All I Ever Wanted by Vikki Wakefield Page A

asks.
    At least she’s dressed this time. She’s not wearing make-up. Now I can see how young she is.
    â€˜Hey. I’ll tell you later. Can I come in? I’m getting bitten.’
    â€˜Thanks for coming over,’ she says and sprays insect repellent past my head, into the night. ‘I hate the dark.’ There’s one stumpy candle flickering in a corner. She uses her mobile as a torch to light my way, probably forgetting that her house is the same as ours, only in reverse. The smell is far worse this time. Musty and old.
    â€˜You’re not working tonight?’ I ask, then remember that it may not be polite.
    She slides a pile of clothing off the couch and dumps it onto the floor.
    â€˜I can’t work if the phone’s out. I have a one-nine-hundred number,’ she says, as if that explains everything. ‘Even when I’m not working I have trouble sleeping at night. My body clock is backwards.’
    She goes to the kitchen. I hear the suck of the fridge door, then the chink of bottles. When she comes back she has two Bacardi Breezers. She whacks the tops off on the edge of her table.
    â€˜Thanks.’ I take a tiny sip. ‘What exactly do you do? If you don’t mind me asking.’
    â€˜You first,’ she says, taking a huge swig. She sits on the floor. ‘Let me guess. A dancer. You’ve got the legs for it.’
    â€˜Wrong. Way wrong,’ I laugh. I’d love to be able to dance. Again, it comes down to being able to look at yourself in the mirror.
    â€˜Okay. What about…a dealer.’
    â€˜You think I look like a dealer?’ I gulp. Is it possible that she knows?
    â€˜You know, a card dealer. At the casino.’
    â€˜Where did you get that idea?’
    â€˜I don’t know. You’ve got one of those faces I can’t read. You’d make a good poker player.’
    â€˜I’m still at school,’ I say, before I can feel worse about not being any of those things. ‘One more year.’
    â€˜Wow. You must like it a lot to keep going, huh?’
    I snort and she finds it hilarious. She laughs with her whole body, not just her face. She crosses her legs and I notice she has purple toenails, like mine.
    There are no photos anywhere. Nothing really tells me who she is or who she isn’t, if I don’t count the barely there underwear on top of the pile of clothes on the floor. One print of a Greek island with those perfect white buildings that look like they’re about to slide off the edge of the hillside. All those little oblong doors, beckoning. A place where the sea and the sky are the same colour. Her stuff is thrown about like she doesn’t care where it lands. There are unopened boxes stacked in one corner. Only the Buddha looks like he’s been put there for a reason.
    â€˜So, what do you do, since you left school?’ I press.
    She lights a cigarette. ‘Phone sex,’ she announces in an offhand way. ‘Easy money.’ She blows her smoke away from me in a way I find curiously courteous.
    â€˜We’ve heard some stuff,’ I confess.
    â€˜Yeah, sorry about that. Sometimes I put them on speaker. I didn’t realise until you came over the other day. I could tell you were wondering. Want another?’ She’s finished her drink.
    When I look at mine I realise it’s almost gone, too. It tastes as harmless as cordial. At least with champagne there’s a deadly aftertaste that reminds you it’s alcoholic. My arms and legs feel looser. I like it, so I nod.
    â€˜When do you think the power will come back on?’
    â€˜Could be hours. It’s okay, I’ll stay with you.’
    The candle stump is drowning in its own wax. This drink slides down even more easily than the first. The blood in my veins slows to a crawl.
    â€˜Thanks. I hate the dark,’ she says again.
    We end up at either end of the couch, our purple toes and crossed legs almost identical. I