39
In Chantelle’s opinion, Whitley Bay wasn’t the place it used to be. Nowadays, disappointed tourists came looking for Spanish City and found nothing resembling the fairground it once was. A place so iconic that its Tunnel of Love had inspired a song by Mark Knopfler, no less. She had binned the idea of spending a day there, opting instead for Seaton Sluice a couple of miles north up the coast, talking her mates into going with her. It had the same fabulous golden sands but no cafés, candyfloss or chips, just miles and miles of beach fringed with sand dunes where they could smoke a spliff without being seen, or strip off naked if they wanted to.
’cept not one of the bottleless mingers did.
‘Who needs St Tropez, eh, Shell?’ Tracy said.
Chantelle didn’t answer. She was too busy gawping at Leigh and Daisy, who already had fabulous tans on account of the fact that they were out of work. Thinking she had a lot of catching up to do, Chantelle watched Tracy get her kit off, revealing a lush polka-dot bikini underneath. It showed off her superb figure and left nothing to the imagination. She worked in a knocking shop on Elswick Road, and had once taken Chantelle there for an interview – if that was what giving the owner a blow-job was called these days. But the nobber said she didn’t have quite the right qualifications. What he meant was, she was a little larger than his other girls.
Tosser.
Chantelle would never tell Tracy, but the experience had dented her confidence and made her all the more determined to show them she didn’t have to be a slapper to earn her keep. Anyhow, she was better than that. Classier. No need to lie on her back and think of England for some married, hairy-arsed polis, judge, accountant, looking for a bit on the side. She had a brain in her head and intended to use it.
Starting tomorrow.
Maybe then she could bag herself a footie player and realize her dream of becoming a WAG. Chantelle stroked her stomach. She’d lost weight lately and had spent all morning brushing up on Celebrity Biggest Loser on the net. Poring over their weight-loss stories, picking up tips: what worked, what didn’t. More of the divvies seemed to be going up than down this week, which made her feel a little less inadequate.
Spraying her legs with Tesco suntan lotion, making sure she covered the bits round her knees that always got burnt, she bristled as she noticed a bottle of Piz Buin sticking out of Tracy’s bag. Knocked-off, obviously. She couldn’t afford to buy it, not with a kid at home to look after, no matter how many tricks she turned. Couldn’t pronounce it neither, prob’ly.
That was Tracy in a nutshell: all the gear, no idea.
But they were great mates – had been since starting school. They had fallen out numerous times, but never for long. If Chantelle was being honest, Tracy was the one person in the world she could trust, the only one who was there for her through thick and thin. Mostly thin, now she came to think of it.
A kid screamed as he entered the shimmering water. Chantelle watched him run back out and kick sand in his sister’s eyes, making her cry. Little twat reminded her of her brother, whose real name was Todd but who was referred to as Samantha by his mates – a nickname that stuck with him when he entered the military. He took great pleasure in her discomfort. There was a posh word for that, so his social worker said. German, if Chantelle recalled right. Chardonnay? Sommat like that, at any rate. Why didn’t folks speak plain English?
‘Evil little shit’ worked just as well.
There were no adults in the sea. And who could blame them? Chantelle had dipped her toe in the water when they arrived and watched as it turned blue. She could swear it was degrees warmer when she was a kid than it was today.
‘Global warming, my arse!’ she said out loud.
‘Eh?’ Tracy looked up from Grazia – the fifth-birthday collector’s issue she’d half-inched from a mate’s house the night before. The magazine was well thumbed, its pages curled at the corners. It had a picture of Lady Gaga on the front, the celebrity she most admired.
Pulling a face, she threw a baseball cap at Chantelle.
‘Better put that on,’ she said. ‘Either you’ve had too much sun or too much dope!’
Chantelle ignored the hat, repeating Tracy back to herself, mimicking her broad Geordie accent, which was far more pronounced than hers. She’d always tried to talk proper on account of the fact that she was going places, the only one trying to better herself – the only one working, for that matter. The only one with a plan.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an unhappy boy lying on a towel, his father ignoring him completely in favour of the phone in his hand. She wondered who they were, why they had bothered to come down to the beach together. The lack of interaction between them made her feel sad. She wanted to go over and speak to the kid, do something to brighten his day. Being ignored was the worst thing that could happen to anyone. She knew all about that. No wonder she craved the limelight.
She laid down and suddenly there was no wind, only baking, relentless sun. Gulls flew right overhead in a clear blue sky, a rare sight in the north-east. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, just acres of blue, reminding her of trips to the beach with her mam and Todd. He always insisted on bringing a cricket bat and stumps, a bottle of water and jam sandwiches to last a whole day. But Chantelle was watching her weight, so lunch was a little more sophisticated nowadays: potted spread, BBQ crisps and Red Bull.
Smashing.
Chantelle suddenly sat up again.
‘Fucking Gobi Desert down there,’ she said. Turning around to face the water, she scanned the beach. Apart from the lad who was being ignored, there was maybe half a dozen families, no more than that, paddling, sunbathing, some of them reading, cool-boxes and bottles of pop everywhere. The water looked so inviting.
Sighing, Chantelle glanced at her mates. ‘Anyone fancy a plodge?’
Nobody moved.
Chantelle laid back down. She could hear the wash of the sea on the shore, the laughter of children playing on the beach and some dozy cow yelling like a banshee for a dog called Roly. Chantelle didn’t like dogs, having been bitten by a terrier when she was four. Little twat sunk its teeth right into her arm and she still bore the scar to this day. Let sleeping dogs lie, her father had always told her. But did she listen?
Did she shite.
Turning her head sideways, Chantelle saw that her mates were all fast asleep, their faces lifted towards the sun. Tracy’s mouth was wide open and she was snoring like a horse. Very attractive. Chantelle wished she could do the same, but she was so tense. So restless. She had far too much on her mind. In the immediate wake of the fire, you couldn’t get shifted on Ralph Street as scores of police officers flooded the area. She’d thought it best to keep a low profile until the excitement died down. Two days on and the house was boarded up, the street empty of police now they’d gone back to headquarters to investigate the case. Maybe it was time to make her move.
Unable to keep a secret for very long, Chantelle had told the only one she knew she could trust. But her plan hadn’t gone down well; Tracy had tried laying a guilt trip on her as soon as she heard. In the end, Chantelle warned her to keep her mouth shut if she knew what was good for her, or Wannabe Lady Gaga would end up looking like someone had chopped sticks on her face. That shut her up good and proper; she hadn’t mentioned it again.
Right now, Chantelle wished Todd was there to talk to, even if he did kick sand in her face. Her brother understood the concept of looking after number one. He’d once told her that, in order to be first over the hill, you had to tread on the necks of others or get trampled in the stampede.
Chantelle smiled and shut her eyes. Necks it is then.