Game Girls by Judy Waite

slowly
through into the front room.
    A window has been opened and a breeze
filters in, shivering the blinds. Picking her way
across the cushions and the debris of a spilt
ashtray, she thinks the room isn't too bad.
Considering. Just an empty beer glass on the
shelf. Scattered CDs on the floor. The stain of
something she decides not to investigate
shadowing the far corner. And the presents.
    She knocks back the rest of the water, goes to
the hi-fi and turns it on. She wants the company
of sound. A band she doesn't know, which is too
loud and too brash, bashes out something about
shaking free.
    She keeps it on. The too-loud sound shakes
the roots of her thoughts. Stops them from
growing. She realises she was afraid of herself in
the silent house.
    Kneeling by the pile of presents, she picks at
them as if they are a meal she is being forced to
get through. Love from Patti. Have a great day.
Go for it, babe. A perfumed candle. A voucher
for Virgin music. A sequinned picture frame.
There are others, but the energy for opening
them drains from her. She wishes Courtney had
stayed over. Or even Fern.
    She keeps kneeling, her head dropped
forwards, her hair swinging limply and
covering her face. She is trying not to
remember other birthdays.
    Mum always bought her birthdays – she
paid for convenience; church halls, magicians
and clowns, caterers, DJs. Parties were never
held at home because Mum never had time to
organise them properly. The guests were
usually different from year to year – they
hardly settled anywhere for long – and
sometimes Alix didn't even recognise the
smiling face above the proffered gift. But the
Grand Opening of Presents was always made
special. They got bagged up, packed in the
back of whatever car Mum was having
lavished on her at the time, and brought
home to be opened as a finale to the day. And
it was always a ceremony – an oohing and
aaahing over endless trinkets and toys that
would probably get packed off to charity
next time they moved. Mum always said that
'things' nailed you down.
    Alix thinks now of the villa in Tuscany. Christmas will be best. Carlos will send you the fare. She pictures the baby. She gives it sly snake
eyes. A too-thin mouth. There will be a string of
new birthdays she will never be part of – that she
doesn't want to be part of. She wonders if Aaron
feels the same way she does but knows, almost
as soon as the question rises, that he doesn't.
Aaron will love the idea in his carefree, laidback
way. He will be the one who visits. He will
be the one who brings her news she doesn't want
to hear. Photographs she will scrunch up once
he's gone.
    She has the strangest feeling, suddenly, of
being cut loose. Spinning away. The feeling is
so giddying that she has to put her hands up to
her head, pressing her fingers hard into her
temples as if this is in some way holding her
together.
    The too-loud, too-brash music clicks to a stop
and the new silence hums round her. She stands
slowly; she has been kneeling too long and her
legs have numbed up, pain needling the back of
her calves.
    She needs to shower, sort her hair out, and
wash this mood away.
    Stretching, she thinks the first thing she'll do
is to visit Courtney at Easi Shop – after that
she'll go on to Fern. She's got that Virgin
Records voucher and she'll get Fern to go with
her into Long Cove, to spend it.
    And maybe later they can both come back
and help her finish up all the crammed-in
contents of her fridge. No alcohol though.
Absolutely no alcohol. She's never going to
drink again.
    As she limps towards the door, a sound
strikes up – a mobile is ringing, tinning out an
alien tune. She scans the room, trying to gauge
where it's beeping from. She shifts cushions.
She pulls out the chair. Down on all fours, she
pinpoints the direction of the sound at last. It's
somewhere underneath the sofa. Crawling
forwards, she slides her hand underneath,
brushing away a few stray peanuts. A hair
band. Dale's phone.
    She pulls it