PART THREE

Eating lunch in one another’s company was such a small gesture, and yet for Ronan and Havannah it had become a compulsory ritual to look forward to. During the first few weeks of the summer, they had shared a meal together almost every day.

At first, this was much easier; there were fewer crowds to appease and Simon – though acting reluctant and irked – would cover for his brother, in return for a break of his own later in the afternoon.

Eventually – and to the relief of the locals – the crowds had thickened, more tourists emerging for holidays away and day trips under the hot sun.

Although the influx of visitors – welcomed and disruptive – threatened to derail their lunchtime ritual, the pair found they could still sneak away to eat down on the beach in the looming shadow of the pier if they timed their departure correctly.

Despite their presence, Havannah still didn’t consider the tourists to be the toughest complication in how she spent her time with Ronan. Instead, the complexity lay in how something sat unspoken between them both as they ate. They talked, of course, with no gap of silence too big to fill and only time to cut their conversations short. They also laughed and told anecdotes, and it was clear they both enjoyed sharing their company by the way they would intentionally seek one another out. There was no shortage of enthusiasm.

Aside from talking and eating, however, nothing else had happened. This wasn’t enough for Havannah, though she only considered it a problem when alone, lying back in bed and thinking of Ronan’s biceps and the way the muscles had tightened as he had leaned against the ring toss game the first time they’d met. Likewise, the sharpness of his eyes had burned themselves into her memory, as had the smile, part cheeky and part charming.

Havannah would replay these moments and reconsider their intention over and over again, analysing his actions and how they made her feel. By the time she had finished her analysis, she would be tired, though sure once again that he liked her, resolving to explore this further in person. Once they were ducking between the crowd, picking chips out of a paper cone held between them, however, she would retreat and bury her questions deep down.

Afterwards – Ronan back at the ring toss, greeted by Simon’s impatient frown, and Havannah staring out at the sea through the window in her father's office – the cycle would begin again, Havannah considering what they had talked about, the proximity of Ronan’s hand to her own, and whether he was just being polite, or she was simply imagining this mutual chemistry.

In the moment, there had been no doubt or disappointment; by herself, without friends to dissect the situation with, there was only another dimension to Havannah’s lonely humiliation.

“You alright, love?” Debbie asked one afternoon as she wiped the loose sugar from the doughnut counter into her hand and clumsily patted it into the bin with the other.

Some of the sugar clung to Debbie’s sweaty palm. She clapped both hands together to brush the stray granules away, not noticing – or not caring – that the debris also ended up on the floor, making her previous cleaning efforts redundant.

Usually, Havannah’s eyes would have narrowed disapprovingly, but on that day she didn’t see the sugar fall from Debbie’s hands, or the way the older woman wiped the clammy stickiness of her fingers on her uniform. She didn't see anything but an opportunity drifting further from her grasp.

Havannah sighed from her spot leaning against the counter, where she rested her elbow while the clipboard swung lazily back and forth in her hand.

“We eat lunch together almost every day,” she said, dreamily.

“Do we?”

Havannah turned and threw Debbie a wry smile, receiving a playful wink in return.

“You know who I mean.”

Debbie was smiling from her raised post behind the counter. She leaned forward, if only to get close enough to Havannah to talk in a hushed voice – though Debbie’s idea of a hushed voice was not the same as other people’s.

“There’s clearly something going on there, Hav. But it’s the twenty-first century – you’re going to have to say something. I know, I know,” Debbie said, raising her hands defensively at Havannah’s mock indignation, “I’m a traditionalist myself.”

“It’s not that…”

“Listen,” the older woman spoke with sincerity. “If you like him, love, you need to let him know. His folk aren’t around all the time, if you get my drift. Best to spend time with him while you have it, if you know what I mean? And hey, if he doesn’t like you back…”

“He’ll be gone by autumn,” Havannah finished. She smiled with a mix of appreciation and sadness at the thought. Befriending a seasonal carnival worker was a double-edged sword, just as Patrick had told her as a child.

“And so will you.”

“Hm?”

Debbie had gone back to busying herself by fussing with ingredients and napkins and the sugar shaker, letting her words deflate and vanish behind her as if to pretend she’d never spoken them at all.

“What do you mean?” Havannah asked, turning her attention fully to Debbie.

She stopped fussing and let her face and voice become sterner. The doughnut counter attendant’s ever-changing demeanour was hard to keep track of at times.

“University, Havannah," she said, impatiently. "Your dad’s been talking about it.”

“To people on the pier?”

Havannah stood to attention. She pulled the clipboard tightly to her chest, clinging to it like a life raft, the vain hope of resisting a tide that threatened to draw her away from the pier before she had made her own mind up.

“He’s just worried, love,” Debbie said sympathetically now, hands on her hips. “This isn’t your whole life – or it’s not supposed to be.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Havannah said, an objection too quiet for the roaring tide of change.

“Well, I happen to think university’s your best shot.”

“Thanks for the opinion, Deb. I’ll think on it,” Havannah replied, her words sharper than she had intended. She walked away from the doughnut counter before Debbie could respond – and before Havannah could loosen her tongue further.

By the time she’d made it round to Simon and Ronan’s new location on the other side of the pier, Havannah’s frustration at being nudged in one direction or the other had started to clear, though it still lingered like the last stubborn cloud in the sky.

Searching for a distraction, Havannah found a nearby reflective surface – a metal strip that ran the height of the ice cream stall – and leaned in to check her face, her teeth, and her hair. She tossed her braids over both shoulders, letting their familiar tapping against her spine ground her mindfully in the present, and begged the reflection staring back at her to become the girl she had once been – confident, assertive.

Havannah turned her attention to Ronan and Simon on the ring toss game. There was a momentary propulsion in her chest – a gust of bravery that seemed to fill the gap between heartbeats with the promise that she could speak her mind. Before she could take a step forward though, the next heartbeat would come, bringing with it a sprawling anxiety that spread from her chest to her stomach and right down to her toes, rooting Havannah to the spot.

Ronan caught her eye and nodded, mid-conversation with a punter. Havannah just tightened her grip on the clipboard and nodded back. Her own realisation of self-defeat – the abandonment of an imagined world where Ronan would kiss her, lips wet with grease and vinegar from their shared chips – quelled Havannah’s anxiety. Debbie was right. It was futile.

And yet…Havannah hoped that, after everything that had happened, she could handle a little more disappointment if it was as sweet as her time with Ronan. She smiled to herself, wandered away with a head full of dreaming, and the cycle began again.

***

Since summer had begun, a tentative stream of holidaymakers had wound its way into Clayham-on-Sea, a phenomenon the local newspapers found to be worthy of headlines, though they kept the story tucked away on page two so as not to draw the curiosity of their visitors. This positive turn in fortune wasn’t enjoyed by all, however.

Foxy’s remained – as it had done all winter and most of the summer before – barren. Occasionally, on days when the weather was bad, the bar hosted some of the grumpier visitors, who would sit dotted about and tucked away in shadowy corners far from each other, disappointed that their holiday had been marred by anything less than a perfect forecast. On the weekends, the usual crowd of bored young locals shuffled into the club for cheap drinks specials and the same playlist they’d been dancing to for the last five years. None of it was enough to break the drought, and every week, Damon noticed the crowd thinning just a little bit more, disinterested in watered down vodka along the seafront.

The anxiety of what this might mean for the future had permeated the walls, leaving Foxy's employees with a lingering sense of dread every time they reached for the door to Damon’s office. Every briefing felt like it could be their last, dire news dished out to feed their starving fear. Some would quit straight afterwards, and Damon would pour them a drink, toast their departure, and assure them he’d be in touch about the last of their wages. It was almost as if he had been ushering them to the door with his doom-saying, though any insinuation of such a motive would be met with defensive outrage and an insistence that the dissenter should consider their words more carefully in the future, lest they joined the departed. Criticism was quickly stamped out. After all, during winter, the staff hadn’t had anywhere else to go, and so had each clung to their job with both hands, dreaming of one day having the money saved to leave Clayham-on-Sea altogether.

Before he realised how many he had poured a consolatory drink for and to whom he had doled out well-wishes, Damon had just five staff members left; since the summer began, that number had dropped to three, with two more taking flight. Thanks to the new opportunities a busy summer had brought, the departing pair had been reassured that a secure job waited for them elsewhere, far from the bar's depressing, decaying shell - and unlike their predecessors, they could join Damon in toasting the end of their relationship without worrying about surviving on the promise of final wages that he rarely had any intention of sending. It was only a matter of time, Damon realised, before the remaining staff followed in their wake.

Part of the problem, Kristi thought as she sipped on a lemonade and flicked through a magazine at the bar, was how dingy Foxy’s was. There were no windows, with only the faintest light coming from the entranceway, and the lights were dim even when turned up, giving the bar a feeling of suffocation; nobody wanted to sit in the darkness when the sun was shining outside.

Adding to the feeling of oppression were all the minor repairs the property needed. Perhaps that was why Damon kept the place shrouded in darkness, she had once contemplated; in the dark, it was much harder to notice the stains, or the worn paint, or the torn seats. You couldn’t criticise what you couldn’t see, though that hadn’t stopped people from forming impressions. After all, they could feel the tears in the seats, and they could smell where spilt beer had soaked into the few carpeted areas and been left to sour and stain.

Kristi realised she’d turned her attention from the magazine and was instead surveying the empty bar. Even under the cover of darkness and whirling spotlights, she could sense the flaws blinking back at her, and every time a light dragged itself across another surface, a glimpse of ruin became visible. The more she watched, the more she saw, and the more Kristi felt like she was imprisoned in a carcass, pinned in place as the rot took hold. She really fucking hated it there.

Suddenly, there was shadowy movement at the entrance, disturbing the last drop of evening light that had managed to intrude upon the bar’s pitch black. It certainly didn’t come from the bouncer who had been reduced to part-time and was likely at home planning for interviews at livelier clubs and pubs in the town centre. Nor would it have been the cloakroom attendant - a small, squat Eastern European woman Damon couldn't possibly find umbrage with - who would sat contentedly in the booth night after night, reading from a large tome of short horror stories.

As the movement drew closer, Kristi half-anticipated that she might actually have to work, only for her sister to bound through the door, Victor and Envy in tow. She rolled her eyes and sat back down on the stool dragged behind the bar for quiet nights.

“What do you want?” she asked, returning to the magazine’s thin glossy pages.

Claire half-skipped to the bar in excitement. Her hair bounced above her shoulders, despite being clipped in place by a colourful – gaudy, Kristi thought – hair clip decorated with a purple butterfly.

Once she’d reached the bar, Claire slapped her hands down on the countertop, her smile beaming in a way Kristi always found unnerving; it had first made an appearance days after their mother's death, while Kristi had been racked with despair and Claire had declared manically that she was heading out for the night. She found it chilling.

Kristi glanced beyond her little sister to see Victor’s stern face and Envy looking around awkwardly, dressed characteristically in a poorly fitting black rock band t-shirt. None of them looked like they fitted in with the others.

Claire repeated her slapping motion, moving her head into Kristi’s line of sight so her sister would focus on her instead of anybody or anything else.

“It’s the fireworks tonight. Are you coming?”

“I’m working,” Kristi mumbled, dropping her eyes back to the magazine and resting her face on her hand.

“You’re reading a magazine,” Claire pointed out, tapping the page from which a woman’s stern, unimpressed face was gazing up at her. My Holiday Love Stole £32,000 the title read.

“It’s still working. A customer might come in at any moment.”

There was a brief silence, during which they each peered towards the entrance, as if a flood of unexpected patrons might suddenly appear, checking their coats into the cloakroom and pushing their way through the double doors into the bar proper. Nobody came.

“Optimistic,” Victor commented from somewhere, drawing the attention of all three women.

“Anyway, this,” Claire tapped the open page again, this time landing on the printed photo of the unimpressed woman, “Isn’t work. This is reading. And besides, everybody’s on the pier.”

“She’s right,” Damon interjected.

Kristi stood upright and slid the magazine towards Claire, who dutifully took it and held it behind her back, sisters united by their experience of navigating parents. Damon dumped the crate of beer bottles onto the side of the bar and pointed up to the corner of the ceiling. They all followed his finger's direction with their eyes.

“We have cameras. I can see everything.”

“Everything?” Claire asked, flushing red with embarrassment at the thought of the horrors – some of them her own – that Damon might have seen with his all-seeing eye.

“Everything,” he reiterated, hands on hips, facing Claire. She shrank away, another plain thing hiding among the bar’s many shadows.

Damon turned back to Kristi and nodded in her sister’s direction.

“But she is right about the other thing too. Everybody’s on the pier for the fireworks.” Damon rotated his wrist and squinted to check the time on his watch. “Should be starting soon. Why don’t you head over?”

“What if someone comes in?” Kristi asked, much to Claire’s visible frustration.

Damon laughed, unchallenged. It was a privileged Ha! that nobody else could have gotten away with - not in his bar, not to his face.

“Nobody’s coming in. But you can stay if you want! I’m heading over.”

“Really?” Kristi asked, waiting for the conditions or the sound of a trap snapping shut. She kept her sights fixed on Damon, remembering her rule.

“Really. Fuck it. But,” he pointed a finger now, seriousness curling back into his voice, “I need you back after the fireworks. The alcohol they serve over there is shit and people will want a real drink afterwards. We can at least give them that.”

Victor scoffed. The younger man towered a few inches over Damon, but the bar owner had little in the way of visible fear. He folded his arms, muscles tightening under rolled-up shirt sleeves and glared at Victor.

“Don’t like what we serve here, big guy? You can always drink somewhere else, though I can guarantee you won’t get as many heavily discounted drinks,” Damon said, squaring up to Victor. Kristi joined her sister in shrinking at the mention of the cheap drinks she’d served to Claire and her friends. Damon’s ire was entirely focused on Victor, however, and Kristi was able to watch from the safety of the sidelines. She wasn't in the firing line.

Still, Kristi kept her eyes on Damon, suspecting that his demeanour would suddenly change with a declaration that he was joking all along. She'd seen it happen often, his temper putting a challenger on edge, only to have them destabilise themselves when he unexpectedly shifted his own footing. It was a rollercoaster before the drop, the tension winding up and up, only for confused relief to follow – a fact she couldn’t explain to a worried-looking Envy and Claire. It’ll be fine, he’s playing, she wanted to say, though the realisation that she would only be doing for Damon what Claire so often did for Victor kept Kristi silent.

To the surprise of everybody there, Victor was the first to look away. An apology was mumbled, before he headed solemnly to the exit, hands buried in his pockets. Without Damon having the chance to dismiss the bravado as a joke, the tension had broken, but not in the reassuring way Kristi had hoped for. Instead, a sheet of ice had cracked beneath them, and they had gone from cold to colder; the shock was painted on Claire’s face in shades of worry as she watched her boyfriend leave. Damon looked unimpressed at having his game quashed so early.

“I should go after him. Sorry, Damon, he didn’t mean it.”

“It’s fine, just a misunderstanding. Go on, scram, the lot of you. I’ll see you over there once I’ve locked up.”

Kristi grabbed her jacket from under the counter and made to follow her sister, but Damon stepped into her path. Damon looked about the place to ensure they were alone as the door swung shut behind Envy.

“One thing: Patrick’s girl is going to be over there. Please Kristi, please, don’t make a fucking scene, OK?” he pleaded. “Our livelihoods literally depend on it. If she speaks to you, just smile and nod.”

“Damon…” Kristi began, but she stopped with a jolt as Damon grabbed her wrist. He noted her reaction and loosened his grip.

“Please, Kristi. I’m begging you here. You win out of this too.”

“They’re waiting for me,” she said flatly, glancing down at where Damon’s fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“Sorry.”

He let go and turned his body to the side to let her pass. Kristi's body brushed against his uncomfortably, and she held back a shudder.

“I’ll behave. I promise,” she said, slipping her jacket on and pulling her ponytail out. Damon nodded appreciatively from his spot behind the counter.

"You look really pretty with your hair down," he said, though the compliment withered in the air. She offered a strained smile and left Damon behind with the crate of beer.

Defeated but not deterred, Damon sighed. Nothing could grow among the dark and the rot of Foxy's - and he knew that included Kristi's affection for him. Still, that wouldn't stop him from trying.

A shared, feverish enthusiasm gripped the pier as the crowd waited for the sun to fade from the sky. They hoped it would leave behind a clear, dark canvas against which they could see the promised fireworks. Havannah half-expected everybody to start a countdown in unison, just so that they might rejoice in the rush of night and the spectacle that would follow.

Patrick was beaming beside his daughter, splitting his attention around a group of local business owners and council members, wearing his brightest smile as he shook their hands and shared the same jokes he had already told to a different group moments earlier. It’s all good PR, he would say whenever his daughter reminded him, in a disapproving whisper, that he barely liked any of them at all.

Playing the role of a dutiful daughter, Havannah smiled politely beside him, answering questions and nodding her head at responses, all the while holding her matching clutch bag close to her thighs, an evening replacement for her clipboard.

Whereas in the day she could hide behind the small amount of authority she had gathered for herself in her role, the night-time schmoozing demanded glamour over t-shirts and name tags. Havannah never disappointed. The dress – glittering and fitted – had been chosen for its vibrancy, matching the fireworks everybody was waiting for. Her eyes were framed with geometric gold shapes and gold eyeshadow, delicately applied, and expertly matched to the threads of gold woven around the gathering of braids on top of her head. She was a vision beneath the darkening sky and, greeted as such by her father’s business associates, was drunk on minor celebrity.

At first, her awareness softened by the buzz of anticipation on the pier, Havannah had not noticed the way the older men traced her curves with sly eyes. They appreciated having a young woman to entertain their senses while they listened dutifully to Patrick’s recycled jokes. There was an unspoken rule between them, however, to not get caught leering at Patrick Shaw's daughter.

It was the owner of an amusement arcade – a short man in his early forties with a hungry wetness to his tongue-slicked lips – who broke the rule, a new player in a game he wouldn't have dared play without the recent success of his own business. When Havannah caught his eyes lingering a little too long on her waist, taking their time to drag themselves down to her legs, she turned a little to the side, using Patrick as cover, and stared back at him. He noticed and, realising he had been detected, looked sheepish for a second, until he saw Havannah observing the length of him in return, eyes narrowed. The arcade owner smiled disgustingly, head tilted forward and eyebrows raised in silent communication of assumed mutual attraction. Havannah's lips twisted in disapproval and she shook her head. No. The arcade owner looked crestfallen and embarrassed, excusing himself to get a good spot for the fireworks with a brave breeziness. The other men, recognising what had happened by Havannah's expression, averted their own eyes for the rest of the conversation.

“It’s time,” somebody whispered in Patrick’s ear, and he wished the group a good evening before guiding Havannah away and onto a small platform sitting in the shadow of the pier’s main building. It was a town square of sorts, and behind them the great glass and steel structure reflected the last inkling of sunlight, a backdrop to remind everybody of what Patrick had built.

From the platform, Havannah could see the crowd stretching and mingling all the way down the pier to the shore, huddled between stands and stalls and a handful of rides. To her right, the empty spot where Ronan and Simon had first set up their game was filled with people, itching to see the fireworks. Although she smiled back at the children encouraged to wave at her, deep down Havannah wished the game had been able to stay where it was, so that at least in his absence, she could see a reminder of Ronan – somebody by her side who wasn’t her father.

Despite the smiles and excited murmurs, Havannah felt exposed on the platform. She couldn’t help but feel a tide of dislike and accusatory eyes, although she reckoned that could just be Kristi and her own former friends, staring from afar. Havannah didn’t dare scan the crowd to see if they’d arrived.

Instead, she let her eyes linger on the one space in the crowd where the offending plank that had put Ronan off bulged unevenly, repelling the people around it. That damn plank, she thought, making a mental note to chase on its repair.

A light tap on her elbow brought Havannah’s attention back to the present, and she smiled on autopilot as her father held out a remote to trigger the fireworks.

“You OK, petal?” he asked in a low voice, still grinning for the crowd.

An expectant silence had fallen over the pier, all the gathered spectators watching Havannah intently with eyes hungry for a spectacle. She nodded, her brain quickly catching up before anybody else could notice that she had been miles away, wishing to be anywhere but standing in the same spot, on the same platform, at the same annual tradition.

Graciously, Havannah took the remote from her father and felt the love in the way he handed over this precious moment to her; he looked proud, his free hand wrapping around hers in a tender exchange, before stepping back so as to let his daughter take the spotlight alone.

Havannah lifted the remote up into the air and pointed at it teasingly, an effort to stir up the crowd with her own sense of showmanship. She led the observers – under Patrick’s encouragement – in chanting a countdown from ten, filling the role of hostess with aplomb. It was a strange sensation, and Havannah felt like a stranger watching as her own body moved itself in unrecognisable ways.

“Zero!” the crowd roared in unison, their chant rippling out into the sea, only to vanish against the great emptiness beyond their town. The sky was clear for only a second longer, as Havannah pressed the remote and stream after stream of fireworks shot into the night above them.

Although she didn’t want to be there – for reasons she had yet to pin down herself – Havannah nonetheless found herself enchanted by the colours erupting above them. The observers whooped and cheered as glittering shards of gold and red and green rained down, delivering a delayed and violent crack as the rockets exploded.

Patrick pulled his daughter close, guiding Havannah towards him by her shoulder. In the reflection of the glass and steel behind them, colourful stars came to life and were extinguished in startling patterns, lighting up the early night sky. In the dark water below, the flashes lingered like echoes, a kaleidoscope washed away on the crests of waves. Havannah caught a colourful tear escaping down her cheek. She didn’t understand where it had come from. ***

With the wide-eyed awe of a child, Claire gawped and pointed to each of the fireworks exploding above them, pulling on Victor’s sleeve as the group shuffled through the pier’s main gate. He jerked his arm away from her, concentrating on leading the group into the swollen crowd, in search of a good viewing spot.

The best they could do was reaching the ornate railings that framed the pier, wrought iron shapes curling and twisting against the backdrop of the shoreline. Claire leaned precariously over the railing, standing on one of the rolling iron shapes to get a better view.

Although packed tightly against the pier’s sides and away from the food stalls and attractions, Envy was content with their vantage point. Her best friend was happy – although words had been sparse since the argument – and Victor had kept something of a civil tongue of late. She didn't dare to imagine it was his guilt that kept him begrudgingly polite, their strained alleyway encounter still fresh in her mind.

All around the group, the faces of strangers were lit up by the colourful flashes above them, a great technicolour photograph being taken to preserve the sight of strangers forming a momentary community on the pier.

Envy was the only one not looking skyward, preferring to take in the atmosphere of awe, soundtracked by whizzing shrieks and whip-cracking explosions that echoed out across the water. In the distance, the Waltzer was churning people about in circles, cheerful screams oscillating in volume as they span. From somewhere close by, the aroma of sugar and hot oil danced across the air to her nostrils, and she bathed joyously in all the ways her senses delighted in the evening.

Emerging from the throng of people like an explorer from the dense jungle, Victor appeared with three plastic cups of beer in his hands, and one hanging from where his teeth clenched the rim. Envy hadn’t even noticed him disappear, though gratefully – and warily – accepted the drink as he handed them out.

Likewise, Damon's arrival passed Envy by, muted by the fireworks, and he slipped among the group unannounced, his own drink in hand. Envy only knew Damon in passing from time spent at Foxy’s, the occasional comment from Kristi, or the rumours that seemed to follow him. Among her friends, he felt like a void that didn’t belong, a little older than Kristi and even less predictable than Victor. As eclectic as the group might have been, he was the odd one out.

Envy's eyes drifted from Damon to her best friend, still balancing on the railing, clapping loudly with her plastic cup caught between her teeth. Envy caught a curious look of fond amusement from Victor as he watched his girlfriend, before turning his gaze back toward the sky. Envy looked away before he could notice her watching, catching sight of Damon’s hand on Kristi’s waist as she did. Deciding it was surprising but none of her business, Envy didn’t linger.

The fireworks ended sooner than Claire had hoped, and she audibly booed once they’d been extinguished. Her cry had been drowned out by the claps and cheers of the grateful crowd, though Victor had been close enough to hear. From experience, Envy could tell the embarrassment from his body language, though unlike previous times, Victor didn’t lean down to pass quiet comment in Claire’s ear. Instead, he simply angled his body to put some distance between them, and Claire let her disapproval be known unchecked by her boyfriend.

Without the display binding them together, the crowd loosened – some went home, others headed for the rides and the refreshments before the pier wound down for the night. It was only as this happened that Claire quietened, exchanging heated words in hushed tones with Victor when she spotted that he was not entirely at her side.

Envy had enjoyed being a spectator to the evening, and wasn’t ready for a disruption to the calm; she didn't want to find herself drawn once again into the chaos of Claire’s relationship when they were all on such tenuous peace terms.

She turned to Kristi instead, though her attention had already been drawn to the figure making their way through the crowd. Envy watched as Kristi’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Havannah smiling and exchanging snippets of conversation with people as she passed them. Beneath Kristi's grip, the thin plastic cup began to buckle and crack.

Sensing her tension, Damon stepped between Kristi and Envy, dismissing the younger woman as if she hadn't ever been there at all. He put his mouth close to Kristi's ear, unbothered by Envy's presence.

“Remember what I said,” Damon spoke in a low voice, and Envy leaned in closer to hear, pushing the limits of her supposed invisibility. His hot breath pressed against the cooling night air and by the way she shifted, Envy could tell the hairs on the back of Kristi’s neck had stood on edge.

“Don’t start something. Just let it go.”

He felt Kristi relax under his hand and pulled away when he was confident that she would indeed obey him. Kristi just turned away and leaned on the railing, staring out to where the shoreline continued into the distance rather than be tempted. Satisfied, Damon stepped away and caught Havannah’s attention with a wave of his hand. She returned the platitude out of politeness, her eyes always tracking just over his shoulder at Kristi’s sulking form, leaning against the edge.

“Now that was a show – I hope your dad had a chance to enjoy it.”

“Oh, this is his favourite time of year – he’ll always find a way to enjoy it. Thanks though. Guess I’ll see you around?”

Damon nodded and Havannah left, both of them feeling equally awkward at the performative nature of their interactions, all of them conducted for Patrick’s sake.

As she continued, dress lit up by the reflection of the Waltzer’s hazy lights, Havannah caught sight of Envy, her acknowledgment making her visible.

“Hey Envy,” her old friend said.

“Hey Havannah,” Envy replied, turning to check Kristi was still out of earshot. The pulsing of the crowd had already pushed Havannah along, away from Envy and towards the pier's entrance. She waved, on the off-chance that Havannah looked back, and returned her attention to the group, Claire and Victor distant from one another, Damon and Kristi too close. Envy suddenly wished she could dive into the crowd and follow Havannah instead, though she knew her feet wouldn't let her.

***

Away from the seafront, the town was abuzz with the usual excitement of a Friday night. Many of the younger locals had long outgrown the annual fireworks. As children, they had waited expectantly with their parents, sometimes shivering, sometimes still in the summer attire of a hot day, always enjoying the sweet treats and the buzz of being allowed to stay up late in the summer holidays.

As they grew older, however, the town's youngsters wanted to be drunk with others of their own age instead, sharing the same silent despondency towards being trapped in this town. No amount of fireworks speckling the sky with colour could enliven the grey reality of being shackled to the shoreline, prospects limited by the whims of the town's visitors.

Havannah didn’t much relate to the people her age – perhaps because she’d been brought up in a world that revolved around business dinners with her father and holidays to the south of France with her mother. At school, children had sometimes been cruel, though her mother had often reminded Havannah that their careless words were jealousy and ignorance, and to be brave and forgiving. Havannah had clasped those reassurances close to her heart, hiding her family's wealth from view and replacing it with her own brand of confidence and fairness. She treated everybody the same.

Although the differences in their upbringings had been unnoticeable in her friendship with Envy and Claire, once that particular bubble had burst, Havannah had surveyed her life to find that - despite all her efforts to follow her mother's wisdom - her life was empty, stretching far ahead, alone. They had been her only friends, and her efforts had been for nought.

Then she’d met Ronan. Things had changed, surely? Her mind meandered back to this contemplation during the walk up the winding hill towards the town centre, arms folded in deep thought. Her mind remained stuck in the cycle, weighing up what she knew about him and how he made her feel, as if inspecting the evidence would uncover some secret validation that he did like her after all.

She ran off the list of what she knew. Ronan was a couple of years older than Havannah but had the certainty of somebody far older than both of them. Ronan made Havannah feel young and mature all at once; he even made her laugh sincerely – rather than the performative kind of laugh she put on for her father’s friends, head tilted back, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Ronan's beauty haunted her even when he wasn't near, the after image of light caught behind closed eyes.

As she continued her starlit walk, Havannah felt herself hosting the same niggling feeling she kept coming back to. What if I’ve imagined all of this? Alone and with nothing else to distract her, Havannah’s brain started to extrapolate this single worry to all the other potential worries that might or might not have been. Was there a physical distance between them that she hadn’t noticed? Had she blindly believed he’d been laughing at her jokes and not at how ridiculous she’d made herself look, pursuing him with desperation? When he had declined her invitation to the fireworks because he had plans, was it a lie?

She tried to nudge the thoughts from her mind, but there they remained, grinning at her in the dark. What had been a harmless investigation became a ruthless, forensic examination of every gesture, every word, every encounter. Havannah tried to shake the thoughts loose, the cycle spinning faster than ever before, bringing her back to the same conclusion with a thud: she had trusted someone – trusted herself – and was a fool for doing so.

A reprieve came once the road gave way to the town centre, bathed in amber streetlights. The cacophony of the local revellers grew louder and louder as Havannah drew closer to the high street, the volume disrupting the patterns she was drawing in her mind – the patterns and situations and complications that simply didn’t exist. Havannah took relief in focusing on her surroundings instead.

Clayham-on-Sea’s centre was hidden from the shoreline, a compact knot of roads littered with pubs and clubs that catered for all patrons but were most often frequented by the locals who knew the secret of their individual charm.

Havannah let her eyes wander from place to place as underaged girls staggered so early into the night, lads chanted incoherent football songs, and police watched for trouble from a van parked on the pedestrianised area.

The hum of activity grew louder, and Havannah was forced to dodge roaming groups of drunks walking in sloppy formation from pub to pub to club, another entry in the never-ending cycle of their weeks. Surely, she thought, they would soon grow tired of this.

As she reached the end of the pedestrianised centre, Havannah breathed a sigh of relief. Being sober when the rest of the world around her was drunk left her feeling vulnerable, and she momentarily regretted having declined the champagne Patrick had offered her. The fear was in the isolation, a hazy alcohol-barrier separating her from the people she recognised from school and the strangers too young to be drinking; she didn’t trust any of them.

Across the way from the edge of the street was the last establishment Havannah needed to pass to get to the road that would take her back home to her and her dad’s flat, built with the best view of the shoreline and the pier. Patrick didn’t like it out of his sight for very long.

Approaching the traffic lights, Havannah noticed how quickly she had been walking, almost out of breath and aching as her feet came to pause at the crossing. Would someone mistake her for one of the ambling dead as well? She tried steadying herself against the traffic light's post.

When there was at last a break in the convoy of taxis driving into the centre to collect and drop off, Havannah was able to see the front of the last venue in the centre: Vista. Whether or not it was a club or a bar was up to its regular patrons to decide. What she did know – picked up as she pored over her father’s research the summer before, when he was considering purchasing a bar in the town – was that Vista had long been a haunt for a particular community of patrons throughout Clayham-on-Sea's history.

At one time, it had been a discreet pub, whose previously unobstructed views stretched out across the hill down to the seafront and the blue beyond - hence the eventual name. Sailors of a certain inclination would visit on shore leave, and the locals would say nothing about it – although it’s said they all knew what happened behind closed doors and darkened windows.

Eventually, Vista transformed into something else in tandem with history. It was now less a smoky pub filled with the quiet chatter of secrets and Polari, and more a light-filled haven for dancing and flirting and freedom.

Vista was also louder now, the heavy beats pouring out onto the street in time to the flashing lights. There was no need for the windows to be darkened anymore, but they were still frosted – still keeping the rest of the world one step away – so that only dancing silhouettes could be seen.

Havannah saw one such silhouette shuffle to the door and then emerge out into the fresh night air. He looked familiar – even more so once he lifted his head to feel the breeze against his skin and in his sandy blond hair. She squinted, to be sure, and went to step out into the road, drawn by curiosity and surprise. No, not surprise: disappointment.

A taxi blasted its horn at her, and Havannah withdrew. Ronan looked up and smiled, waving Havannah over. He stepped towards the edge of the road and checked both ways before beckoning her – an invitation so bold that it only added fuel to Havannah’s frustration. Her shoulders sank as the disappointment ripened into the realisation that she was too lonely to spurn any friend, no matter their sexual orientation.

“Hey!” he said, throwing his arms around her with an unusual level of familiarity. Havannah was stiff at first, but then softened to pat him on the back with uncertainty.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Havannah asked, throat so dry it sounded like her voice was being squeezed out of her neck. Ronan looked confused, stepping back from her.

“You look beautiful tonight?” he said, looking her up and down, his tipsy gaze darting cautiously across her features.

Havannah wordlessly pointed to the bar’s signage. Under the lit-up neon ‘VISTA’ was written ‘Gay Friendly Est. 1927’. Beside it, a rainbow flag hung from the wall. Ronan followed where she pointed, took a moment to piece the assumption together, and promptly erupted into raucous laughter. Havannah wasn’t amused.

“I’m not gay,” he said, turning back to her, his face creased in amusement.

“Bisexual?”

Ronan shook his head, wiping an amused tear from his eye.

“Would that have bothered you?” he asked, finally calming down to be the Ronan she was most familiar with. The laughter seemed to have shaken the fog of tipsiness from him.

“No. God no. Not at all. Sorry. Ah fuck,” she exclaimed, suddenly aware of how she sounded. The bottom of her disappointment gave way to further humiliation and regret.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, Ronan with his hands in his pockets, Havannah with her arms folded. More patrons filtered out behind Ronan, one declaring to his friends that he needed a kebab sooner rather than later. Havannah and Ronan finally laughed – just a little, just with relief – and Ronan stepped closer.

“Admit it…you were a bit disappointed, weren’t you?” he asked in a low, close voice. Havannah wanted him to reach out and touch her, lift his hands to her arms, kiss her – anything to have him cross the small amount of space between them.

“A little,” she admitted, making sure to look at him as she replied in the same quiet, breathless manner.

“And you’re still wondering why I’m here, aren’t you?” Ronan stepped back, breezily, the moment passing them by.

“Maybe,” Havannah replied, though she didn’t care – not really, not when he’d been in kissing distance only seconds earlier.

“It’s definitely not because the drinks are cheap. We had to get started before we arrived,” Ronan said disapprovingly, pointing a thumb behind him. “And now you’re wondering who I’m here with.”

Havannah grew restless and frustrated with this pantomime. An excuse was already being cobbled together in her mind, and Ronan seemingly registered her disinterest by the way her eyes roamed down the street she’d been walking towards when he’d seen her.

“Simon. It’s Simon! I’m here with Simon,” he exclaimed, side-stepping to block her exit and bring the back-and-forth to an end.

“Your brother?”

Ronan nodded.

“He’s gay. He thinks. He’s been figuring it out for a few years. It's easier for him to explore it in the summer, out of sight. It helps.”

“Wouldn’t it help to just come out?”

Ronan took a hand from a pocket and rubbed his chin, stubbly from a long day. Had they even been back to the caravan park where they’d been staying? Havannah wanted to reach her own hand out to stroke it, feel the bristle against her own skin and pretend they were familiar enough with each other that the gesture would be natural, expected, welcomed.

“It’s complicated. But right now, he’s happy. And I guess we’ll have to just take that for what it is. Anyway…” Ronan rocked on the balls of his feet, starting to move out of Havannah’s path, his body twisting in the direction of the door.

“You want me to go so you can get back inside?” Havannah asked, half-relieved because it meant she could leave the situation and its strained, unfunny script behind. Ronan just laughed.

“Leave the mind reading to me, yeah? You’re terrible at it,” he said, his tired eyes creasing in amusement. “I was going to ask if you wanted to join us.”

Did she? Havannah looked over at the bar, heard a familiar song thrum through the pavement, and felt beckoned in, if only to be somewhere untouched by feuds and the political entanglements of her life. But the thought of her own bed, more comfortable shoes, and a quiet night all made for an excellent counterargument. It was Ronan’s hopeful face that won her over, though she remained reluctant.

“It’s not really my kind of place…but sure. And I’ll get the drinks in,” she added, quickly, as if to stake her claim in taking over leadership of the evening.

“Well, m’lady,” Ronan said mockingly, holding out a hand. “We’ll go to your kind of place next time. Deal?”

Her hand took his, and it felt confident and warm. She felt the comforting squeeze of Ronan’s fingers around hers and her heart quickened at his promise of a good time.

“Deal.”

***

“I’m not fucking going in there,” Victor stated firmly, the edges of his words steely sharp.

Envy rolled her eyes out of sight, while Claire cradled her bare arms against the cool night air. The girls looked about hopelessly; it was too late to get in anywhere else.

“Come on, babe. It could be fun,” Claire tried, wrapping her arm around Victor’s, still drunk on the pretty lights and cheap beer. He shrugged her off and stepped away as he had done on the pier, embarrassed. Since the fireworks, he had become more vocal about his disapproval, the effort to remain friendly straining his patience.

“I don’t want to spend the rest of the night with a bunch of…”

Though he had paused before finishing his sentence, Envy could see his intention from the position of Victor’s teeth against his bottom lip. She felt brave – brave enough to take a bold step to close the gap between them. Victor towered above her, his nostrils flaring with indignation at her proximity, and she was reminded of the tense moment between him and Damon earlier in the evening. He wasn’t likely to allow another loss to his ego, and Envy was all too aware that she wasn’t a match for him.

“What?” he spat, as if a puppy was begging at his feet with big eyes and a hungry belly. The inflection of the words had the opposite effect, instead tossing kindling onto the fire in Envy’s voice. Their silent truce was seemingly at an end.

“A bunch of what, Victor? Come on, be a man and finish what you were saying.”

A smirk twitched in the corner of his mouth; Envy’s intuition wanted her to strike that spot exactly, just as she had dreamt of doing so many times before. She cautioned herself against it and, sensing her hesitation, Victor leaned in closer.

“A bunch of fags,” he finished, letting the word jab her as it left his lips.

“Fuck you,” was her response, eyes narrowed, and words blurted out in hurried hurt. Victor just stood there with a proud look smeared across his face. She turned to Claire for support. “Are you coming in or what?”

The uncertain look on Claire’s face as she glanced at Victor for his approval and then back at Envy was not surprising; Envy expected her friend to choose Victor the moment she had asked but had done so anyway simply to drag Claire into her fury.

“I’d better not. We could just go home?” she asked, seeking an answer to the contrary from Victor. Claire had fallen into Envy’s trap.

Victor, however, had long since shifted his attention from the girls and their discussion to his phone, the screen light casting shadows across his face.

“I need to go,” he said, suddenly. He grasped the phone at his side, the screen now dimmed, kissed Claire on the cheek with force and told her to get home safely, before disappearing down the street opposite Vista without another word.

Sensing Claire’s wordless abandonment as she found herself squirming in the trap, Envy saw her chance and swooped in for the kill, rounding on her friend.

“When are you going to wake up and see he’s no good for you, Claire?”

There was no response, Claire’s attention still fixed on Victor’s trail, as if he might come back to her if she stared into the night for just a little bit longer.

“He’s not that bad, Envy. He’s just…,” the well-worn excuse faded into a sigh. When she turned back to Envy, Claire saw her friend’s face scrunched in rage, fists tight by her sides. There were tears – real, furious, fiery tears – in her eyes. Claire folded her arms even tighter and declared that she would head home.

“If you don’t have the self-respect to stand up to him, there’s not much I can do. But the fact he treats your friends like shit as well should really be a red flag, Claire. We can all see what he’s like.”

“That’s the problem, Envy. You don’t know what he’s like.”

The words were unexpected; they hit Envy like a cold slap, sobering her temper. She had only imagined Claire shrinking away and submitting as she did for Victor, and Envy suddenly felt her anger turn upon itself.

“Goodnight, Envy. Sorry your night was ruined.”

Claire said nothing else, just turned away and started walking in the direction of home.

“No. No fucking way!” Envy shouted after her, desperately, but Claire didn’t turn back around to apologise, nor did she stop and come to her senses. Envy tried once more. “Call me when you’ve sorted your head out!”

Envy stomped up to the bouncer, alone and willing to see how far her fury could carry her before the impact of crossed words woke her from her trance.

Once Envy crossed Vista’s threshold, none of it seemed like such a good idea anymore – the shouting, the harsh truths, the stumbling into a club alone. Inside her chest, she suddenly felt deflated. Her defiance had been extinguished by the crushing realisation that rather than end the night with friends, she was lonely, confronted by a sea of strangers dancing to songs she didn’t know.

Envy was poised to leave, standing in the sparse stretch of space between the door and the bar, occasionally shuffling aside and apologising as people made their way past her. She wondered how they all seemed to collide with her, only to spot the stairs beside her leading down to the toilets. Sheepishly, she stepped away, pretended to scan the dancefloor for friends she had lost – the excuse lined up and ready to fire in case anybody questioned her – and checked her phone for a phantom text that only existed when she found herself in situations where she imagined other people were expecting some sort of performance from her as they walked by.

Feeling as though she’d ticked off all three performative tactics reasonably well, Envy gave herself permission to leave.

“Envy!”

At first, she thought the voice had been as equally imagined as the message, a garbled call lost in the folds and layers of all the noise around her – the excitable remix of a song she was sure they all laughed at during school discos, and the low hum of conversations being shouted underneath its oppressive volume – but then she heard it again, louder.

Envy scanned the bar more genuinely this time, letting her gaze run along the silhouettes and the shapes and the swinging beams of light. There was a tap against her arm which made her spin in fear, only to find herself face-to-face with the same bouncer who had stepped aside to let her in. Had he been watching her make a fool of herself the whole time? Had he bought the performance? Envy didn’t need to ask.

“Your friends are over there,” the bouncer shouted, leaning down to get eye-level and pointing over her shoulder towards the bar.

Waving her arms excitably, her clutch bag in one hand, was Havannah. One of the lights flicked across her, lighting up the sparkle of her dress and the gold framing her face, and the brightness of her smile. Havannah looked happy to see Envy, and for the first time in a long while, Envy felt the same..

“Th-thanks,” Envy smiled, stepping away from the bouncer to delve into the crowd.

The problem was no longer that she might seem foolish, or that she still had to navigate a gauntlet of patrons dancing with their drinks being waved wildly about them. It was that, in all honesty, Envy was ready to go home; she had been ready since stepping foot inside.

Deploying a gentle hand to separate dancers in her path, turning sideways to step between two arguing friends, and apologising every time she moved past someone, Envy made her way to the bar and Havannah. She was greeted with a hand on her shoulder, pulling her closer for a one-armed embrace.

“What do you want to drink?” Havannah asked loudly as the bartender approached. She had the digits of one hand – perfectly manicured in burgundy – now spread against the stark white marble bar, reserving his attention while she confirmed drink orders.

“A lemonade is fine,” Envy said, her voice straining against the din.

“Sure!” Havannah replied, though when Envy leaned in a little closer to join Havannah at the bar, she could tell a very different order was being made. Havannah lifted two fingers and gestured at a bottle on the highest shelf behind the bartender. Although Envy didn’t catch any of what Havannah was asking for, she knew it would be expensive and might burn her insides – but then again, she felt like it was what she might need that evening, to singe out the rotten feeling in her gut.

The bartender dutifully lined up all the drinks, handed Havannah the card machine, and gave her a thumbs up before wordlessly moving onto the next customer, dancing to the beat of a song he had probably heard playing in the venue a thousand times over as he went.

Envy surveyed the line-up and counted more than the two of them could imbibe. It only occurred to her then to ask Havannah what she was doing in Vista of all places. The question had to wait, however, as Havannah slid a shot glass dangerously full of clear spirits in Envy’s direction. They downed the neat alcohol – and grimaced – in unison, laughing as they slammed the glasses down on the bar.

Again, Envy went to ask for some reasoning behind Havannah’s presence – as pleasant as it was – when they were interrupted by two young men. One she had met before in the souvenir shop, blond and handsome and trying to be funny. The other was younger, his cheeks flushed from dancing and hair swept to the side with sweat. The brothers reached for their drinks, thanking Havannah, as she handed two to Envy. She leaned in close to Envy’s ear, pointing at each of the plastic cups in turn.

“This one’s just lemonade because you asked for it, and this one is peach schnapps because I know that’s what you actually wanted, but you’re too polite to ask.”

Envy blushed, a little embarrassed, but Havannah just winked and held the drinks closer to her, leaving Envy little choice but to take them and offer her gratitude. She tried to offer to buy the next round, but Havannah was leading them all back to the dancefloor, and there wasn’t a chance to say anything more.

***

“Do you need any help? With…?” Ronan half nodded in Envy’s direction, the short girl holding her battered high tops in one hand as she swayed against a lamp post. His hands were resting in his jean pockets, and Havannah wanted him to take them out and to hold her – though she couldn’t decide if that was just the tired haze of the alcohol.

She peeked behind her to check Envy hadn’t walked into the road or fallen, saw that she was slumped against the post, and shook her head.

“She’ll be OK. But thanks."

Ronan had drawn closer, and Havannah's heart beat a little faster in anticipation. She was willingly inhaling the mingling aroma of his woody aftershave, air tinged with the last of the day’s warmth, and their own sweat from the dancefloor. It was a heady combination, and Havannah wanted to breathe in nothing but this scent, living off of it.

They both leaned in closer, ready to cross this imagined barrier together.

Instead of magic and the taste of his lips, however, there was nothing. The pair were pulled apart quickly at the sound of a crowd cheering as Simon’s vomit hit the pavement. A passing girl screamed dramatically as the acidic combination of cheap alcohol and a hurried cone of early evening chips almost hit her new dress, and her friends all laughed in squawking unison at the misfortune.

“I’d better get him home too,” Ronan said, regretfully. “He’ll need to sober up before we get back.”

“Let me get you a taxi,” Havannah offered with concern, but Ronan politely declined.

“We’ve got the late bus, or my dad’s friend has offered to pick us up. We’ll get back alright. But thanks.”

Before Havannah could insist or inquire about how long it would take for them to get back to their campsite, a taxi pulled up in front of Envy, just in time. Envy stumbled to open the door and climb in. Not wanting to leave the driver enough time to decline Envy as a passenger, Havannah gave Ronan a quick squeeze on the side of the arm – a gesture she would regret for its cold casual feel – and followed Envy into the taxi.

Ronan released his hands from his pockets to wave goodbye, his own regret bubbling in the pit of his stomach, and turned to take care of his brother.

In the taxi, Havannah's lingering wish of a kiss rested on her lips. Absentmindedly, she pressed a finger gently to them, as if to emulate where Ronan’s lips should’ve been, disturbed from her wishing by Envy.

Like a child seeking comfort from a parent, Envy steadied herself by gently resting her head upon Havannah’s lap, unconcerned by a seatbelt and safety. Catching a glimpse of the taxi driver’s glare in the rear-view mirror, Havannah waited for him to say something. All the while, she played the role of mother, running her fingers through Envy’s messy black hair. The sensation soothed Envy – as it always did – and she smiled contently.

Finally, as the taxi took flight from outside of the club, the driver spoke up.

“Is your friend alright? She better not throw up.”

“Don’t worry, she won’t. She’s just tired,” Havannah replied, dropping her gaze to her friend. It felt like the old days all over again, just in a slightly different shape and with the dizzying colours of their younger days turned down to a calmer hue.

“Aren’t we all?” the driver replied, his eyes moving back down to the amber-bathed road ahead of him.

“Yeah. Aren’t we all?” Havannah repeated.

Havannah’s hand continued to stroke Envy’s hair automatically as her attention was drawn towards the window. She watched with misty eyed desire at the lights and the revellers passing them by in a dreamy blur. They reached the end of the town centre, and the people vanished, the road stretching on into an unfathomable darkness.

It was then, at that precise and peaceful moment, that Havannah felt the need to insert a full stop in her life. This town really was too small for her – literally and in every other way it could possibly be. The tide shifted in her, and she suddenly felt a pang of excitement at the thought of leaving; she couldn’t wait to leave Clayham-on-Sea and the pier and her old friends behind after all.

An exhalation of breath long trapped in a tight spot behind her ribcage expanded, growing beyond the boundaries of everything Havannah thought she knew about what she wanted. Her dad would be fine and never too far away; her place here would remain no matter where she went. The world was waiting for Havannah Shaw to stop dreaming and join in.

“Are you OK, Hav?” Envy mumbled, dreamily, drooling a little on Havannah’s dress.

In the reflection of the window, smeared by the sparse streetlights against darkness, Havannah caught a glimpse of herself.

“Yeah. I’m good.”