Game Girls (10 page)

A
LIX IS SLIGHTLY AHEAD of Courtney
and Fern, weaving them 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 has 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.

* * *

Fern lines the five bags up along the end of her
bed, then runs her finger around the top edges.
Today has felt strange. She has felt strange.

'I want to make you look fantastic,' Alix
had said.

Fantastic isn't a word Fern has ever thought
she could be, but if Alix thinks it, then she'll try
to believe her.

'We'll go out somewhere together soon – hit
town in all our new gear. Now – what about
this?' Alix held up a clingy white top. 'If you
don't like it, you don't have to have it.'

If you don't like it, you can stop.
Fern
hadn't stopped when it was Scottish Banana
Man. She didn't stop three days later when
Beer Belly Bill laid his glasses carefully on the
white bedside table, then gazed at her blindly
while he groaned. She didn't stop last weekend,
when Gentle Jim stroked her hair before he left,
whispering he loved her. These aren't their real
names – she made them up. It gave her
something to think about while she was doing
'the deed'.

Today in Ethnic she'd tried on the clingy
white top and wondered when Alix would
organise the town hitting. She pictures this now
– Alix, Courtney, and her – all of them
swinging, giggling through the streets of Long
Cove. It's funny, because she doesn't like what
she's doing with all these blokes, but she loves
what it does
for
her. It lets her in. She gets
phone calls. Text messages. Last week they'd
all watched a DVD at Alix's, and even
Courtney throws her a thin smile at college
now. She wonders if they'll know each other all
their lives. Weddings and christenings. Maybe
even funerals. Friends Forever. Forever Friends.

A memory assaults her, as if someone has
jerked her arm round behind her back. She
gave a girl a pencil case once. It was a present
at a party. They had both been about five and
writing was already a meaningless muddle to
Fern, but this girl – Frances Hall – had frowned
down at the glittery letters that ran along the
sugar pink plastic. 'What does that say,
Mummy?'

Frances Hall's mummy wore peachy-pink
lipstick with nail varnish to match, and she
pointed one of the peach perfect fingernails
down onto the letters, tracing along the raised
edges: 'Forever Friends.'

And Frances Hall looked up at Fern, her
eyes round and grave, and handed the pencil
case back. 'I don't want it.'

It had been the first time.

Later there had been 'You smell' and 'Fern
the Thicky' or things that at least gave her a
clue to what she was doing wrong, but that
first time was the worst. She had smiled and
given her face a glazed-over look as if she
hadn't really understood, and Frances Hall's
peachy-pink mummy whisked away to 'sort
out some lovely games'.