  They are lying together in Alix's spare room – the 'love nest' as Alix is now starting to call it, and his hands are all over her and her hands are all over him too but her hands are mechanical hands. All metal and batteries and wire. He pulls at her hair. Pulls at her clothes. Her mechanical hands keep working on him. They have been designed well and they always know exactly what to do.

  He is the fifth one now and she is trying to think of it as a job. Like stacking shelves or going round Easi Shop with the price gun. Or maybe just staying calm and not letting herself care when the queue by the till gets too long and people start making long breathed-out sighs and glancing at their watches.

  'Sexy baby,' says the bloke with no name. 'God I want you, sexy baby.'

  'I want you, sexy baby, too,' she says.

  She has learnt to talk back. To move against them or under them or whatever it is they seem to want. They're not her first, of course. She's had real boyfriends – lots – and she's let them do what they wanted to do too, but she didn't feel anything then and she doesn't feel anything now.

  The curtains in Alix's love nest have floral stripes running down in vertical lines from the top. Courtney decides that her mum must have chosen the curtains. Alix isn't a floral stripes person. She counts the stripes, moving from left to right. She has to calculate the bits where the curtains hang in folds. Three stripes to a fold, she decides. So that's nine stripes she can see, and another twelve in the folds. Twenty-one stripes on each curtain. Forty-two stripes all together. But what about the actual flowers. There are thirty-two to a stripe. Sixteen lilac, and sixteen yellow. So that means that, altogether, there are . . .

  The bloke with no name gives a long breathed-out sigh and at last lies still.

  He feels heavy on her.

  Courtney eases herself out from under him.

  He doesn't look at her now and she has noticed this with the others. They often don't look once it's finished.

  She wonders if they're ashamed. She wonders if she's ashamed.

  Once he's gone she'll have a shower. She'll make it fire hot and stand right in the middle, trapped in the steam, angry spits of burning water scorching her skin. And once she's showered she'll rub herself dry, rubbing and rubbing and the towel will begin to feel scratchy-rough; rubbing and rubbing as if she could somehow graze away her whole surface and be a brand new person, born again, stepping back out into the world.

  * * *

  ALIX IS SLIGHTLY AHEAD of Courtney and Fern, weaving the
m through the crowded Long Cove precinct. It's a warm, bright Saturday afternoon, and everywhere is thrumming with early Christmas shoppers. She notices people, noticing her. Especially guys. Guys give her long looks, sometimes grinning or winking.

  Alix always smiles back.

  She feels tall – not physically tall, but larger than life. Striding the streets, all the world laid out before her. She burns bright as the sun. Glowing.

  'Do you think that would suit me?' Fern taps gently on Alix's arm, pulling her up outside Miss Minx, the snow-sprayed window crammed with sparkly party tops and brash Christmas outfits.

  'Hang on,' Alix calls to Courtney, who has gone battling past as if she hadn't realised they've stopped.

  Courtney comes back, glances in the window, and pulls a face. 'It's rubbish here. Everything falls to pieces after the first wash.'

  'It might not.' Alix pretends to scan everything, as if she's thinking it all through, then shakes her head. 'None of it's special enough for you, Fern. I can help you do better than that. I want to make you look fantastic.' She thinks maybe she should dress Fern herself – and Courtney too. Even if Courtney insists on everything being black, she should be able to find things that are subtle and exotic. 'Think different. Think distinctive,' she says, leading them both away.

  'Think different, think distinctive. Think different, think distinctive.' Fern repeats this as they carry on past the Wimpy and Waterstone's, Woolworths and Wallis Shoes.

  Alix glances over her shoulder at Courtney, whose face is set and still beneath her mask of pale make-up.

  They're so different, the three of them, but guys seem to like that. It gives them a choice. Or at least, they're getting regulars now. It started with Tom and Dale, but now the whole thing is spreading. It's all word of mouth – the way she pictured it would be.

  She runs this phrase round her head. Word of mouth. Words whispering secrets. The invisible power of information passed on. Excitement rides up through her again.

  'What about here? It's only just opened.' It is Alix who stops them all now. 'I saw an internet site for this line last week. Cobwebs – they do designer wear but it's sort of Dark Arts. A particular look. It might work on you, Courtney.'

  'Maybe.' Courtney has her arms folded and is scowling at a display of mannequins in black loose-knit dresses, high boots and long gloves. 'I don't like those though. They're see-through. And it looks like the moths have been at them with all those holes.'

  'Come on, we should at least look inside.' Alix says this brightly, but sighs inwardly.

  Being with Courtney is like dragging a brick around sometimes. They push through the door. It's done up for Christmas in here too, but the theme is very dark. Heavy green holly and blood-red berries. Nothing glitzy or party bright. Alix decides that Dark Arts will be perfect. She wants to really push this 'different look' idea. Courtney needs to be inscrutable. Sultry. Fern is the innocent – natural. And she . . .Alix studies her face as she passes a holly-decked mirror. Mirror, mirror on the wall . . . she'll be the most glamorous one of all.

  Beside her, Courtney rummages along the rails. 'These dresses are a bit short. I mean, disgustingly short.'

  'Disgustingly short is good. We could match them with lacy stockings. Guys will go nuts for you.' Alix keeps watching her 'most glamorous one of all' reflected face. She is suddenly fascinated by the way her mouth moves when she talks. The way her eyes light when she smiles. She shakes her head slightly and her hair shimmers, tumbling. There is no vanity in this. She feels detached from herself. An observer. She is seeing what guys see. Understanding in a way that has never quite hit her before, exactly what it is that guys want.

  She likes guys. She loves guys. There's nothing wrong with trying to give them what they want.

  'They're pricey too. I don't know that I want to pay out this much for a bit of old rag.' Courtney has pulled one of the dresses out and is holding it against her.

  Alix looks at her with her new 'guy's eyes'. 'Think of it is as an investment. You have to speculate to accumulate – remember we did that in business studies last week? The more sexy you look, the more guys will keep coming back. So you'll make even more money. Sexy equals guys equals money equals sexy equals guys equals . . . '

  Courtney interrupts her. 'They're really stretchy too. They'll make my backside look big.'

  'Guys go for that. Your ass is your asset. Trust me.'

  Courtney thunders out a look, and then shrugs. 'I can't be bothered to try it on. I'll get it as long as they do a refund scheme.'

  'Good idea. We can check it out back home then.' Alix leans against a pillar that is draped with fine silvery lace, while Courtney joins the queue for the till.

  'Your ass is your asset. It's like the first line of a poem, isn't it?' Fern nudges her.

  Alix smiles, and tries to work out what Fern will look best in.

  All that afternoon she watches them try things. Persuades them to buy things. She smiles warm approval. She tells them they're fantastic. And she feels high on it. Flying. It is like playing the fruit machines, dropping in the coins. Buzzers and beepers and a million lights flashing. Win Win Win. Only they're not playing for two pences here, and their chances aren't random or pre-set.

  'What about you?' asks Fern at last, swinging her carrier bags as they leave Just Eve. 'You haven't bought anything for you.'

  'I thought I'd try The Lanes.' Alix checks the time on her mobile. 'Those designer places – The Dress Agency where you got me my birthday present, and some of the smaller places round there. If you two are all spent out, we'll head off now, before they start closing.'

  They walk on quickly, Courtney and Fern still behind Alix, both loaded down with bags and trying to keep up. Alix glances back every few minutes, just to check they're still following.

  She's still feeling high. Still smiling at everyone.

  The Lanes are busy too, and harder to navigate a path through.

  'Oh look – they've got the decorations up,' breathes Fern.

  'They're not going to be officially lit until next weekend,' Courtney mutters back. 'The council have kicked off about it this year. Although next weekend is still way too early, if you ask me.'

  Alix thinks about all the money getting spent on looking good and owning things. She can't decide which of the two is most important, and then decides it's actually both. Looking good AND owning things is what it's all about.

  The Dress Agency is soft carpeted. Fragranced. The dresses are all satin and silk. Beaded jackets. Film star shoes.

  'It's all so beautiful.' Fern is wistful. 'I could never afford anything like this.'

  'Maybe next time.' Alix is barely listening. It's out of her range too – even with her new improved bank balance – but she's dreaming now. It never hurts to dream.

  Someone squeezes past, knocking their elbow against her. 'Sorry.' It is a male voice, rich and deep.

  Alix angles herself sideways, letting him pass. A model-tall, dark-haired girl with a sulky mouth is clinging to his arm. She stares after them and thinks they look ridiculous because the girl is so much taller. He's not just short, he's squat. Toady. She thinks he looks familiar – she's seen him somewhere before. And whoever he is, he's old – way too old for the clinging limpet.

  And then he turns round and looks straight at her.

  Alix can see the reaction in his eyes, even from the other side of the shop. He looks as if he's been kicked in the gut. Slapped in the face.

  Alix has often seen reactions like this in guys' faces, but never from 'oldies'. But maybe she's never taken any notice of 'oldies' before.

  Would it be so bad, to go with an oldie? An oldie with money, of course. An oldie with money could help a girl look good and own things.

  She smiles at him – not a full on smile, but something more subtle. A tease.

  'Come on, Hugh.' The Limpet is pouting, dragging at him.

  Hugh nods at Alix and she nods back, her eyes holding his.

  She thinks she h
as never seen such raw yearning and she feels a shivered excitement.

  He holds the look for a moment more, and then turns away.

  'I know him,' Courtney says in a low voice. 'Or at least, I've seen him about. He flashes around in a bright blue Ferrari. It's very distinctive. You must have seen it.'

  Alix tries to focus on a black and gold dress but her gaze keeps sliding back to where Hugh is standing. He has his back to her now, and she narrows her eyes at his thinning dark hair. Shoulder length. It's too long for his age, and peppered with grey.

  She watches as he picks out a pastel silk blouse and holds it up against The Limpet. The Limpet takes it from him, slouches across to a gilt-framed mirror, and checks the watered pink against her face.

  Hugh follows her, murmuring something – presumably – about how it looks.

  Alix thinks that pastel pink is all wrong for The Limpet. Her tones are too brash. Too bronzed. She's a prime case of over-tan. Lucky for her she's young, so she's getting away with it for now. She'll be an old walnut by the time she hits thirty.

  The Limpet hooks the blouse back up on the rail and presses her palm against Hugh's cheek. He kisses her fingers. Jewelled fingers. Moneyed fingers.

  Alix wonders if it was Hugh who has decorated her fingers so lavishly. She wants him to look round at her again, but he doesn't.

  'Wow.' Fern nudges her. Alix blinks, irritated. Fern is pointing to a shelf lined with soft leather bags. 'Look at those – the prices. Does that say £200? Just for ONE bag?'

  Fern's voice seems to bounce out in the hushed luxury of The Dress Agency, and Alix feels as if even the dresses will shudder and cringe. She doesn't want Hugh to turn round and see her boggling like a silly kid at the price of handbags.

  She likes the idea of him fantasising about her, even if she never sees him again, and she wants the fantasy to be wonderful.

  'Come on,' she says, gripping Fern by the wrist and shooting a nod at Courtney. 'Let's go.'

  Outside she walks – strides – back along the cobbled lanes and round into the main town again. She hasn't bought anything but she doesn't care. She'll drive in on her own tomorrow. She doesn't need Courtney or Fern's opinions anyway. The crowds have thinned out now, the afternoon turned dusky. Guys grin and wink, and she smiles back, but her head is still running through the scene in The Dress Agency. Hugh isn't the only one with a fantasy.