Game Girls (7 page)

'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.

* * *

'H
OW 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 are 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 "watchdog" 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.'

'What are you getting at?' Courtney's face is
a mask of cold stone.

Alix sweetens a smile at her. Do it. Just do
it. Fern isn't going to understand, and she can
work on her later. 'I wondered if you fancied
being around? We could make them an offer
they couldn't refuse.'