by Judy Waite
She closes her eyes, the red heat of the sun swimming under her lids.
'Hello. I join you?' She blinks her eyes open again, squinting up.
It's Stephan or Stefano or something, one of the waiters from the hotel.
He's handsome in that pretty Spanish-boy way. Dark eyes. Curling lashes.
'You holiday on own?'
She smiles at him, shading her eyes so she can see him properly. 'I needed a break. I've been working hard.'
'What job you do?'
Her hair blows across her face and she pushes it back, considering her answer. 'Student,' she says at last.
'I student too. I study Madrid. Christmas here just for money.'
She nods and smiles again and he smiles back. His smile is beautiful. Wide and warm. A million girls would fall in love with him immediately.
'I take you out tonight,' he says. 'I buy for you some special Christmas meal?'
Dark eyes. Curling lashes. So sweet. So gorgeous.
A million girls, but she doesn't feel anything for him. She has stopped feeling anything for guys. She gazes back at them, and works out how much they might be prepared to pay.
She doesn't do this with the pretty Spanish boy now though. She knows these waiters scrape and bow to get their hard-earned euros, and they're not going to part with it for a bit of fun with her. Anyway, it's too risky – things could get nasty if he turned her down and the hotel manager found out what she'd been offering.
And besides, she doesn't need it.
She's already busy tonight. She's got an agreement with a bearded American whose pale, freckled wife always has to go to bed early.
* * *
Fern sits by the tree, the fairy lights twinkling, glittering the room.
Mum is in the hall, on the phone to Gramps, and Dad is asleep in the chair.
The television flickers out the annual film which she never watches because she can't sit and concentrate on anything for that long.
The day has been everything that's safe.
Presents by the bed. Presents under the tree. Crackers and turkey and a Christmas pudding that Dad poured brandy onto and then made magic with a ghost blue flame.
She has loved it. She would like to hold it here, in this moment, and play it back over and over again and never have anything else happen.
Outside, their house is wrapped in a soft grey mist that cotton wools them in.
There is a scatter of pine needles across the carpet, and she thinks she should get up and get the vacuum cleaner to sort it out for Mum, but not yet. Not just yet. Just beside her is a fallen bauble – one of the timeless silver ones they unwrap from mist soft cotton wool each year. She lifts it gently, holding it by its tail of cotton and letting it swing. It has caught the room in its silver dome and she sees herself in it, very small, distorted.
In the chair behind her, Dad snores. Once she would have thrown cushions at him, and he would have woken and grumbled, and then laughed and thrown them back.
Now she is glad he is sleeping. Glad of the rhythm of grunted sound. Just glad he is there at all.
She's been so cross with him lately – with both of them, slamming doors and shouting and staying out late even though she knows Mum can't bear it. Today she feels different. Today she feels an ache for them as she thinks about the way she's been.
She brings the bauble closer, holding it between two fingers now to stop the swinging.
The small distorted reflection stares out at her, a yellow paper crown that Fern had forgotten she was wearing skewed untidily on her head. Fern thinks that maybe there is another world in the thin-silvered glass. Maybe the skewed-crown girl looking out is as real as Fern is. Maybe she is thinking Fern is the distorted reflection.
Outside, the mournful voices of foghorns muffle across the mist.
'Mince pies?' Mum pushes her head around the door.
Fern nods, kneeling forward and looping the tail of cotton back onto the branches of the tree, a new rain of needles rattling down. 'That would be great, Mum. Thanks.'
The silver bauble trembles, touched now by the colours from the fairy lights. A world where it is always magic. Always Christmas.
Fern thinks about the girl inside, and wishes she could swap.
* * *
The bearded American is short and round. He arrives at her room with a bottle of sparkling wine and a bouquet of flowers. The flowers are red. Velvet petals. Fragranced. Alix doesn't ask how he got them past his wife.
He has even remembered a corkscrew. 'You've done this before,' teases Alix.
'I reckon maybe you have too.' He speaks with a soft slow drawl.
She has dressed up for him. A piercingly blue sundress. Matching blue gemstone necklace and heavy hooped earrings. High high shoes. She smiles at him again and holds out two glasses from the tray beside her bed.
He pours the wine and it fizzes out, trickling onto her thumb.
She licks it off slowly, watching him watching her. Then she raises her glass.
'Happy Christmas.' He's paid extra. Her Christmas bonus to herself.
'Happy Christmas.'
She pats the bed beside her. 'Just come and sit by me. I've got to settle a few details with you first.'
He nods, listens, his head on one side as if she is explaining a long list of symptoms.
'Sure,' he nods. He pays her in euros.
She slips the notes under the tray, wondering whether she'll spend them all here, or have them changed when she gets home. She turns her back to him and looks at him over her shoulder. 'Could you unbutton my dress?'
'Sure.' he leans towards her and kisses her neck.
'Mmmmm. You're gorgeous. Fantastic. What would you like me to do?'
'Why don't we take a bath together?'
'Mmmmm. Wonderful idea. Just give me a minute while I get it lovely and warm for us.' She kisses him deeply and then draws away, running a bath full of silvery bubbles. 'Our 186 very own pool of magic,' she whispers as she comes back out, taking his hand and leading him through into the steaming room.
It is later, as he is buttoning back up his shirt, that he pauses and looks at her. 'You might have done it before,' he says, 'but you're still pretty new. There are things you should learn.'
'What sort of things?' Alix is propped against the pillows, feeling film star exotic in a new silk robe that she bought from the local town. In fact – she bought three. The other two are presents for Courtney and Fern.
She can't decide whether to be offended, or curious, about what he's just said.
He leans across, touches the necklace, and then the earrings. 'You should steer clear of these. And these.'
She puts her hand to her throat, her fingers over his. 'Why?'
'Think about it.' He twists the beads slightly. 'Just think.'
Alix feels the tightening pressure on her throat. She stares at him, and swallows hard. 'No one's ever tried to hurt me.' Her voice grows tense. No soft purring or sexy giggles now.
He drops his hand away, but his eyes rove over her, examining the detail. 'Those earrings would rip through your lobes in a struggle. That belt on your robe – someone could strangle you with it. You're asking for trouble. There's some real hard-nut psychos out there.'
She edges away from him, iced fear closing her in. Maybe he's really Fern's worst nightmare. Maybe he has hidden an axe amongst the blood-red bouquet.
He stands up and buttons his fly, and his voice is suddenly tired. 'You've gotta take more care.'
She reaches for her wine, trying to keep her voice calm. 'With what?'
'First thing – there's diseases. You can catch stuff – real bad stuff.'
'I never let anyone do anything without a condom.'
He reaches for his socks. 'Make sure you keep it like that. Herpes and Aids are incurable – although even condoms aren't one hundred per cent. Sometimes they split. But there's other stuff too. Always make your clients at least wash their hands. Maybe even get them to take a bath, like we did j
ust now. That way you'll be sure they're clean. They can still carry bacteria on their fingers. And that's the side of it you can control.'
'What about . . . the other side?'
'Girls getting themselves roughed up. Raped. Sometimes it's just been the bodies. You don't ever know who is buying your time – or what the guy really wants for his cash.'
Alix watches him lace his shoes as he talks. The wine tastes flat, all the sparkle gone. What does he mean by 'the bodies'? Do murderers put their shoes on before they lunge? He double knots his laces and rubs the back of his hand against his bearded chin. 'Let's start with your hotel door – look at it.'
She looks. 'What about it?'
'You've left the key-card on the wall beside it. How d'you know I won't sneak off with it when I leave – and let myself back in later?'
'I . . . '
'And you've been happily drinking wine with me. What if I'd spiked it? I could've had you unconscious in five minutes.'
Alix puts the empty glass down onto the bedside table. Her hand is shaking. No one even knows he's in here with her. Will the hotel check if she doesn't go down for breakfast? Will she make the front page of the papers back home?
He stands up, checks his face in the mirror, and turns back to her.
She is sitting very still, hands clenched, wondering how quickly she could grab the internal phone and scream for help.
'I'm sorry,' he says, and his voice seems gentle and genuine.
Sorry for what? Is his gentle genuine tone an act? The lull of his voice before the storm of what he's about to be sorry for.
'Truth is I've seen too much. Been around too long. Trust me. Girls like you are a psycho's dream.'
'So – how do you know so much?' She has edged herself nearer the phone, but maybe she should have made a dash for the door.
'I'm a doctor.' He glances at his watch, and then looks back at her. His eyes are gentle too. Almost sad. 'Downtown New York. We get it all in my practice.'
She stares at him. Pictures crowd her mind. Bodies bruised. Battered.
'Stay safe, little lady. And thank you. It's been a great evening.' He smiles again but his eyes seem full of sorrow and she wonders if he's got those pictures in his mind too.
She watches him walk out through the door. Hears the ping of the lift. She gets up, checks the key-card. He didn't sneak off with it – but he might have switched it. She checks it again.
Then she goes to the mirror and runs her finger along the crystal gems of the piercingly blue necklace. She tightens it, twizzling it round one finger until it leaves small marks, like bites, in her neck. Would it snap before she choked? And if it did, would it even matter? There's still the belt. The murderous hands. Whatever size he is, he'll be strong. Mad psycho killers are always strong.
Up until now it's just been a game.
She needs to sharpen up a bit – wise up.
Studying her reflection, she thinks that it won't happen to her. She can't imagine her face with bruises. She can't imagine her eyes bulging out of a choked lifeless face. But she's learnt some important lessons tonight and she's going to make some big changes when she gets back home.
It's lucky she met the bearded American, and he's put her straight before anything bad happens to any of them.
* * *
ALIX GOES WITH COURTNEY to the Drop-in Centre. 'It's a good idea for us all to start getting checked regularly anyway,' she says. 'I'll hustle Fern along here next week, when it's hopefully not so busy.'
Courtney is almost too tired to speak. She's been sick, sicker than she's ever been after vomiting from the morning after pill, but the deal was she'd come back for tests once the clinic opened properly after the holiday.
They sit in the waiting room, Alix leafing through a magazine, Courtney trying not to meet the eye of any of the other girls sitting tense and uneasy on the orange plastic chairs.
'Lisa Cullen?' A nurse comes out, young and slim and neat, her hair in a tidy French plait down her back. Courtney stares at her for a moment. This is someone with a respectable job. A respectable life. The nurse glances down at the sheet in her hand, and then round the room. A plump girl gets up and goes off with her through the double doors.
Alix nudges Courtney. 'Nurses,' she whispers. 'Guys go for nurses.'
Courtney doesn't answer, but wonders if that's going to be Alix's next great plan. Costumes for them all. Nurse costumes. Maid's costumes. Clown's costumes – for all she knows or cares.
'Courtney Benton-Gray?' This is a different nurse. Older than the last. Courtney's heart sinks. She's probably going to get a lecture. The Inquisition.
She gets up, hoping there's no one here who might have recognised her name, and follows the nurse through the double doors to her fate.
She'd got drunk. That was what she'd already told them when she came in for the emergency appointment. Got drunk Christmas afternoon and didn't even know the bloke's name.
It's weird, she thinks now, that this was more acceptable to her than saying what really happened.
She doesn't want to go back over what really happened. And anyway, what's the point? Apart from Alix and Fern, who could she dare to tell? 'OK, sweetheart . . . ' Courtney is startled by the warmth in the nurse's voice. Her eyes fill suddenly, threatening to spill. She swallows. Bites her lip. Digs one nail into the palm of her hand.
'. . . I'm going to need to ask you a few questions. Tick a few boxes.'
Courtney nods, mumbles through her answers. Boyfriends? Allergies? Has she ever had a sexually transmitted disease?
'And now it's just the bloods, sweetheart.' The nurse puts down the tick list and picks up a kidney-shaped tray with some small empty tubes arranged along one end. 'Just roll up your sleeve for me – and hold your arm out – there – that's a good girl. You'll just feel a tiny tiny pinprick.'
Courtney stares out of the window. It's a clear day, brittle. The sky is high and blue. Small soft clouds float past, reminding Courtney of the cotton wool she used to use for cloud pictures at school. She starts to count them. Counts all the clouds in the sky . . . four, five, six, seven . . .
'All done, sweetheart, that wasn't too bad, was it?'
Courtney looks down at her arm.
The nurse is dabbing at her pinpricked skin with a small soft cloud.
She sticks on a plaster and gives Courtney a smile. 'Pop back in a week,' she says. 'We should have your results in by then.'
* * *
'Do you know anything about electrics?' Alix kneels on the bed, watching Dale get dressed.
He pulls on his sweatshirt and looks at her. 'What sort of electrics?'
'I want some wiring done. I need a buzzer set up in here. Something we can hear downstairs if there's ever a problem.'
Dale goes over to the mirror and smoothes down his hair. 'Do you get problems then? From some of the guys?'
'Nothing major. We get a few weird requests sometimes, but if it's too strange we just say no.' Alix smiles at him in the glass, thinking Dale's not averse to making a few weird requests himself. 'But I'm thinking more of insurance. Something in place for a "just in case" scenario.'
'It sounds out of my league. You need a real expert.' Dale picks up his jacket from the end of the bed. 'But I'll ask round when I'm back on campus tomorrow.'
'I can pay him in kind.' Alix gets up from the bed and pulls on her robe. 'If he prefers.'
Dale laughs. 'If you're offering that, you'll probably find ten guys clutching meters and screwdrivers lined up on your doorstep by tomorrow lunch time.' He hesitates for a moment. 'In fact, you don't have a burning urge to learn football, do you? I'm sure I could teach you all you need to know.'
She winds her arms round his neck. 'You just want to see me rolling around in mud,' she murmurs.
He presses against her. 'You know me too well,' he murmurs back.
She lets him squeeze her for a moment, and then draws away. 'Oh – one other thing. Can you ask if anyone can do plumbing too? I want a small si
nk in the corner.'
'I'll check around. I'm sure I can get you a whole en suite fixed up. Sauna. Whirlpool. Your wish is my command.'
She pulls him to her again, biting his ear and softening her voice. 'A sink is plenty – but if you can find me good guys, I think you'll have earned a bonus – I'll give you something extra special next time you come.'
He bites her neck, bunching her hair in one hand and pulling her head back slightly, his other hand moving down her body.
'I said NEXT time,' she giggles, kissing his forehead and taking hold of his hands. She needs him to get going now. She has to get showered before Courtney's appointment.
'Ah, you drive a hard bargain,' Dale groans. 'I'm getting all wound up again – just the promise of your "extra special" time.'
But he doesn't try anything else. That's the fantastic thing about clients like him. They respect her, and they understand the rules. It's not always as easy as that with everyone.
'I'll go hurrying off – back to Sussex to gather an army of experts. See you soon, I hope.'
'The sooner the better,' smiles Alix. 'Call me next week. I'll let you know how it's all gone.'
'You bet.'
She follows him down to the front door. 'Drive safely. I'll miss you.' She blows him a kiss as he gets into the four-by-four, winking the headlights and beeping twice before he reverses out of the drive, and away.
* * *
Fern waits for Alix to bring him up.
'Just remember to make him wear a condom. And he has to wash before he starts,' she'd said.
There is a knock on the door. 'Come in.'