Free The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood

here. As long as you like. Till we work out what to do.’
    She glances up at Vic. He’s standing by the sink, his face inexpressive. If he has any feelings on the subject, he’s not sharing.
    Jackie goes pink about the nose and takes a pack of blue Camels from the pocket of her jacket. Searches around for a lighter.
     Vic clears his throat.
    ‘I’m sorry, Jackie,’ he says, ‘d’you mind taking it out to the garden?’
    She looks surprised, as though no one has ever suggested such a thing before, but picks up the pack and starts to get up from
     the table.
    ‘I’ll get you an ashtray,’ says Vic.
    She looks unexpectedly grateful. ‘Thanks,’ she says.
    Amber follows her out on to the patio, Mary-Kate and Ashley tip-tapping quietly at their heels. She’s proud of her little
     patch of ground. The salty estuarine soil makes it fairly useless for growing things, but she’s filled it with pots and baskets
     of busy Lizzies and geraniums and verbena, and the little garden is bright and welcoming. The chairs are tipped up against
     rain, their cushions in the shed. She pulls them out, brushes water off their coated-wire seats. ‘Sorry,’ she says.
    ‘What? Oh, no. Don’t be stupid. It’s your house.’
    Vic appears with the ashtray, puts it on the table, smiles and retreats indoors.
    Jackie lights up. Amber can see the nicotine bliss cross her face, remembers it well. She gave up for Vic, but she still misses
     it, every day. ‘God, you have an ashtray. Most people don’t do that, and then they give your stubs
looks
, like they’re nuclear waste or something. Even when they’re in the bin with the potato peelings.’
    ‘Yeah, we’d never do that,’ says Amber.
    ‘No,’ says Jackie, ‘Vic’s got the manners of a priest.’
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t go
that
far,’ says Amber, but quietly she thinks, yes, that’s how the world would sum up our relationship,probably:
polite
. Vic has great manners. It was like getting into a big warm bath, meeting Vic: having doors held open and appreciation shown,
     knowing that a dish eaten from would quickly be cleared and cleaned. After all those years, she’d been quite afraid of men,
     of their drives and stubbornness; thought them bullies, only interested in personal gratification.
    And then there was Vic. Hands always clean despite the running repairs that form a large part of his duties on the Funnland
     rides. A please and a thank-you and a protective arm ushering her through the crowds. She remembers noticing him, the way
     he’d give a helping hand to customers as they tottered on and off the rides; how he’d always have a smile and a laugh for
     anyone who wanted one; how he could appease the most swaggering yob in search of aggro. Whitmouth relationships aren’t long
     relationships, on the whole, but it’s six years they’ve been together now, and if politeness is the price you pay for longevity,
     then thank God for good manners. All those years, when she longed to fetch up in a place of calm – she still finds it difficult
     to believe it’s happened.
    ‘You don’t realise how lucky you are. I’d give anything to have a bloke like that,’ says Jackie, and looks tearful again.
    Amber reaches out and rubs her forearm, feels awkward doing it. She’s never really learned the touchy-feely habit; hasn’t
     thought of Jackie as an intimate. ‘Don’t, Jackie,’ she says. ‘It’s all right. You’ll be all right.’
    Jackie stares at her cigarette, her face working. Mary-Kate comes and stands on her back legs, front paws resting on Amber’s
     thigh. Automatically she takes her hand from the arm and chucks her dog behind the ear.
    ‘It’s not
fair
,’ Jackie bursts out. ‘It’s just not bloody
fair
. I
never
catch a break.’
    Vic appears in the doorway, calm as ever. He’s carrying Jackie’s bag. ‘I’ll put this in the spare room, Jackie,’ he says.
     ‘OK?’
    Amber knows that the gesture is more about his aversion tomess than about