The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood

– has always made her feel like she’s dancing on the edge of a precipice. I know he loves me,
     she thinks. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me that. And I know I’m just paranoid. Vic’s as loyal as the day is long.
     But I wish other women wouldn’t keep reminding me how many of them would be in the queue if there was ever a chance. ‘He’s
     not just a pretty face, you know,’ she says. ‘There’s more to him than that.’
    ‘Yeah, but he
is
a pretty face,’ says Jackie. ‘And Jesus, the arms on him.’
    ‘Arse?’ asks Maria. ‘Jacks, did you really just talk about Amber’s bloke’s arse? You’re awful. You just don’t know when to
     stop, do you?’
    ‘Arms,’ protests Jackie. ‘I said arms!’
    ‘Yer, right,’ says Maria. ‘C’mon. We should start cooking, if we’re going to.’
    Amber gets up on her haunches, and the dogs, lying on a corner of the rug, prick up their ears. She shushes them down and
     flips the top of the cooler. She’s been to Lidl; she’s the only one who has a car. And besides, she wants to do something
     for them all. The loss of wages will hit them hard in a couple of days, and she feels strangely responsible. As though she
     didn’t just find the girl, but planted her there.
    ‘OK. Burgers, chicken, sausages. Blessed, there’s rolls in that placcy bag over there.’
    ‘Amber Gordon, I love you. What would we do without you?’ says Jackie.
    ‘Find someone else to twist round your little finger, I should think,’ Amber replies. But she feels warm and pleased. Glad
     she made the effort. She separates out the burgers and lays them on the grill of the nearest barbecue. They’re fatty. A cloud
     of cheap-meat smoke rises from the coals.
    Maria waves a hand in front of her face and lights a cigarette. ‘Oi oi,’ she says, looking up the beach towards the pier,
     ‘you’ve got company, Jacks.’
    They turn to look, and see Martin Bagshawe standing by a waste-bin, watching them.
    ‘Dear God,’ Maria frowns at him, watches him catch her stare and look away, ‘does he never take that anorak off?’
    ‘Not as far as I know,’ says Jackie. ‘Never seen him without it.’
    Even when you were fucking in the Cross Keys car park? wonders Amber. Slaps her own wrist.
    ‘He still calling you?’ she asks.
    Jackie nods. ‘Yup. Creepy little fuck. I wish he’d just –
go away
.’
    ‘We could get the boys to have a word,’ says Maria, ‘if you want.’
    ‘No worries,’ says Jackie. ‘Looks like your steely glare’s done the job anyway.’
    Martin turns away, trudges off towards the manky dark bit under the pier. There are steps on the other side, leading up on
     to the boardwalk, and an exit on to the Corniche. Doesn’t want to walk past us, thinks Amber. Afraid we’ll say something.
     And he’s probably right too. Behind them, Moses executes a sliding tackle on Vic, shingle showering out on either side. The
     women roll, as one, to their knees. ‘Whoa!’ shouts Jackie. ‘Oh my
Gaad
!’ yells Maria. Amber leaps to her feet. ‘Are you OK? Baby?’
    The two men sit up, look at the women with surprise, pull each other upright and barrel away towards the far goal.
    ‘Don’t you want to play, Ben?’ Amber turns back to Blessed’s fourteen-year-old son, who leans silently against the breakwater,
     reading a biology textbook. Benedick glances up, shakes his head and goes back to the page. He’s a serious, slightly pudgy
     child. Amber suspects that the weight of his mother’s hopes for him hang heavy on his shoulders. He’s got the MP3 player plugged
     into his ears; he shrugs without taking the earphones out to hear what she’s said, and carries on reading. I hope he’ll be
     OK, thinks Amber. I hope he gets to be happy.
    ‘How’s he getting on at school?’ she asks his mother, flipping the burgers as she speaks.
    ‘OK,’ replies Blessed. ‘He’s high in his class,’ she adds proudly.
    ‘That’s good. He’s clever.’
    ‘He’ll