---

Sylvie woke early on the day of the party. She was anxious about the weather. If it rained, they’d have to have it indoors; it wouldn’t be as much fun. She went downstairs, barefoot in her lemon silky pyjamas – shorts and a shirt, a birthday present. Her mum was already busy, loading drinks onto the trestle table and slathering bright yellow margarine onto stodgy white teacakes.

‘What shall I do, Mum?’ Sylvie asked her. Normally her mum would have asked her to mop the floor or dust the living room, but she just gave her a kiss on the cheek and handed her a cup of tea and some white toast.

‘I’ve got this under control, I think. You take that up to your dad, then get yourself ready.’ Margaret looked at her delicate gold watch. There was still ages before anyone would arrive.

Sylvie sat with her dad for a while. He propped himself up in bed. It felt a bit weird seeing him with his top off. He lolled his head to the side and reached out for Sylvie’s hand, smiling at her. The intensity of it spooked her, the way he was looking at her. It was almost more than she could bear. She squeezed his hand back but didn’t move any closer.

‘We’re going to have a good time today, you’ll see,’ he said. The purple shadows under his eyes reminded Sylvie of the coloured segments from Trivial Pursuit. Her parents played it sometimes with Victoria’s mum and dad. The room would be scattered with empty wine bottles the next morning.

Michael squeezed Sylvie’s hand. ‘You be good for your mum, won’t you? Do as she says?’ The future he was referring to went unspoken.

‘Are you going to be alright?’ she asked him. She meant, ‘Are you going to get better?’ and that was the question he answered.

‘Stranger things have happened at sea,’ he said, one of his phrases.

After a while, he fell asleep and Sylvie disentangled her hand.

Sylvie busied herself getting ready. In the bath, she shaved her legs, using one of the pink razors her mum left on the side. It was blunt and drew tiny droplets of blood up her shin. Saturday programmes played in the background on her little portable TV. It was never fully tuned in, lines across the screen warping the picture.

She decided on wearing red jeans and a navy crop top that buttoned up the front, the thinnest strip of flesh visible. She wouldn’t get away with any more. The hem of the top was squiggly like a phone cord and she liked that detail. Victoria had the black version of the top because they got them one Saturday afternoon – two for five pounds, or they would have been if Victoria hadn’t sneaked them into her rucksack and sauntered out, not telling Sylvie until they were on the bus home. Sylvie looped coloured beads around her neck once, tightly like a choker, and then let the rest of the slack hang down.

She admired herself in the mirror. The fresh foundation gave the illusion of clear skin. Later, especially in this heat, she knew the cheap make-up would wear off. Stubborn clumps would cling on and remain, the colour somehow turning orange. Her spots would start to creep through. New ones would appear out of nowhere.

She sprayed herself with a cloud of fruity-smelling body spray and went downstairs. Her mum was in the hallway and Sylvie braced herself for a comment, steeled herself for a row, but Margaret just kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘You look lovely, sweetheart.’

Sylvie pretended to be embarrassed, or not to really notice, but she loved what her mum had done with the house. She had transformed it into something magical. Across the hallway, Margaret had hung coloured paper streamers. Loads of them criss-crossing all the way down the hall. At the corners of the doors and along the spindles in the bannister she had tied clusters of bright balloons.

‘Looks good, Mum. I still don’t know why we’re having this party, though.’

‘I thought it would be nice, while the weather’s good.’ Margaret’s smile was tight.

Something was going on behind the curtain of her expression. Unease churned in Sylvie’s stomach. She hugged her mum stiffly and Margaret squeezed her back harder than usual, kissing her on the top of her head and smelling her hair. Then she gently pinched Sylvie’s stomach where the crop top was showing it, but for once Sylvie didn’t recoil or pull away.

‘Come and look at this food, Sylv, will you? See if we are missing anything.’

Margaret lifted the paper tablecloth off the buffet. It was only lightly touching everything, almost floating. She’d even bought the tablecloth especially – usually she would have used one of the ones left over from Christmas, but this one was bright pink with yellow stars and she’d got matching napkins, cups and plates, too.

On the table there were egg sandwiches, ham sandwiches, cold pizza, sausage rolls, chicken legs, crisps, chocolate cornflake cakes and a Swiss roll. So much food. Sylvie had managed to dodge breakfast and her mum had been too busy to notice. The sight and smell of all this food unleashed a surge in her, hunger, stronger than her willpower. She stole a sandwich when her mum wasn’t looking.

The first people to arrive were Mum’s friend Aileen from work and her husband. Sylvie didn’t catch his name. Everything about Aileen was loud. She had a bright pink skirt on and a tight T-shirt with a palm tree. Her fake tan made it hard to make out what she actually looked like. All you saw was the tan and the pattern on the clothes; her features were hardly there.

After Sylvie had taken the coats upstairs, she came back down and they were still standing in the doorway, carrier bags swinging off their wrists, a bottle of wine in a blue bottle half-heartedly held aloft. Her mum took the wine and gave Sylvie the carrier bag.

‘Put these out, will you, petal?’ Margaret said to Sylvie, without looking at her. In the bag were some chocolate fingers and a big family bag of crisps. They never usually had this kind of stuff in the house, especially during a cottage cheese and grapefruit period. Sylvie emptied the fingers onto a plate and the crisps into a bowl, stuffing a handful of each into her mouth. She had to pretend she was looking for something in the cupboard under the sink, when Margaret, Aileen and her husband came past, because her mouth was still full.

Next to arrive were some of the neighbours from along the street, with an armload of cans of lager and a box of wine. More crisps, and cheese and onions on sticks stuck into a foil-wrapped orange. Greasy, wizened little sausages. One of each went into Sylvie’s mouth, the cocktail stick scratching and drawing blood from the roof of it.

After that, the house suddenly seemed to become very crowded. People were wedged into every nook and cranny downstairs, and each time Sylvie took coats to her parents’ room, she had to wiggle past people coming up and downstairs.

From the kitchen, Sylvie watched her dad out of the kitchen window, while she filled a vase with water for flowers that someone had brought. He was laughing and talking away.

Eventually, Victoria emerged through the living room, pushing through crowds of people, a red top tied around her waist. At the front of her long hair were two very thin plaits. Sylvie was struck by how pretty she looked, followed by an aftershock of resentment, papered over with a smile. Victoria soon broke off from her parents, and she and Sylvie were in their own little world.

The party went on around them, but it didn’t look like much fun to Sylvie. Just people sitting around sipping drinks, chatting about DIY and work and mortgages. Sylvie saw one of her mum’s friends pat her husband on the bottom, pinching it lightly. He turned and looked at her as she drank her wine. The way their eyes were locked made Sylvie shudder.

Margaret rushed past with some empty paper plates and a bin bag. ‘You OK, love?’ She ruffled Sylvie’s hair, which she never did these days, and Sylvie patted it down again to smooth it.

Sylvie went to answer her but her mum was already gone.

It started to get late and dusky, a Tizer-coloured sky and candyfloss-pink clouds. People’s chatter and laughter got louder; some people were visibly drunk, staggering backwards and trampling on the flowers. Sylvie ventured uncertainly out into the garden, threading her way through people dancing unsteadily, small groups standing chattering. Shoes were off now, women standing in their tights, dirtying their soles on the grass.

Her dad was sitting on a chair at the bottom of the garden, chatting to a couple of people, and she went over. He waved to her and winked. He’d caught some colour from the day’s sun, evenly across his face. It made him look well again.

Back inside, Victoria was sitting on the sofa in the dim living room, flicking through the TV magazine.

‘You OK, V?’ Sylvie said, and when Victoria turned to her, in this light, something about her looked sly, the gloom casting deep shadows underneath her eyes.

Victoria jumped up. ‘Let’s get some booze.’

She went into the kitchen and Sylvie followed her. Victoria reached behind a group of people. A woman was hanging off a man’s every word. They eyed Victoria suspiciously, but soon went back to their conversation. Victoria handed Sylvie a bottle of wine from the fridge and she handled it like Kryptonite, standing there ‘catching flies’ until Victoria gave her a push towards the stairs.

They both ran up towards Sylvie’s room. Margaret was coming down the stairs. Sylvie felt herself tense up, her heart quicken, but Victoria just gave a little wave and pushed past. Margaret turned and watched her go. As she passed, Sylvie noticed her mum looked flushed and glassy-eyed, as if she had been sick.

Sylvie closed the door behind them and they laughed until they were breathless. But something didn’t feel quite right too. Victoria had one of her edges to her.

Victoria tossed the wine on the bed and it bounced. She started to unpack the small bag she was wearing across herself. She pulled out four miniature bottles of vodka, three chocolate bars and a serviette that was stuffed with sausage rolls from downstairs.

‘Fuck that boring lot. No offence to your parents, but let’s have our own little party! Stick some music on.’

Sylvie’s stomach already ached from all the food she had eaten, but she popped one of the sausage rolls in her mouth to soothe her nerves, grease oozing from the salty meat.

They sat on the floor, backs to the bed. Victoria put plaits in Sylvie’s hair just like the ones she had. The pulling against Sylvie’s scalp made her eyes water.

‘Ow,’ she said, and the tension increased. ‘So, where you been all week?’ Sylvie asked. ‘Not seen you at all.’

‘Around,’ Victoria said moonily, a strange smile on her lips like sunlight catching on water.

Sylvie got a flash of déjà vu and then it zipped away again. She had seen that type of look on someone else. They’re with you, but they’re thinking about someone else. The curtains are closed.

‘You been seeing Ryan?’ Sylvie forced it out like when she played Pontoon with her dad. No matter what her hand of cards, she would always twist, twist, twist. Say it fast enough and it’s too late to change your mind.

‘Might have been.’ Victoria swayed her legs from side to side and screwed the cap off the wine. Sylvie felt too full and sick to drink.

‘Be careful, V. My mum’s gone to a lot of trouble for this party. Let’s not spoil it, eh?’

‘Oh, boohoo. Your poor mum,’ she said, waving her arms around. ‘Live a little, will you? Everyone else here is pissed.’

Sylvie took a swig of the wine to try to smooth things over.

‘The other day Ryan and me went to Morecambe. He’s got a car, you know. We stopped off on the way. On the moors.’ Victoria’s tongue was in her cheek. Any guilt she’d had about Ryan, and Sylvie’s feelings, seemed to be gone. It felt as if now she was twisting the knife.

‘So, are you going out now?’

‘Dunno – I’m going to see him tonight, though. Surprise him at the house.’

There was a scuffle against the door, and Sylvie’s and Victoria’s eyes met. Sylvie turned the music down and they both listened, staring at the door handle. Sylvie was worried her mum or another adult was about to find them. But it fell silent, just the distant sounds of the party downstairs.

‘Tonight? When?’ Sylvie looked at the clock. It was already after nine.

‘Later later. There’s a party round Ryan’s so I’m going to go. You better not say anything, though. If anyone – and, I mean, anyone – asks, I’m staying here, right. I’m going to sneak out after.’

Her tone had a shade of threat in it. ‘My dad thinks we’ve finished so I don’t want him knowing,’ she said.

The shuffling sound outside the door was back, two long shadows in the crack of light; legs. Victoria put her fingers on her lips and Sylvie held her breath. After a few minutes, the dark shapes went away again. Sylvie turned the music up loud.