Game Girls (2 page)

But at least her head is clear now.

And she's not going to keep the money. It's
dirty. It's wrong. When she gets home she's
going to put it in a bag with a brick, and chuck
it out on the bog-soft riverbed at low tide.

Mucky money. Mucky ending.

That's the best place for it.

* * *

'Fifty quid?' Alix hits the hold button, looks up
from the fruit machine, and widens her eyes at
Fern.

'I just . . . it just happened.'

'When?'

'Yesterday. In the afternoon.'

Alix lets her last coin rattle into the slot. The
machine dings and flashes. The arcade is
manic, bells and buzzers exploding all round
her. She wonders if she's hearing Fern right.
'You mean – you went with some older guy in
his car and . . . '

'I think I'd had too much to drink.'

Alix can accept this. Too much to drink can
mean half a cider for Fern.

The machine judders round its row of
symbols. Three cherries. There is the tinny
rattle of money being dropped. She scoops it up
with one hand and feeds another coin in,
narrowing her eyes at the machine. There must
be a way to calculate your chances of winning.
The symbols can't really just be random – there
must be some sort of pattern that she could
learn. If she cracked that, she could make a
killing. Easy money.

Fern stands slightly to one side, watching
Alix hook out a fresh tumble of winnings. 'I
know I've been stupid. I wasn't even going to
tell you. I got him from the internet.
DateMate.com. You know – one of those
lonely hearts ones.'

'Don't worry about it. You've survived.'
Alix shrugs. 'Be grateful he was just a lonely
old git and nothing worse.' She steps back from
the machine, dropping the coins into her bag.
'I'm bored with this one. Let's go and look for
Courtney. She was only going to the loo to sort
out her hair. She must be done by now.'

'Promise you won't tell anyone?' Fern
touches Alix's arm and holds her hand there.
Her big Bambi eyes are anxious. Begging.

'I promise.' Alix resists the urge to shake her
away. She hates being hung on to. Clung on to.

'
But d'you think I'm a . . . you know. . . a
slag?'

Alix smiles and shakes her head. 'No.
Just . . . ' She hesitates, rolls the word 'stupid'
round her head, then changes her mind.
'. . . green.'

'Like my name then?'

'What?'

'My name. Fern. Ferns are green.'

'Oh. Right.' Alix breathes an inner sigh.
Patience. Patience. Fern's one of those 'do your
head in' people – she only got to know her
because she and Mum stayed in
River's View
when they were scouting for a house – but she
doesn't mind her in small doses. In fact, she can
tolerate most people. She shapes herself to see
their point of view. Shapes herself to be the way
they want her to be. Now, she links her arm
through Fern's. 'I'm doing a sort of gathering for
my birthday next weekend. Just a few of the
crowd from college. I've only just planned it
because my mum apparently can't get back for
the actual day.' Alix isn't completely sure she
wants to let Fern in on this, but it won't hurt –
and every now and then she feels sorry for her.
'My brother's coming too. Aaron. He sent me a
text this morning. He said he would bring some
mates.'

'Do you get on with him?'

'He's fantastic. But I'm hoping I'll get on
with his mates even more. I'm saying my
prayers that they'll all be drop dead gorgeous.'
She looks sideways at Fern, suddenly thinking
it might hurt after all. Fern will get left out.
She'll be sitting on the side, a wilting
wallflower, and she – Alix – will end up trying
to make her all right. Damn being sorry for
people. It nearly always spins round and spits
in your face. She'll have to persuade Aaron to
spend some time with her. He might not mind
– after all, he won't be looking to get off with
anyone himself.

'You're dead lucky, having a brother. I wish
I did.'

Dead lucky. Alix examines the words in her
head. Dead. Lucky. The two words somehow
don't work together. She wonders how the
phrase started out? What sort of people would
be lucky being dead?

They push out through the arcade door and
into the car park outside. The afternoon is
warm for so late in the year, the sky blue and
high. Alix refuses to stand by the Ladies. 'It'll
make us look like we're touting or something,'
she says. 'We'll go over here. By my Mini.'

'What's "touting" mean?' frowns Fern.

Alix ignores her. She can ask her mum when
she gets home. 'Hey – nice car. That blue
Ferrari. Over on the right, by the ticket
machine.'

'Oh yeah.' Fern nods like an enthusiastic
puppet, staring in the wrong direction. Alix
wonders if she even knows what a Ferrari is.
Alix decides she could just see herself in a
Ferrari. Or maybe with the owner of one. She
knows her cars – or knows enough about when
to be impressed. Knowing about cars is one of
the pearls of wisdom Mum has passed down.

Near the steps that lead down to the beach a
guy with Rasta hair is sketching one of those naff
pastel touristy portraits. Next to him a gang of
seagulls squabble over a squashed bag of chips.
Alix thinks the image of birds is all wrong. People
use words that make them mystical. Graceful.
The truth is they are loud ugly scavengers just out
for themselves. She's not sure if this is a good
thing, or a bad.

The door to the Ladies bangs open, and
Courtney swings out. Short, gelled black hair.
Black eyes. Black clothes. 'It stinks in there,' she
wrinkles her nose. 'I thought I was going to die.
Overcome by fumes. D'you think I could have
sued?'

'Money won't do you much good if you're
dead.' Dead. Unlucky. Alix leans back against
her car, watching a toady, long-haired guy who
is definitely past his sell-by date head over to
the peacock-blue Ferrari and get in. He revs the
engine. Reverses. Drives off. Maybe being with
the owner of a car like that wouldn't be so
good after all.

'Shall we go down to the beach? Mess about
a bit?' Fern has a childlike tinge to her voice.
Let's make sandcastles. Oh let's. Oh let's.

Alix glances at Courtney, who glances back
at her. A tiny shake of the head. A shared smile.
Almost invisible. 'It'll be too busy. Beach
people annoy me. Let's walk to the shops –
there's still another two hours on the parking
ticket. I can't afford to buy anything, but it
won't hurt to look.'

'D'you need a job?' asks Courtney, as they
start to walk. 'There're vacancies at Easi Shop.
I could get you an application form.'

'Sweet of you but . . . I'm trying to hold out.'
Alix's smile is all sugar.
Not in a million years.
I wouldn't be seen dead working in Easi Shop.
'
Mum isn't sending enough allowance – too
caught up with her latest lover to be thinking it
through. I'll have to plead poverty when she
comes over next week. I'll fill the fridge with
mouldy beans, and tell her we'll have to share
tea bags.' Alix thinks about Mum's latest lover
– Creepy Carlos. His mouth is too thin. He's
got eyes like a snake. But he's lavishing luxury
on Mum in Tuscany, and Mum likes being
lavished in luxury. Too-thin mouths and sly
snake eyes can be ignored when luxury is being
lavished in.

'Do you think she'll stay with him?' Alix
can hear the fascination in Fern's voice.
Everyone is always fascinated by Mum.

'Doubt it.' The truth is, Mum never stays
with anyone. Two years has been the longest,
and that was for ever ago. Uncle Ray. Alix can't
even remember what he looked like.

They strike out along the promenade, then
turn left and head down the cobbled lanes
towards the shops.

'Hey look.' Alix stops by the gold embossed
window of The Dress Agency. 'I love that. It's
sexy. And the colour . . . all shimmery blue. It's
in the sale. £199.99 marked down to £49.99.
That's a hell of a drop.'

'Two hundred quid is a stupid amount.'
Courtney stands with her arms folded, glaring
at the dress. 'No wonder they had to knock the
price down.'

'It's not that much.' Alix shrugs. 'My mum
wouldn't dream of even trying on anything
that's less. This is probably just end of season.'

Fern leans to the side, trying to peer round
the side of the mannequin. 'It's gorgeous. So low
at the back, though. You couldn't wear a bra.
But I bet it's lovely on someone tall and slim.
And blonde.' The huge eyes blink round at Alix.
'Someone like you.'

Alix thinks it through for a moment. 'I've
got one of those stick-on bras. It just fixes
round the front,' she says slowly.

Fern nudges her. 'Try it on. Go on. Maybe
your mum could do a credit thing over the
phone.'

'Like I said – she's too caught up with
Carlos to even listen to my moments of great
need. But I can work on it. She's promised to
fly over next week. She's bound to take me
shopping then.'

'It won't be there by next week.' Courtney is
backing away, her mouth turned down as if
she's been sucking a sour sweet. 'Not if it's
really a bargain.'

'Go on, Alix. At least try it. Maybe they'd
put it by.'

Alix hesitates again, teased by the
possibility. 'It's my colour, I suppose.' And then
she thinks it'll be no good after her birthday
anyway. Where the hell would she wear it in
this end-of-the-earth town? 'Forget it. I can't be
bothered.'

She heads off after Courtney and they strike
on along the cobbles, turning right into the lane
that leads back out towards the promenade.
They're better off back here, where there at
least might be some action. Window shopping's
such a tedious waste of time.

It's not until minutes later, when they're
standing beside the railings that run along the
edge of the beach, that Alix realises Fern hasn't
followed them. 'We seem to be missing
someone.'

Courtney is watching the glittering water.
'Maybe she had to get home. Guesthouse
duties calling. There's a short cut to her house
just down a bit from the beach.'

'Maybe.' Alix remembers Fern's pervie car
park moment and hopes she hasn't got herself
abducted or anything. Perhaps the blue Ferrari
guy offered her a boiled sweet. Fern's dopey
enough to take it. Alix thinks she should have
got the Ferrari number plate so she could be a
stunning super memory witness when the
police ran the story on
Crimewatch
.

She watches the water with Courtney for a
moment; white yachts and motor boats, and
the car ferry bumbling along to God Knows
Where. It's all so boring. Boring boring boring.

Alix turns away as a guy walks by, an easel
under his arm. She remembers him – the Rasta-haired
artist from outside the arcade.

Perhaps she can have some fun with him.

'Hey,' she calls, 'you were sketching in the
car park just now, weren't you? D'you want to
do a portrait of me? I've just made my fortune
on the fruit machines.' She rummages in her
pocket and brings out a handful of copper
coins.

He stops and smiles at her. 'I've just packed
up, but I'll be back here tomorrow.'

Alix puts one hand on her hip and pouts.
'That's tragic,' she sighs. 'I'll be busy then.'

He looks troubled, as if he's really sorry.
'I'm truly washed up. I've been working all day.
But you choose any other time next week, and
I'll be here for you.' He glances at Courtney.
'Both of you. I'd like to do you both together.'

'I bet you would.' Alix looks at Courtney
too, but Courtney is ignoring them. She's still
staring out across the sea. Alix turns back to
the guy. 'Tomorrow morning. First thing. We
haven't got any lessons till later.'

He shifts his easel, nods and grins, his smile
all warmth and enthusiasm. 'I'll look forward to
it.' He raises one hand. 'See you tomorrow,' and
walks on.

Alix watches him go. 'Like hell he will,' she
murmurs. 'I wouldn't want one of his cheap
touristy scribbles even if he turned out to be the
next Picasso.'

She checks her mobile for the time. Still an
hour left on the car. Leaning back on the
railings she gives Courtney a sharp nudge.
'What shall we do now?' She scans the
promenade, as if hoping for magicians;
marching bands; men eating fire. She's bored
again.

* * *

Fern takes the shortest route back to
River's
View
, hurrying along the coastal path that
fringes the edge of the river. The tide is out and
the air belches a stench of seaweed and mud
and things rotting.

She is always drawn to it – fascinated by the
moods that tug and pull at the water. The daily
debris of washed-up secrets, the sullen weight
of mud when the tide slides away – but most
people just see it as sludgy. Sludgy and smelly.

It wasn't always this bad though – not until
the weather started changing. Dad used to say
that was why the currents were so dangerous.
The new high tides have grown more and more
powerful, affecting the pull of the undertow.

He used to get really worried about the
environment, and how things were changing. It
really mattered to him that no one cared
enough and nothing would be done until it was
too late.

Used to. There are other things that take all
his energy now.

Half walking, half running, she hits the
quieter end of the path. Normally she would
stop here, soaking in the strange, almost
prehistoric, mud-slimed view. Today she
presses on, passing the ancient wreck with its
ribbed wooden frame that juts out of the sludge
like old dinosaur bones. She rounds the final
bend that curves up past the rotting jetty, and
leads on to
River's View
. Fern fights a sudden
impulse to skip towards it, the way she used to
do when she was little.