by Judy Waite
She does none of these things. She stands back, nudging Alix forward.
Alix makes herself walk into the nursery alone.
At least the floor here is carpeted, and she can tiptoe towards the crib.
It's a big room – too big for a baby – and refreshingly cool, with a fan washing out a humming breeze from the corner. The curtains are closed and the light is very soft, a muted glow lying like a film over the cream walls and curtains.
Alix reaches the crib, and looks in.
My Little Carla is awake.
'Hello there,' Alix makes her voice baby soft and wonders how long she'll have to keep this up for. My Little Carla struggles to look up at her with blinking, unfocused eyes.
Alix stares down at her. Maybe it's just the way the light gentles the room, but My Little Carla's skin seems smooth and clear; she has fine wheat-blonde hair that already has the hint of a curl, and such a perfect nose. Such a pink petal mouth. Alix wants to hate her, and can't.
Carla yawns, waving her hands which are bunched into tight tiny fists.
Alix reaches down to touch one hand, stroking the perfect miniature fingers. The baby lies still with the touch, as if she's letting it soak into her, trying to make sense of this looming stranger.
As Alix leans in closer she draws in a fresh, sweet, untainted smell. A smell all baby and new. Pressing gently against the tiny fist she feels Carla relax slightly and then tighten her hold again, this time clinging to Alix's index finger. The grip is so fierce, so strong. It is as if this brand new miniature person will never let her go.
Mum tiptoes up beside her. 'She's got such tiny hands, hasn't she?'
Alix bites back the stinging reply that says something about her looking silly with anything else, and nods. Carla's eyes are still searching hers, her hold still locked onto her finger.
'I remember standing like this with you. I so loved watching you. I could stand over you forever.' Mum is murmuring, gazing down into the crib.
Alix feels a rushed, 'What happened then? Why did you stop?' But the accusation locks in her throat. This isn't the time, or the place.
'I used to talk to you too, and you'd follow me with your eyes – the way she's doing with you now.'
Alix feels dazed by Carla's eyes. Such brilliant blue. 'What sort of things did we talk about?'
'Oh, I don't know. What Aaron was doing at playschool that day. What Daddy was up to. What you wanted to be when you grew up.'
Carla's eyes now move to Mum, the look deep and intense, as if this is all incredibly interesting information.
Alix wonders how much babies understand. Maybe they are born knowing everything. Maybe life just makes them forget, day by day, until by the time they can talk all the knowing is gone and they have to start learning from scratch again.
'A dancer,' says Mum. 'We talked about how you wanted to be a dancer. Although if I'm honest, it was my dream for myself really. It was me who had wanted to dance. I dropped out of drama school when I met your dad.'
'You must have been gutted by me then.' Alix glances sideways at her. 'I hated those ballet lessons you dragged me to.' She remembers Mum's various stabs at getting her to classes. She hadn't minded the dancing – not when she could be bothered to put her mind to it – but she'd hated all the sweetly poisonous little girls fretting their way through grades and shows and competitions.
Mum smiles. 'No – you haven't wound up as a dancer, but . . . ' She touches Alix's arm. 'I'm so proud of the way you have turned out.'
Alix tries not to flinch.
Mum leans down towards the crib, and Alix suspects the ooohing and aaahing is probably about to begin. 'We're proud of your big sister, aren't we? She's clever. She's independent. And she's making a success of her life. Not like her silly mummy.'
Alix glances round the too-big nursery. She thinks about the sprawling white-washed villa. She thinks about Carlos is his sleek black Mercedes. 'You look like you've done all right to me.'
Mum sighs. 'I married too young. Wrong man. Wrong dream. It went downhill from there.'
Alix thinks about this downhill slide. She finds a long-buried memory of herself, about four years old in a silly bobbled hat, clinging uncertainly to some 'Uncle's' arm. Aaron is next to them with Mum, and the four of them are sliding, skiing down the side of a mountain. There was a photograph somewhere, once, but she doubts if Mum has kept it.
Mum never carries any baggage from the past.
Carla starts whimpering. Not a cry, but a protest. You're ignoring me for too long. Alix thinks maybe she should have done more of that herself.
'She needs feeding.' Mum is leaning in over the crib now and Alix steps back, easing her finger away from Carla's grip.
The cry gets stronger – more of a wail.
Alix thinks, for one mad second, that perhaps she hadn't wanted her to let go. The thought gives her a rush of warmth, and she stands uncertainly, wondering if she should always be here. Move to Italy. Devote her life to keeping this beautiful, new half-sister safe.
'Oooops, smells like we need changing now, too,' coos Mum. 'Mummy will sort you all out. Mummy will make everything all right.'
She smiles at Alix, and Alix smiles back. She would like to tell Mum about her life back home – not to shock her, but to stop her. To stop her being the same with Carla as she was with her. And to let her know that she didn't, for Alix at least, make everything all right.
'What a pong.' A voice at the door stops her. 'Looks like I've chosen a bad moment.'
Alix turns to see Aaron bounding in towards them. He kisses Mum – a proper lip-against-cheek kiss. He kisses the soft downy curls on the back of the wailing Carla's head. And he hugs Alix, that warm and gentle big brother hug.
'Great that you made it. Have you seen the pool yet? It's humongously huge. We ought to go for a swim.'
Alix glances at Mum, who has moved to the far side of the room. She is laying the now screaming Carla on a yellow plastic mat.
'Be with you in a sec,' she says to Aaron. 'I'll find out where Carlos has put my stuff, and grab my bikini.' She's going to be there for Carla – if she ever needs her. She'll move out here to Italy if she has to. But it's not going to be yet.
* * *
FERN WATCHES Muscles Mick walk away into the star-bright Saturday night, and then closes the door.
Earlier, when he started to get rough, she thought she might have to ring the buzzer, which she has never done before. None of them have. But she stopped him from hurting her – she asked him not to twist her arms above her head, and he did. He said sorry too, at the end, and he even looked like he meant it. Sometimes blokes don't realise what they're doing.
She's noticed that.
She thinks those ones are probably the most dangerous.
She is bone tired. She should go back upstairs and shower, and she will in a minute, but she suddenly isn't sure it will help.
'Dirty girl.' Muscles Mick said this in a way that made it sound like her being dirty was a good thing, but all she could hear was Mum's voice from forever ago. 'Fern – look at you – you dirty girl – all that mud on your hands, sweetheart. Let's get you all bathed up and lovely again.'
She thinks now that Alix has made her lovely on the outside – or at least lovelier than she was – but something inside is all smeared up and soiled.
She walks into the kitchen. She'll get her usual hot chocolate before she does anything else. She is longing to sit with it quietly, the mug cupped in both hands, the taste sweet and hot and safe. And then she'll find a way to tell Alix she's had enough. If there are already bookings for next week, then Fern will come back for those, but after that, she'll be finished. Alix will be cross – she'll probably cut her off, but Fern isn't sure she even cares anymore. She just doesn't want to keep feeling dirty on the inside.
'Fantastic news.' Alix looks up from sorting the night's earnings into three neat piles.
Fern feels a moment of panic, scared she is going to announce there's some ne
w last minute booking that she wants her to take on.
Courtney, who is sitting at the table opposite Alix, rubs her eyes and yawns.
'I just had a call through from Aaron – while you were both upstairs – and we're all invited to a party. He did mention it when we were in Italy last week, but I wasn't sure if it would really happen, so I've been keeping quiet about it. I didn't want to waste time telling you if it didn't come off.'
'Count me out.' Courtney shakes her head. 'I'm shattered.'
'It's not tonight. It's in two weeks' time. One of his mates from university knows this guy who lives near here, and he's – well – mega rich. Millionaire. And the party's at his place. It's one of those huge houses with gardens that run down to the river.'
'How come we've been invited?' Courtney studies her nails, which Fern notices are ragged and bitten.
Alix raises her eyebrows. 'It's simple – his mate – I don't know who she is – she's trying to get something going with this millionaire and she's managed to wangle herself some invites – but she needs a lift down.'
'And?'
'And Aaron's agreed, but says the deal is he can bring who he wants – and he thought as it was so near, we might want it to be us.'
'So is he picking us up from here?'
'I said we could get a taxi but he wants to drive us and I couldn't push it. He thinks I'm a struggling student and I can't risk shattering the illusion.'
'Don't you ever worry someone will shatter it for you? His mates have sent us enough custom. What if someone gives him "the word" one day?'
Alix shakes her head. 'It won't happen. I'm sure of it. He wouldn't be interested enough to follow it through.'
'Must be a real gentleman then.' Courtney gives a sudden, hard laugh.
Fern stands, locked tight in the moment, listening to the possibility that she will see him again. She has the sense of something rushing through her. An ache. A longing. She's not sure if she's excited, or scared.
Courtney heads for the fridge. 'Why us? Why doesn't he bring a girl for himself?'
Fern looks from Courtney to Alix.
The answer hangs like an axe over her head.
'He . . . ' Alix hesitates, looking down and checking something in one of the piles of notes. '. . . he's between partners at the moment. He's not with anyone.'
Fern hears this like a song of freedom.
He's not with anyone. He's not with anyone.
All this time, since Alix's party, she has tried not to let herself think about him. But thoughts, daydreams, fantasies come drifting up and she is lost in them before she even realises they've happened. Sometimes they float in when she is working in the boathouse. Sometimes they nudge her at college when she's struggling with the work. Once they brimmed up out of her, making her cry as she stood by the river watching geese fly.
She doesn't understand how it is that an almost stranger can just scrape past her life and leave such a mark. A gouge. A scalpel sliced across soft clay.
'We'll get really glammed up – we'll go shopping for something special – and we'll have the weekend off. A night out together. And . . . ' Alix hesitates again, picking up a ten-pound note and blowing it a kiss. She lays it back on the pile a small smile on her lips. '. . .who knows who we might meet? Who knows what contacts we might make for the future?'
Fern waits for Courtney to take a can of Coke from the fridge, and then gets out the milk. She finds the mug and the hot chocolate amongst the muddle in Alix's cupboards. Pulling out a saucepan, she pours in the milk and lights the gas. She can't tell Alix about giving up now. Not for two weeks. She can't risk being dropped from the invitation.
She has to at least see him. He's chosen her and Courtney and Alix to go somewhere special with him, and it might mean something. It might be a complicated way for him to get to see her again. She knows it's madness to think like this – but it's a chance she can't just let go.
The milk bubbles up, boiling sooner than she'd expected. She makes the drink all creamy and steaming, and sits down at the table with the others. She sips it and it's too hot – burning her tongue, but she hardly notices.
If he does want to see her – if he shows her he's interested again – at least she's learnt something these last six months. At least she'll know what to do.
* * *
Alix watches through the window as Courtney and Fern arrive, both in taxis that pull up at the same time.
She goes out to greet them. 'You look fantastic,' she smiles.
'I hate this. It feels too tight.' Courtney smoothes the black dress down round her hips, and picks irritably at the low cut neckline before following Alix inside.
'You look great too, Alix.' Fern hurries in behind them. She is in a thin-strapped cream dress, her hair crimped, a butterfly hair slide pinning it back just above one ear.
One of the straps has slipped down over her shoulder and Alix hoists it up again for her as they stand in the hall. 'Keep your back straight. They won't do that then,' she whispers.
Fern nods and bites her lip. Her eyes are wide, anxious. Alix thought she might have toughened up lately, but maybe that's impossible. She's asked Aaron to keep an eye on her again, and she hopes he remembers. She might be a pain but she gets a lot of 'regs'. She does better than Courtney most days.
'These are the pashminas – the shawls I ordered in from The Dress Agency.' She lifts three soft tissue parcels from beside the door and makes her voice sound sales-lady posh as she hands them out. 'Black with a cobwebby silver weave for the dark-eyed diva, and sweet butter cream yellow for the girl with the gorgeous hair.'
'Ladies, ladies.' Aaron appears at the top of the stairs. Dark jacket. Silk cravat. The silk cravat is undone. 'Excuse the state of undress,' he grins as he moves towards them. 'I can never get these beggars right.'
'Leave it like that then.' Alix's own dress is just above knee-length, emerald-green silk, a long thigh-length slit down one side. She has a Dress Agency bag to match, her own green silk pashmina, and silver stilettos that are a shoe fetish guy's dream – although she's not going to be working tonight. Scouting, yes – but working – no. 'An undone cravat is more sexy anyway.'
'Then undone it shall remain.' Aaron turns, offering his arm to Fern. 'Ladies, as your official driver for the night, I shall escort you to the car. I've already dropped Daisy off, so I know where we're headed.'
Fern blushes. Takes his arm. Alix and Courtney follow on behind. Minutes later they are in Aaron's Saab, driving through the evening. People are out cycling, walking dogs, standing chatting.
The air is muggy with a heavy, weighted warmth.
'It's so beautiful.' Fern is in the front seat, looking from side to side. 'Look at the sky. It's a sort of dusty lilac.'
Alix doesn't care about the dusted lilac sky. She is thinking about Carla. It's curious, the effect the baby has had on her. Mum sent her a photo and she's stuck it on the fridge. It's incredible how much she's grown, even in such a short time. She comes into her head at all sorts of odd hours – even when she's with a guy, which is never the ideal moment. It is as if something has struck up between them that she can't cut free from. In fact, she doesn't even want to.
They drive over the bridge and into the quiet lanes that run along the edge of the river – Fern's shabby guesthouse lies on the other side, where the shore is muddy and washed up with all sorts of muck. This side is very different.
Aaron whistles. 'Look at these houses. This lot must be dripping in gold.'
'I think it's sick.' Courtney folds her arms and slumps back in the seat. 'Some of these are even second homes. Having that much money is grotesque.'
Alix glances at Courtney and wishes she'd sat in the front, away from her. She looks out at the luxurious, detached houses, and they seem to taunt her. One day she wants to be living in a world like this – not around here, but somewhere where no one will recognise her. Only it's going to take a lot more clients, and a new business plan, to get there.
Everything
is great as it is, for the life she's living now, but it won't be enough. Not for much longer.
Maybe she could get in more girls? If she upped her own percentage, and tripled the income, she could just reserve her favours for special occasions. Special guys. Maybe guys like the ones she's going to meet tonight.
'This is it, ladies.' Aaron turns the car into a long sweeping drive, crammed up with Morgans and Porsches and BMWs.
Pushing the business dilemma to one side, Alix gets out of the car and stares up at the house.
'Wow.' Fern is goggle-eyed. Entranced. 'It's amazing. A real film star's palace.'
Alix turns to Aaron as he fires his key at the Saab door, and then scrunches across the gravel to stand with them. 'Your friend seems to have picked herself a winner,' she smiles. And then she spots the peacock-blue Ferrari.
* * *
Fern leans back on the bench, Alix's pashmina wrapping her against the evening. She doesn't need it. It's a warm night – the heat of the day still choking the air. But Aaron has tucked the pashmina round her. Sat next to her. Has his arm stretched along the ornate iron back rest.
The cocktail is sweet strawberry, iced, and with real fruit floating in the top.
She sips it, making herself savour it slowly, reminding herself that behind its pink innocence it's probably laced with brandy or tequila or some other liquid demon that wants to addle up her head. She doesn't want that. She doesn't want addling. And anyway, it's Aaron she's drunk on. Aaron spinning her world around. He hasn't left her side, and tonight is a cocktail of magic and dreams.
'It's an amazing place. I've lived in Long Cove forever, and I've never been in any of the houses round here. It's another world, isn't it?' She struggles to keep talking, determined to sound confident.
'Absolutely. Yes,' says Aaron.
'I can't imagine what it's like to live somewhere like this though. Can you?'
'Absolutely not,' says Aaron.
'Would you even want to?'
'Absolutely probably,' says Aaron. And laughs.