PART ONE

Despite the growing panic along the shoreline, the flames continued to roll lazily across what was left of the pier; it would take its time in bringing the whole structure into the sea, unrushed by awe-filled eyes.

They watched and took in the whole sight: the way the fire crowned the waves below with a blazing glow; the disturbance when another burning fragment fell into the water, releasing a faint hiss just out of earshot; the fledgling flames licking and lashing at the sky in a bid to grow bigger against the cool night air. The crowd had gathered to line the road opposite the pier’s entrance, pouring out of bars and stopping on their drunken meanderings to watch and wait for the same thing: the moment the sound of timber shifting and metal twisting would grow to a crescendo, the whole pier collapsing and quietening the night, the spectacle over. They would mourn the pier a little longer before shuffling back into the night to their beds, to conversations over fresh drinks, to theories shouted on dancefloors.

Envy was among the crowd, her eyes watering from the heat reaching across the road. The emergency services were yet to arrive, though she darted her eyes about the people around her and wondered if anybody had even called them, or if they’d simply stopped what they were doing to gawk. Had they even noticed, she thought, that the stars above them had been smothered by thick plumes of smoke that intensified the darkness and threatened to blow inland, blanketing the town? She watched as the flames climbed high and the smoke even higher, and almost reached for her own phone.

All around Envy, people were murmuring and whispering rumours and questions – was anyone on the pier this late at night? What had started it? Was it an accident? Surrounded by the noise and hypnotised by the flames, Envy went unconcerned by the crowd’s words. She was, in her mind, a mere bystander in a future news story to be talked about and memorialised for a few years, before being forgotten again. She could already imagine the moment, a few weeks from then, when she would introduce herself to new university friends. They would ask where she was from and Envy would mumble Clayham-on-Sea, already bored of the questions that hadn’t been asked yet. Isn’t that where the pier burnt down? Envy would nod, smile, and dismiss the subject as a boring hometown story. There was nothing personal to her in the tale – at least, not that she yet knew of.

As her imaginings came to an end, Envy realised she was indeed holding her phone. She had become distracted. Envy released her eyes from the spectacle unfolding just ahead and scrolled through her contacts for the right name. Her thumb pushed the dial button and she waited for a voice on the other end.

An unseasonably cold gust of wind rippled across the flames, teasing them into a brief dance, before reaching the shore. Envy shivered, though she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t imagined the sensation; there was no answer. The low hum of anxiety that had been present since she’d seen smoke on her approach to the beach began to grow into the loud thunderous banging of her heart. She tried again, and then again. Finally, she left a desperate message.

“Answer your phone. Please,” she pleaded quietly, the smoke irritating her throat. “I know things are weird at the moment, I just…I want to know you’re OK. I don’t know if you’ve seen what’s going on at the pier. You might just be asleep. Sorry. Call me.”

Envy didn’t try again – she never thought to. Instead, she slipped her phone back into the pocket of her shorts and folded her arms together, unsure of whether she was shaking from the sea air or her rising panic. She decided to wait and watch what happened, if only to have company among all the other spectators.

It wouldn’t be until the flames had almost entirely swallowed the pier, and blue emergency lights flooded the shoreline, that Envy would finally understand why her gut had anchored her to the spot. As the emergency teams dragged the lifeless body from the water – unburnt and oh so familiar – Envy at last understood the consequences of the evening, and of every evening that had led to it. She screamed, her voice echoing out from the crowd of faces half-blanketed in shadows and blue light, beyond the wreckage of the pier, and out into the distant sea.

One Month Earlier

Late June by the sea had a lightness to it; the sun was shining, and the temperature had risen, but the world still seemed to be in the early throes of blooming, the air yet to turn thick with summer heat. For Havannah, this was her favourite time of the year.

As a child, she had wandered the pier with her mother while her father oversaw its operation; when it had become just the two of them in her teenage years, Havannah had taken to helping her dad out in any way she could. He appreciated the help, and she enjoyed liaising between the pier’s employees, the seasonal workers, and her dad. It gave her purpose.

It was because of this enthusiasm that Patrick had so easily accepted his daughter’s plan to spend a gap year learning more about the business before university. In truth, when the time had come to ready herself for a new chapter, Havannah had stalled, realising that she wasn’t quite ready to let go of him; she didn’t want to leave her dad behind, all alone.

The excuse, however, had an expiration date. Patrick had made his expectations clear, and Havannah had already exhausted her learning opportunities. She had sat with Patrick to pore over the accounts and scout new attractions during the winter months. In spring, he had taken her to meetings with other local businesses, and by the time the weather had started to warm once again, Havannah had learnt all her father could teach her.

“You know enough to run the show now, petal. It’s time to go and see some of the world,” he had said over dinner one night. Havannah hadn’t looked up from her plate, and it was then that Patrick had understood his daughter’s reluctance. “I’ll be alright, you know. Your old dad’s tougher than he looks.” He had smiled as he spoke, and she had returned it hesitantly, and they had both known that it would be much more difficult for her to move on than he had hoped.

Perhaps that was why Patrick had let Havannah get so hands-on in June – it was a consolation prize and a choice, though their mutual understanding of this went unspoken if only to alleviate Patrick’s guilt if his daughter did choose the pier and her dad over university and experiences elsewhere.

Havannah had taken to the role with ease. That morning, as the sky turned a promising blue, Havannah made her way across the pier, clutching her clipboard to her chest. Her shoes – a nineteenth birthday gift from herself – tapped rhythmically against the wood, announcing her arrival to the small woman scrubbing away in the doughnut stand.

“Morning, Deb,” Havannah called out cheerily. The sharp scent of cleaning products swam out of the open hatch and Havannah took a step back.

“Oh, morning, love!” Debbie exclaimed when she finally noticed Havannah. Her flushed face broke into a beam, and she wiped the sweat from her forehead with a bare arm. “Bloody hard work, this.”

“I remember,” Havannah replied, thinking back to her time helping to scrub counters and mop floors.

“Of course you do – you’ve done all this! Bet it’s better on that side of the hatch though,” Debbie laughed, resting her fists on her hips.

“Only a little,” Havannah lied, subconsciously pulling the clipboard closer to her. “Can’t beat the action on the ground though, can you?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. How’s your dad? Haven’t seen him down this way in a while.”

“Meetings, I’m afraid. Never seems to be out of them at the moment.”

“Hope that doesn’t mean he’s thinking of selling up!” Debbie said. She laughed, but Havannah wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not – a common difficulty with the cheery doughnut stand operator. She just smiled back and tapped her clipboard.

“You’ll be the first to know, Deb. Promise. You know dad – he’s probably looking to expand.”

“He’ll have the whole town soon!”

Again, another statement delivered with a chuckle to make it almost entirely indecipherable to Havannah. She shifted a little, uncomfortable with the perception of her father as greedy, and shook her head.

“I think he’s happy with what he’s got, Deb.”

“That’s not far off, I guess,” Debbie reasoned aloud, as if she was speaking alone. “The pier alone’s big business.”

Havannah was grateful for the sudden intrusion in their conversation when Debbie pointed over towards two figures beside a trailer that had rolled one of the seasonal attractions onto the pier earlier that morning.

“I think those lads need you, love. Better get on and help them – can’t stand here all day when there’s grease to clear.”

Following the direction of Debbie’s finger, Havannah turned her attention to the young men near the edge of the pier. One of them was waving his hands about in the air, a silent call.

She let the clipboard fall to her slide, straightened the suit jacket it would soon be too warm to wear, reapplied the smile on her face, and joined them at their trailer. The young man who had been waving approached. He seemed the boldest of the two, stepping forward with a confidence that made him seem much older – and much more tired – than his years.

“Are you in charge here? We need some help,” he said, launching into conversation.

“Hi, I’m Havannah,” she said, offering her hand. He distractedly shook it, her words barely a speedbump beneath him.

“Yeah, cool, I’m Ronan. Listen, we’ve got a bit of an issue – this board feels a bit uneven,” Ronan said, pointing down to the bottom of the ring toss trailer. He placed a foot on the bulge and pressed up and down repeatedly to demonstrate. The pier creaked beneath his worn trainer.

Havannah crouched down to take a closer look herself, running her fingers along where Ronan’s foot had pressed. Sure enough, the board had seemingly warped and bulged.

“Do you see it?” Ronan asked, leaning in close to Havannah. “Can we move to a different spot?”

Havannah looked back at him, her voice momentarily catching in her throat by the way the sun illuminated his sandy blond hair. He was more noticeably handsome up-close.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, returning to full height and trying to regain her professionalism. “I’ll get hold of maintenance, but I’m not sure about moving.”

“Come on,” Ronan said, leaning against the trailer with one arm, the other slung lazily in his jeans pocket. Havannah’s eyes travelled along the etched landscape of his upper arm, to his stubble-speckled jawline, and all the way to his stark blue eyes. “If we unfold the trailer here, one of the supports will be uneven.” He leaned in closer, lowered his voice, and smiled. “Then it wouldn’t be fair. People might accuse us of dishonesty.”

Havannah swallowed and found solace once again in her clipboard, taking the pen from its holder and scribbling a note on the paper she’d attached that morning.

“I’ll see what I can do, mister...?” she asked, shutting down the part of her brain that had been momentarily distracted by the handsome young man whose name she definitely already knew – it was on the paper in front of her and still sat fresh in her ears.

“Ronan. Costello,” he smirked.

“Nice to meet you. I’ll be back shortly.”

“I think she likes you,” a younger man piped up from the other side of the trailer as they watched Havannah walk away, running her hand nervously through her braids as she went. “Summer of love, maybe?”

“Shut up, Simon,” Ronan snapped, playfully, still watching Havannah as she struck up conversation with a different employee. He saw her steal a quick glance in his direction.

“Maybe.”

The day dragged on and on, punctuated by the occasional sound of childish excitement as a couple were led along the pier by their enthusiastic youngster, or the raucous laughter of teenagers – in school attire, but clearly skiving as the last few weeks before summer holidays stretched on and on – as they fed chips to seagulls from a tightly wrapped paper cone.

A few times during the day, Havannah had wandered about the place catching Deb’s bored face as she leaned against the counter of the doughnut stand, dreaming of being somewhere far more exciting. She’d checked everything at least twice and had even sat in the shade of the pier’s sun-exposed main structure – which housed an arcade, a bar and eatery, and her father’s office – to drink a cool lemonade. From her seat at the mezzanine bar, she’d squinted out through the glass and steel that framed half the building. The sunlight let the lush greenery thrive up there, though Havannah felt she was wilting from the inescapable sunshine. She sighed to herself for so many reasons.

“I feel that,” Ron, the server, had said. Havannah had given him a sympathetic look, tapped the bar, and headed back into the heat to check everything for a third time.

As the afternoon had hit, however, there was a sudden ripple of activity. At first, it had been a trickle of elderly people, only to swell as more families appeared. They barely used any of the rides – unsurprisingly – leaving the Waltzer to spin on emptily like a pirouetting phantom close to the shore, but they were eating and drinking and playing a few of the games. At one point, Havannah was drawn by an excited exclamation and the sound of a ringing bell. She looked over at Ronan’s game. He had charmed the elderly folks at the ring toss into another go despite winning, and they didn’t seem to mind. Briefly, they caught each other looking over, prompting Havannah to raise a hand in a small wave – to which Ronan only raised his eyebrows in amusement, still talking with a broad sunny smile to his elderly fans. Blushing, she dropped her hand and vanished herself away.

By the time the games were being put away for the night and the rides were being turned off, the pier was only playing host to a few couples on a romantic end-of-day promenade. The day had left Havannah with a little more hope than when she had started, but her concern about leaving had been compounded by the disruption in business. A lot was riding on the summer.

The sun dipped low towards the horizon as Havannah leaned against the railing towards the back of the pier. This was her favourite spot. As a child, her mother had always brought Havannah here to wait for her father to finish for the day, and Havannah still came. There was a tranquillity in the way the sun glistened against the water, tossing diamonds on every wave, only for them to disappear in the blink of an eye. Soon, when the evening crept in, the sun would be awash with amber and gold. Against Havannah’s skin, it always felt like a calm honey soaking into every pore and filling her with light. On late evenings like that, when the pier was open for night crowds as summer went on, she would make sure to capture that feeling and store it up. She sometimes wondered if she could live off the light alone.

“This was your mother’s favourite place,” Patrick said quietly, joining his daughter at the railing. Below them, the diamond-coated water could be heard lapping against the pier’s supports, rushing towards the shore at a leisurely pace; it had nowhere else to be.

“I’ll miss the view,” Havannah replied, affixed on the flat line of the horizon.

Although he wouldn’t say aloud, Patrick was tempted to push the subject. Like the tides, his daughter’s feeling towards the future seemed to rise and fall. When all was said and done, however, Patrick didn’t mind which way Havannah sailed – as long as she was happy with where it took her. He also didn’t say this aloud, though the words had formed in a breath unused more than once. Instead, he nudged her playfully.

“Let’s go for dinner tonight. Somewhere nice. Dal Mare maybe?”

Havannah nodded. “That sounds good.”

“Great,” Patrick said, standing up tall. “We’ll stop at home first. Then I have to make a quick visit to Foxy’s over the way, but it’ll only take a moment. Just business.”

Havannah’s stomach lurched, but the warmth of the sun and the gentle joy on her dad’s face, standing in the place her mother always used to wait, softened the anxiety enough for her to simply reply, “Sure.”

Patrick slipped his hands into his pockets and turned to leave, when Havannah noticed Ronan waving at her from the shuttered game.

“I’ll catch you up. Don’t leave without me!” Havannah called after him. Patrick acknowledged and carried on his stroll back to the office.

Havannah’s heart skipped a beat. She took a deep breath before joining Ronan and his brother at the game.

“So, any word on that new spot?” Ronan asked, arms crossed. The slight bulge of his tanned biceps at the edge of his t-shirt’s rolled-up sleeves made Havannah sweat a little bit more. Stalling to gather herself, Havannah pretended to consult her clipboard, scanning the paper for details that weren’t there.

“Looks like you’re in luck. Someone cancelled the season.”

The last bit was true; turned off by a decline in numbers, the owners of a dart-throwing game had cancelled their spot – though the game was rarely popular anyway, and there was nothing Havannah could do about that.

“Great. We’ll get things moved in the morning.” Ronan unfolded his arms and leaned against the game, his biceps still eye-catching in the afternoon sun as they stretched. Worried that he was about to end the conversation, Havannah dug into the well of confidence she drew upon strictly for professional matters. It had been a long time since the well had been tapped for anything else.

“Are you sure you want to move though? Looked like you were having a great time with the over-80s. You’ve got a lot of fans, though I’m not sure that’s from the game.”

Surprise lifted Ronan’s expression, and Havannah too felt the thrilling rush of electricity that came from connecting to her former self.

“It’s always the octogenarians I pull. I guess I have a type,” Ronan responded, smoothly. Havannah, however, was not convinced. The words were hasty, a little flustered, and nothing like the charming wit she’d overheard in her passing throughout the day. This worked to her advantage.

“This is a bit forward, but would you like to grab a drink later?” she asked, striking quick.

Ronan let out a laugh and shifted somewhat uncomfortably. For the first time in the conversation, she spotted Simon looking out at the water further down the pier. He had made his impatience clear by the number of times his wrist rose enough for him to read his watch. “On the condition that you don’t try and flirt again, of course. It was painful.”

Ronan seemed to relax then, his expression softening into something more relatable. The showmanship was over.

“I would, but I can’t. Sorry.”

A prickle of cold disappointment ran down Havannah’s back, and she found herself staring over a cliff edge, worried she’d let her confidence run away from her. She swallowed it down and smiled politely.

“No problem.”

Ronan leaned forward though, letting his fingers gently touch her wrist before she could get away and mourn the lost moment in private.

“But I can grab lunch tomorrow. Simon can watch the game for a bit. If that’s not too forward.”

The cold dissipated beneath the flutter of excitement in her chest.

“Then it’s a date.”

He retreated his hand and confirmed, “It’s a date.”

***

Envy didn’t like the summer. Her mother had always said she was a fussy baby in the heat, and it had become something of a characteristic that was expected of her. At school, her friends would watch her slump into the shade at lunchtime, loosening her tie while out of sight of the teachers, furiously muttering curses at the sun as she did so. To them, it was a quirk to be laughed at periodically, before being forgotten about by the time the air cooled. Even then, the early autumn months were marked with comments about how Envy must be glad summer’s over, or a snide same time next year!

It was the heat that got to her – she loved the feel of the sun against her skin, the endless blue skies, the ice creams on the beach. But the heat clung to her, making every fold of her body feel clammy and uncomfortable; she never felt clean or dry during those months. The solution, as many people had told her over the years, was to change her clothes to something more fitting for the heat. The tight jeans that hugged her thighs in winter were not good; the long sleeves she wore under baggy t-shirts wouldn’t do. The problem was that Envy hated her body. She hid curves beneath fabric, let denim bind her flesh tightly against her legs, and kept the hairs of her arms – normal, and yet darker than every other girl’s to Envy – out of sight.

Claire, however, was the opposite. In school, she had been quiet and plain – what had tied the pair of them together was their tendency to be left on the social outskirts. But now they were nineteen, Claire had found herself leaning into her body, slim and otherwise unremarkable, but framed strategically. Claire had worked to elevate plain as far as it could go – which, in a small town such as theirs, was enough to be considered worth socialising with.

“Sorry?” Envy asked, pulling herself suddenly from her thoughts. She removed her earbud and let her music turn into a whisper.

“I said you can just change the music if you don’t like it,” Claire replied, turning back to the mirror on her vanity table. The surface was cluttered with make-up, bits of paper, half-empty bottles of perfume, and Claire’s phone. She leaned over the mess to get a better look at her face, mouth agape as she finished applying the eyeliner.

“It’s OK. I was just checking out a new song,” Envy mumbled, shuffling about on the bean bag Claire had had since she was ten. She squeezed the phone back in her pocket and waited obediently.

“Is this too much?” Claire asked, turning back to Envy with her hands pointed at the glitter strewn haphazardly across her face – an ill-advised look borrowed from a magazine. Envy squinted behind her glasses and bit her lip.

“Looks great,” she lied. The gold stood out against Claire’s fair skin, giving the impression of freckles, rather than anything grander. If her friend felt confident, however, Envy was willing to tell a small fib.

Without another word, Claire went back to rummaging in her make-up bag, adding more to the growing pile of products littered in front of her. Envy liked the back of her friend’s legs. She liked every bit of her friend, but the way Claire’s long, thin legs tightened when wearing heels made Envy feel a certain way. She let her gaze linger for a moment longer, watching as the calves tightened with the swaying of Claire’s hips to the music. There was nowhere to sit down at the vanity table because the chair – one taken from around the dining table downstairs when the household had shrunk to just Claire and her sister – was covered in clothes, folded and thrown and piled high. Instead, Claire had to lean right over the chair to get close to the mirror, and Envy found herself suddenly uncomfortable at her own ogling.

In the distance, Envy heard the front door slam shut, followed by a familiar – and unwelcome – voice calling up the stairs.

“You in, babe?”

“Victor’s here. How do I look?”

Claire puckered her lips, now candyfloss pink, and span on the spot, giddily. She didn’t wait for Envy to answer, her eyes already fixed hungrily on the door. Envy wondered if Claire ever actually meant it as a question to be answered at all.

Victor strode into the room, turning his face to one side so that Claire could reach up and plant a kiss on his cheek. She had to stand on her tip toes just to reach him. When she was out of his way, retreating to her normal footing, Victor looked down at Envy, a thinly veiled disgust simmering beneath the surface of his face.

“Envy.”

“Victor.”

To an outside observer watching the scene, it would appear that Envy was defiant in how she looked up at her friend’s boyfriend. In truth, her eyes were affixed to a point just beyond his face, as if he was less intimidating simply by being less visible – but he wouldn’t know it. Victor looked away, his attention diverted by Claire calling him over to ask if he wanted a drink. Relieved, Envy dropped her gaze and fumbled with her phone instead, hoping to be temporarily invisible – at least until they were out of the house, among other people.

Over by the vanity table, Victor eyed the open vodka bottle and then the glass, almost empty save for some sticky cola residue.

“You’ve already started then,” he observed, sternly.

Claire stiffened as she reached for a clean glass reserved for her boyfriend and started to pour vodka and cola into it.

“Hey? How many have you had?” He nudged her with his elbow, disrupting the flow of cola. Some ran down the edge of the glass and collected on the table. “I don’t want to be looking after you all night.”

“It’s mine,” Envy said, suddenly. Both pairs of eyes suddenly rested on her, bringing a flush of warmth to the surface of her skin. Victor quietly sneered, while Claire let a little smile curl on the edge of her lips.

In a series of gulps, Victor drained the glass and placed it next to the vodka. Nobody was speaking and the music was of no interest to him. Instead, he inspected Claire’s face as she reapplied her lip gloss where it had been smudged by her kiss and spotted the glitter.

“What’s that crap on your face?” A firm finger ran itself across Claire’s cheek, and she protested, until Victor started laughing. “It looks like shiny dirt. Take it off.”

“I’ll have to re-do my face,” she replied, watching her reflection in the mirror, as if the girl on the other side would reach through and give her the strength to act differently. Nobody came, and her words evaporated under the weight of Victor’s laughter.

Betrayed by her reflection, Claire pulled a wet wipe from a crinkled packet and ran it across her face, undoing all the work.

“You wear too much of that shite anyway,” Victor said, no longer laughing. “Now hurry up. Your sister’s still on her shift, right?”

Claire nodded in reply, scrubbing the last of the glitter from under her eyes.

“Cool. You’re not a cheap date, you know?”

“I know,” Claire replied meekly, as if she had simply accepted this fact. Envy’s blood boiled, though there was nothing she could – or would – do. She’d played the fantasy in her head so many times, where she would stand up to Victor for her friend, her hand leaving a heavy mark on his face where she slapped him. It would never happen because Claire would never forgive her – and Envy knew she wasn’t brave enough. She held her tongue instead.

Claire hastily reapplied some eyeshadow – all there was time to do – while Victor paced the room impatiently, checking his phone and sighing. When she was finished, he was the first to leave the room, barrelling down the stairs to get the night started.

Envy pulled herself up at Claire’s insistence and met her at the door. Her friend blocked the entrance with a hand on the doorframe.

“You could’ve told me I look like a dick,” Claire snapped in a whispered voice, taking Envy by surprise. She didn’t know what to say, and so didn’t say anything at all. There was a pause while Claire waited for Envy to say something, but no words came. Envy simply wanted to go home and let the night end there. “Close the door behind you.”

She watched as Claire clumsily descended the stairs, her heels too precarious for such a journey. Her stomach turned when she saw Victor place his hand on Claire’s waist, reaching down to her left buttock for a squeeze. He looked up the stairs at Envy, smirking.

“Are you coming or what?” he asked.

Envy closed the door shut behind her and started for the descent. The sound of Claire’s heels echoed on the laminated flooring that ran the length of the living room and kitchen. By the time Envy reached the bottom of the stairs, Claire was already outside in the cosy evening air. Victor waited for Envy, leaning back against the kitchen island that faced the staircase. Unease prickled at her stomach. Victor moved fast. On the last step, she felt his hand wrap around her arm. She froze, one foot hovering off the last step. Victor’s breath was warm against her ear as he leaned in close.

“None of that dykey shit tonight, yeah? Eyes up here,” he said in a low voice, the index and middle fingers of his free hand levelling with Envy’s pupils.

With more force than she had intended, Envy pulled her arm free of Victor’s grip and landed both feet on the faux wooden floor. Victor went on ahead, stopping only to run his fingers through his hair in view of the mirror hanging by the front door. Envy took the chance to overtake him, before briefly turning back to look at him.

“Can’t keep her waiting, can we?” she said, stepping out into the peachy June evening. He grunted and followed, the front door slamming behind them both.

Outside, the taxi had pulled up and Claire had slipped her hand into the door handle.

“Do you mind going in the front, Vee?” she asked. The use of Envy’s childhood nickname was a tactical move, designed as a reminder of their longstanding friendship – and the caveats that came with it when it came to appeasing Claire.

“Sure,” Envy nodded, sliding into the passenger seat next to the driver.

Claire shuffled along the seats so that Victor could enter by the same door, despite there being no traffic or danger to be wary of. Wordlessly, Victor grabbed Claire’s hand, his eyes narrowing as they met Envy’s in the rear-view mirror. Was there time to jump out? She wondered. Envy reached to unclip her seatbelt; maybe she could make a break for it. But Claire had already leaned forward and told the driver their destination. Before she could change her mind, the car was in motion, and Envy was trapped in the evening. She exhaled quietly – the closest to a sigh she could get without drawing criticism – and leaned back in her seat.

“OK guys, I’m not going to sugar coat if for you: we’ve had a shit off-season, and we need to kick it into high-fucking-gear for summer.”

From her position slumped in a seat between the desk and the window, Kristi watched Damon intently. It wasn’t fascination or even an intention to listen to what he was saying, hands pressed against his desk as he barked like a newspaper editor. It was wariness. Damon was a man Kristi didn’t want to take her eye off for even a moment, ever aware that he was far less powerful when observed. Out of sight, he was an unscrupulous man who leveraged his money and charm to convince people of whatever he needed them to believe. Whispers between the bar staff ran rampant. I heard he owns a brothel out of town, one young girl had said during her second shift. Kristi had laughed it off at the time, even making light reference to it in front of Damon. He’d laughed and playfully denied it, but the girl never turned up for her third shift – or any shift after that.

Others gossiped about how close to his chest Damon kept the accounts. Nobody knew how much the bar made, or how much Damon paid himself, or even how secure their jobs were. Whatever he could shroud in mystery, he did. Even Kristi, who Damon had often confided in, had no idea what really happened behind the bar’s façade; the lights of the pier across the street and Damon’s own secrecy cast long shadows over the place. She had realised that his confiding had been strategic, and it had worked: she’d defended him to her colleagues and been more willing to take double or triple shifts to help him out. It was from that moment of realisation that Kristi had insisted on keeping him always in her sights.

“Kristi, what are our special offers this weekend?”

Kristi sat up straight, the bare skin on the small of her back making contact with the faux leather chair where her work top had ridden up.

“Two shots for a fiver, cocktail pitchers for a tenner. House spirits half price until midnight,” she recited. There was no catching Kristi off guard; she had spent the majority of that afternoon’s shower reciting the specials aloud.

Damon smiled, the faintest crow’s feet appearing around his eyes – a sign of a young man who had lived an eventful, tiring life.

“Good girl. The rest of you, make sure you’ve got that memorised. And no freebies,” Damon warned, pointing a finger around the sparse room. Where there had once been twenty staff, leaning against walls and filing cabinets and any surface they could find, there were now just five, all of them clustered around Damon’s desk. Damon let his swooping finger land in Kristi’s direction. As she was sitting the closest – the only one who had chosen a chair – it gave the impression of a child being sternly lectured with an audience. “Now get out there.” He winked at her, unseen by the rest of the staff who had now started for the door.

What was most confusing about Damon was how he made Kristi feel. The wink had made her shudder uncomfortably, but he was an objectively handsome man, and she’d more than once considered what that would mean in a context far from this office and the sparkling lights of the bar. But he was her boss, and she didn’t trust him, so whatever complicated lust he elicited in her remained boxed up in the back of her mind.

Pushing her hands against the curve of the chair, Kristi began to rise to her feet as Damon watched.

“Can I speak to you for a minute?”

“Sure,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest.

Damon slid some papers around his desk and let a pen drop back into the pot with the other half-used biros and dried up highlighters. Kristi had taken note of Damon’s ability to inflate a moment, stretching it out seemingly until he had lined his words up – or because he simply liked to make people wait.

“What I said before. You don’t need to worry. We’ll be alright.”

“I’m not worried. I’m sure you’ve got it under control,” Kristi said, pressing her arms closer to her torso, guarding herself.

Outside the window closest to his desk, she could see the last dregs of people filtering out of the pier onto the street, deciding where to go next. Their skin was reddened, their pockets emptied, and still they staggered onto the shore looking for more to do, drunk on sunshine and the promise of a quiet holiday. Soon enough, many of them would appear downstairs in the bar.

“It is,” Damon said, gently. “I’ve got some business opportunities waiting to take off – and I can see you being an integral part of how they play out.”

The pointed fingers of one hand remained lightly on the desk as Damon walked around it, as if he was pivoting on that one spot. Kristi was suddenly aware of how he was drawing closer to her.

“And the others?”

“I’m not so bothered about them,” Damon said, now casually leaning against the desk with one hand on his hips. They had all seen him lean in such a way against the bar when talking to a woman he found attractive, though Kristi had never revealed to her co-workers that she had encountered the pose first-hand. Had she told them, they might have accused her of receiving unfair favour, and so Kristi had played down any such moments and kept them locked behind a door.

“Damon…”

“I just care about you, Kristi. That’s all.” He stood up straight and adjusted the dark grey shirt tucked into his black jeans. “You’ve been through a lot, losing your mum. You and your sister. I know what that’s like, and I want you to know I’m here if you need me.”

Damon’s admission of commonality surprised Kristi, but the surprise was momentary and fleeting, replaced by discomfort as Damon placed a hand on her shoulder. His fingers twisted around to the nape of her neck and his thumb stroked her collar bone with impunity. The thin straps of her top did little to separate his skin from her own. There was a brief second where Kristi was unsure of what was about to transpire next, under no illusion that anything was possible. She took a step back, thanking Damon, and watching as he dropped his hand and nodded with a smile.

“Anytime. You know where I am.”

Kristi smiled back while he was in view and watched Damon take a seat behind his desk. He pulled the pen back from the pot and looked to be scribbling signatures on orders – not that anybody would know what went on the forms or how much he was signing away.

With the same anxious intensity that she felt when watching a trespassing spider, Kristi kept her eyes on Damon until she was at the door. On the other side of it, she could finally look away.

The taxi ride was unbearable. Envy shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the silence added an unwelcome weight to the smoke-stained air. A minute or so into the journey, the driver had turned on the radio just to fill the space left behind by his passengers. Victor had simply rolled his eyes and huffed in frustration as the house music – a selection for the evening’s partygoers to primp and preen themselves to – got louder and louder. Noticing this, the driver dialled the volume back down to a low murmur without saying a word. As a consolatory gesture, Envy smiled pityingly at him, lips pulled in tight with uncertainty. She held onto her seat belt tightly, until the rigid material left a white pattern against the fleshy pink of her palm.

Eventually, the taxi pulled up outside the club. Before the driver could ask, Victor leaned forward and handed him a folded ten pound note and swung his legs out of the car. Claire shuffled along the seats after him, holding out her palm for the change, which the taxi driver dumped into her hand unceremoniously.

“Thanks!” Claire beamed, oblivious. She followed Victor who had already lit a cigarette.

“Sorry,” Envy said, meekly. “And thank you. Have a good evening.”

“Hey,” the taxi driver said as her seat belt clicked free of its holder, “Get better friends.”

Envy was taken aback by the advice – almost defensive, in fact. Part of her wanted to defend Claire and Victor against this man who knew nothing of them or their lives. There was no denying, however, that he was right – and so she just nodded and climbed out. The taxi didn’t wait about, leaving for the next stop in a long evening of ferrying drunken locals back and forth between home and the bars along the seafront. With him gone, Envy suddenly felt very alone.

There was nobody else outside the club, though it was hardly surprising given the time. In the distance, the sun was melting, thick honey drizzled across the horizon. It was barely quarter-past nine.

Victor leaned against the wall of the souvenir shop adjacent to the club. Claire stood beside him, looking through her phone for a funny video she’d seen on social media. With the approval-seeking eyes of a child, she tilted the screen towards Victor so he could share the mirth. He didn’t laugh, though she tried to encourage him to do so by laughing herself. There were limits to how sorry Envy could feel for her friend, and that evening had already brought her close to those limits.

“I’m going to head in, if you guys don’t mind. I’ll get some drinks.”

“Make sure they’re doubles,” Victor said with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He was rifling around in his jean pockets for some cash, which he held out for Envy to take. It was a trap, she knew. Victor was often liberal with his spending in view of other people, and Envy had quickly recognised it as a way for him to defend himself – I can’t be so bad, it meant; I bought our drinks and I paid for our taxi and later I’ll buy you both chips, so I can’t really be that bad, right? Reluctantly, she took the money, annoyed at herself for recognising his tactics but falling for them anyway, on the off chance he might actually be showing some kindness. Her gut accused her of being just as trapped as Claire, though she chose to ignore it for the sake of the peace. The alcohol would soothe it.

“Thanks,” she said, turning on her heels for the entrance and pocketing the money.

A bouncer – new and unknown to her, even though they’d been sneaking into the bar since they were barely sixteen – waved Envy in and wished her a good time. Behind him, a red neon sign blazed. It read ‘Foxy’s’ in cursive. The spread of two tall plants and their vibrant leaves crept up to the bottom of the sign, blocking some of the light. Once upon a time, the plants had been new and small, sitting neglected in Damon’s office. It was Kristi who he had entrusted with dragging them to the entrance so they could thrive. Envy glanced at them jealously. How simple it must be, she thought, to be a plant that needs only to concern itself with reaching for the nearest, brightest light. She reached out and let her fingers caress a leaf before turning to the left, past the coat room, and into the bar proper.

Inside, the venue was ghost-like in its emptiness. Music echoed about the corners of the room for nobody in particular – ethereal and disconcerting. Envy felt she had walked into an in-between space that nobody was supposed to see – a transitionary threshold between the arrivals of staff and patrons. It felt forbidden and sad all at the same time. There had been nights when they couldn’t move for the crush of bodies between the entrance and the bar, when tables had been taken away into storage to free up room for more dancing and drinking and breathing.

“Hey Envy,” Kristi called out from her spot behind the bar. She was dumping ice into the trough beneath the counter. It clattered together noisily. Some cubes rolled from their place on top, unhappy to be at the peak, and Kristi pushed them back with chilly hands. She wiped her palms against her jeans, letting the denim soak up the loose water and some of the cold, and smiled as Envy approached.

“You OK? Where’s Claire?”

“Outside. With Victor.”

“Oh. She brought him along too, huh? He’s such a dick.”

Envy took a seat on a bar stool and slumped against the counter, hands resting on crossed arms. Her cheeks flattened and squished against her sleeve.

“Yep. Your sister has awful taste in men.”

“Cheer up, chicken.” Kristi scooped a clean glass through the pile of ice cubes before adding a non-descript spirit and weak cola from the tap. “Here, this is on the house – you’ll need it to get through the night.” She placed the drink in front of Envy.

“Are you allowed to give out free drinks?” Envy asked, face still pressed against her arms.

Kristi glanced over at Damon, who was walking about his empty kingdom, inspecting nothing at all.

“Nobody will know,” Kristi smirked. Reassured, Envy reached for the glass and let the condensation settle against the skin of her fingers.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Kristi added, prodding a straw into the drink, disturbing the ice cubes.

“Thanks, Kristi.”

Envy lifted her head and took a sip. The drink revitalised her, though her throat burned with how strong Kristi had made it. She stirred the spirit and mixer until the ice clattered against the edge of the glass. Another sip, and Envy was used to the spicy sensation. She sat upright and span about on the stool while Kristi got to making drinks for Victor and her absent sister.

“Here, these ones are on dickhead,” Envy said, stopping her spin suddenly to drop Victor’s ten-pound note on the bar. “Charge him double.”

Kristi took the money to the till sitting beneath the bar-length mirror. The note slipped into its waiting compartment – so far empty, the rest of the till sparse, save for the float – and Kristi paused, unable to hide her concern. She needed this job. Without their mother, it had fallen to Kristi to support both herself and her sister. At twenty-three, it had been a responsibility she hadn’t expected to shoulder; at twenty-six, she still hadn’t become accustomed to this life. Sighing, she closed the tray. It was then that she saw reflected in the mirrored wall a face she really didn’t want to see.

“Dad,” Havannah whispered, gripping onto Patrick’s arm as he led them towards the club’s entrance. He smiled at the bouncer, who knew better than to ask questions of Damon’s guest.

Underneath the neon ‘Foxy’s’ sign, Havannah tugged her father’s arm and repeated herself. He stopped and looked down at her lovingly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Havannah bit her lip and hesitated.

“I really don’t feel comfortable being here.”

Patrick’s face softened even further, sympathetic to his last. He gently placed his hand on her own, meeting her in the crook of his elbow.

“I’ll be in and out, promise. I just need to sign some documents. Then we can go for dinner. OK?”

Havannah inhaled deeply and nodded. She let it all out and replied in agreement. “You go on ahead though, I just need a second,” she added.

“Don’t run off now,” Patrick joked, though his daughter would never admit that she was considering it.

“I’ll be right in,” she reassured him, letting go of his arm. With a crooked finger, he softly stroked her cheek and headed inside.

Havannah pulled her phone from the small ruby red bag hanging by her side. She let it drop, swinging back to rest on her hip against the black dress she’d replaced her work clothes with. The neon light flooded her reflection in the phone’s screen, so Havannah turned to face the doorway, letting the last of the evening light glisten against the gold and green eye makeup gently applied to her mahogany skin. Turning the screen this way and that, Havannah checked for any visible imperfections. Her skin was clear, her lips were nourished, and the makeup – though done in a hurry – was suitable for the occasion. A quick meeting, a drink in a dark corner of the bar while she waited, and then they could be out of there and far from the bar and its staff. When she spotted the bouncer looking back at her, Havannah shifted gear, puckering her lips and letting her braids fall over one shoulder. She stroked them and pretended to be posing for a picture with herself, before replacing the phone in her bag and offering the bouncer a friendly acknowledgment. He turned his attention back to the front where two new patrons had arrived, and Havannah exhaled. She had to go in sometime. Her hand pressed against the door, the touch of sticky waxed wood somehow always off-putting, and walked into Foxy’s.

When she was too young to be there, Havannah had snuck into Foxy’s with Claire and Envy. They were teenaged girls growing up in a town that had little to accommodate them and their evolving needs; nightlife filled the gap left by living according to tourist seasons.

Previous attempts to get in had always been foiled by a veteran bouncer with a grizzled face and thirty years’ experience. Eventually, he’d moved on, replaced by a younger guy who barely looked older than they did. This, the girls found, worked to their advantage: he was blind to youth.

It had started as a great night. They turned up in their glamourous best – which meant different things for each of them – and let Havannah take the lead. Even at sixteen, she wielded the most authority thanks to her confidence and the discreet fortune of her father, though Havannah rarely relied on the latter. Her friends knew who Patrick was and his standing within the town, but Havannah gave nothing else away; Claire and Envy only ever found out the extent of his wealth when searching online during a sleepover. Havannah had desperately begged them not to mention it to anybody else at school, for fear that the fact would undermine the reputation and power she’d built for herself.

Sometimes, her identity had worked against them. The previous bouncer, aside from being able to tell a bunch of teenaged girls from the approved guestlist, knew of Patrick - and his brother had even worked on the pier for a while. He recognised Havannah immediately, and they spent the rest of the evening in the park near their house, the lights of the pier and the excitement they were excluded from dancing in the distance.

That night, the young bouncer had simply waved them by with an uncertain smile, and Havannah had led her friends inside with a strut. She remembered the flashing of lights, slowing the movement of bodies on the dance floor, and was dazzled by the electrifying sight of a good time.

Foxy’s had been packed with locals and tourists and students back from university for the holidays. The throng of people reached all the way back to the bar, where Havannah found herself – volunteered by her friends as the most likely to be served. She held her own against the excitable patrons waiting to order, her elbows resting against the sparkling countertop. Occasionally, she glanced back at Claire and Envy, watching them dance awkwardly – Envy totally unsure of herself in such an environment, and Claire all limbs and dance moves copied seemingly from still photographs. They were an unusual trio, it was true, but living in a town like theirs was a common enough thread to keep friends together; living in a place governed by the tides of tourist seasons was a shared experience.

When Havannah looked back to the bar, she caught a sight of her reflection in the mirror and smiled. This was all waiting for her on the other side of school and sixth form…the whole wide world.

And then she had finally noticed her phone ringing, and that shining future seemed no longer possible.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Kristi spat. Envy looked up at her and then followed Kristi’s fiery gaze to the entrance. Sure enough, Havannah had walked in. It wasn’t with the same confident strut as Envy noticed from the days when they were friends, but she still carried herself with the poise of a woman who knew herself; she still had her father’s status to fall back on.

“Kristi…maybe you should leave it,” Envy offered, hesitantly.

“I know. I know. But the audacity of her coming in here. I mean, come on.”

Envy sipped on her drink before replying, as if Kristi might take it away in anger.

“At least it’s a customer, right?”

“She’s not even buying a drink,” Kristi snapped, watching as Havannah shuffled into one of the curved red booths half-tucked behind the staircase up to the mezzanine. They both had a good view of each other, unincumbered by dancers.

“Here,” Envy said, pulling some money from her tight denim pocket and handing it to Kristi. “Make her a drink and I’ll take it over. She can’t want to stay for very long. Maybe she wants to talk? We could make peace.”

Kristi eyed Envy up and down, pressing and grinding her lips together in contemplation.

“You’re too good a person, you know. She can have this one on the house,” Kristi said, reaching for the rum.

Envy smiled naively.

In the booth, Havannah avoided taking her gaze anywhere beyond her phone, held in her lap. The screen's dim glow lit up the flaws of the table, chipped and worn, and she could see where the red leather of the chair had started to tear; the floor at her feet was covered in scuff marks. If she looked up from her phone – a social media profile that refused to load because the signal was notoriously bad in Foxy’s – there was a chance that she would be confronted with one of two horrors: the image of Kristi reaching for her throat, or a memory of the moment she had taken a phone call, metres away and years ago, finger in ear to hear better. That night flashed in her memory again. Her dad’s words, trembling and distraught and fraught with absolute heartbreak; the way her legs froze in place before she could reach the door, rooted in time so as to attempt to freeze the world the way it was; turning to see Claire dancing haphazardly, the flashes of lights transforming the tears smudging Havannah’s makeup into a bright star as she realised it would be up to her to tell her friend.

Havannah pulled herself out of the memory and glanced up to see the other horror instead. Kristi approached the booth, a rum and coke – no ice, wedge of lime – in one hand. Havannah wiped the wetness from her eye and locked her phone.

“Here,” Kristi said. The stormy look on her face and the aggressive stride should’ve been enough to forewarn Havannah what would happen next, though she didn’t see it until the cold drink made contact with her face.

From the bar, Envy gasped. The lonely music dropped into silence, and Havannah’s shocked pant echoed as all three women froze, as if preserved in amber. The next track started playing, the lights swirling again, and Havannah slammed her hands on the table to stand up. She knocked the lime wedge from the table furiously and was about to raise her voice when they were interrupted.

“Hey!” Patrick called out, appearing from the door set into the back wall of the club. Kristi turned to see Damon finish his descent down the stairs from his office, appearing behind Patrick. His ignorance of the situation evaporated when he saw the empty glass in Kristi’s hand and the rage on Havannah’s face, lit up by a stray spotlight in orbit.

“My office, now,” he said firmly. Kristi knew better than to disobey. She dropped the glass on the table, letting it tumble onto its side.

“I’ll take care of this. I’m so sorry,” Damon said, resting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

“Please do. I’ll see you later,” Patrick responded, shaking the owner’s hand and starting for his daughter.

“Shireen,” Damon called over to a young girl wiping a nearby table, trying to mind her own business. “Can you get Patrick a towel for his daughter, please?” Shireen stopped what she was doing and scurried off. Kristi watched her go and couldn’t help but wonder if Shireen would replace her after this incident. The regret started to curl in at the sides of her awareness.

Before she could reach the door where Damon had once again disappeared through, Patrick stopped her. She had only met him a few times, like when he had picked his wife up from their house after a night spent drinking wine with their own mum on the sofa, or at family parties, or at the funerals. He had always seemed to be a kind man, a beaming smile and a gentle manner who had inherited the pier and nurtured it as he had his own family. It was a surprise, then, to hear the growl in his voice as he half-stepped into her path. It almost seemed worse that he didn’t look directly at Kristi – rather, his gaze looked ahead at Havannah, drying herself off with a towel handed to her by Shireen.

“She lost her mother too, you know. It was an awful tragedy, and nobody was to blame. Whatever this is about, it needs burying, fast.”

He didn’t wait for Kristi to reply – in his eyes, she was a petulant child who needed a firm word – and simply moved back into his own path so he could hurry to comfort his drenched daughter.

“Fuck,” Kristi muttered under her breath, regret turning to dread as she made for the stairs to Damon’s office.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”

“No, dad, it’s OK. I can dry off in the car,” Havannah said, thanking Shireen for the towel and handing it back politely. Shireen vanished, leaving the way clear for Havannah to see Envy, sitting at the bar. She couldn’t be sure between the contrasting light and dark, but it almost seemed like Envy mouthed ‘sorry’, to which Havannah raised a dimissive hand.

Patrick offered his arm, which Havannah took, and they headed for the door. As they approached, Claire and Victor strolled in, laughing. The four of them paused, Victor the only one unsure of – or unbothered by – the tension and its cause.

“Hi,” Claire tried, but Patrick guided Havannah gently around them with his hand on her back. “Havannah, wait,” Claire said, but Victor grabbed her hand.

“Come on, I’m thirsty,” he said, leading her to the bar where Envy greeted them with wide eyes.

“Well, you guys really missed something.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I’ll work an extra shift or something,” Kristi insisted, pacing back and forth across the office.

Her pleas were going unheard. Damon leaned against the black drinks cabinet in his office and sighed, theatrically. Kristi could see he was unmoved. She sat down on the edge of the peeling seat facing Damon’s desk instead, massaging her temples in her hands as if it would make a difference to the growing headache.

“Damon…I really need this job. I’m sorry.”

Damon raised a hand and Kristi knew not to say another word. She could deal with the quiet fury and the penance; she just wished he would turn around so it would at least be possible to guess how angry he was with her. She might then be able to decide how thin the thread was by which her livelihood now hung. Instead, only the sound of Damon slowly making a drink was noticeable. He took his time, painstakingly raising the lid from a small bucket of ice, scooping one cube into his favourite crystal cut glass, then unscrewing the whisky and pouring it leisurely over the ice. Kristi heard the cubes cracking as the temperature changed. He also made sure to replace each item along the way: the tongs were gently rested on a towel he’d set out, the lid returned to the top of the ice bucket, and the whisky bottle secured back in its usual spot in the line-up of spirits. Kristi felt her fingers tighten against the arm of the chair.

Damon raised the glass and shook it gently so that the ice cubes rattled against the insides and a drop or two of the drink escaped in splashes.

“Want one?” he asked, at last.

“N-no thanks. I’m OK.”

“Cool. Don’t want you throwing it at me, I guess,” he replied, the smirk audible in his voice. Kristi almost rolled her eyes but thought better of it. She listened to him gulp down the whisky, finish with a satisfying noise, and finally turn to face her. He left the glass behind on the cabinet.

“Do you know who that was you threw a drink over?” he asked, leaning against the desk, palms outstretched across its surface. She met his gaze.

“Do you?” she asked, before catching herself. “Sorry.”

“That girl is Patrick Shaw’s daughter. I’ve got a shitload of business tied up with Patrick – he’s our lifeline after what’s probably been our worst couple of years ever. You cannot go throwing fucking drinks in her face, got it?”

Kristi flinched as Damon emphatically pointed a finger at her, though he didn’t raise his voice. That was Damon’s trick to intimidation: leave the depths of his anger unknown for others to figure out; they were often too perplexed to realise just how deep the danger ran. He had noticed Kristi’s flinch. He let his pointed digit linger for a second longer than needed, until finally softening his expression and taking a seat at his desk. He leaned back casually, as if this whole conversation was of no consequence to him, a cat playing with a mouse it had every intention of killing in the end.

“I know you’ve got history with her. But Kristi, please. Don’t fuck this up for me, babe. Don’t fuck this up for us.”

“It won’t happen again. I’m sorry. I really need to keep this job, Damon. Please.”

There was another stretched out moment, where Kristi could feel tears starting to collect in her eyes. Damon just looked her up and down, rubbing his stubble with one hand, while the fingers of the other tapped against the desk.

“He might ask me to get rid of you, y’know.”

Kristi dropped her head, keeping her eyes low so that he might not see her desperation. Damon simply grinned that handsome, dubious grin.

“But, I wouldn’t let that happen, would I? I always said I’d look after you, didn’t I? Didn’t I?” he repeated, when there was no reply.

Kristi nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, her words choked.

Damon tapped the side of his chair and span it forty-five degrees.

“Come here,” he commanded calmly. Kristi didn’t wait to be asked twice. She left her chair and kneeled at the side of his.

“Shh, it’s OK. I’ll look after us both,” he said, soothingly as Kristi rested her head against his leg so that he might more easily stroke her hair affectionately. “We’ll be OK. Promise.”