Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

She pictured herself dancing on the grass with Martin, so stoned they couldn’t stop laughing – bending and swaying to the music and buckling at the source of a shared, if unidentifiable, joke. When the tide went out, they clambered down the ladder to the mudflats and Martin fixed up an improvised brazier and lit a fire. They kissed, slipping and grasping on to one another, and then danced, besmirched with sludge, as the party took on the atmosphere of a pagan celebration. By chance, she glanced up to the garden wall where people were gathered, and there was Ralph. He gave her a small wave and a pained expression. By the time she had climbed back up the ladder to find him, he was dancing flirtatiously with Jane – presumably his idea of provoking her. Certainly Jane looked pleased.

A gentle rain began to fall and Ralph asked her to go inside the house for a minute. She looked around but couldn’t see Martin anywhere. In the kitchen, she noticed herself in the ornate mirror hanging behind the wooden sofa. Her hair had sprung up into an explosion of curls, her arms and legs were slicked with river mud and her eyes were blackened with smudged eyeliner. ‘Wild girl,’ Ralph said, as if offering a challenge. They kissed drunkenly, mouths tasting of cigarettes and alcohol. He looked sad and she felt she had the upper hand; she could choose to reject him, or they could go and screw each other. She knew it wasn’t about being in love any more – it was different now, however much they cared for one another. She thought, I can do this. I’m playing this game and making up my own rules. I’m not a kid. They went up to Ed’s study and did it standing against the door, fast, almost angry. Then Ralph left and she went back to the garden.

She might have felt like a woman of the world, aged sixteen and allowed by law to choose her lovers, but she had not yet experienced an orgasm. Ralph had not enquired. They had also been wantonly careless about contraception – the ‘French letters’ were never produced again after Aegina and they didn’t discuss the subject. She had numerous pregnancy scares when her period came late and she fantasised about the ensuing catastrophe – Ralph, shocked and concerned at her hospital bedside after an abortion, her parents confused and miserable.

It was late afternoon when Libby and Paige returned home from their shopping expedition.

‘Hi, Daphne. How are you? Thanks for having me over.’ She was very confident and pretty, hair woven into cornrows ending in beaded braids and wearing a tight top that revealed a pierced belly button. Her manner was more sophisticated than Libby’s. She reminded Daphne of the older girls at Hayfield, whom she admired and feared in almost equal measure, whose world was impenetrable.

‘Look what I bought!’ With the aplomb of a conjuror, Libby whisked out a pair of shiny, black, spike-heeled shoes. ‘They’re for tonight,’ she said, before Daphne could speak. ‘We’re going to dress up. I’m so excited.’ Until recently, Libby’s parties meant balloons and jelly; all of a sudden, they included fuck-me shoes.

‘They were really cheap – on sale,’ said Libby. ‘I love them.’ She put them on and wavered on spindly legs, precarious as a newborn fawn.

‘Hey, Mum, can you make us some of that popcorn with honey and chilli?’ Libby liked offering Daphne the chance to appear like an improved version of herself – more conventional and orderly, matriarch of a household with charming traditions like unusual popcorn. They were able to present something more substantial than an alliance of two orbiting females – something resembling a family. If they’d been alone together, Daphne would probably have said, ‘Oh come on, Lib, make it yourself,’ but she played along with the game. ‘Right, but be prepared for a chilli-fest – I like it spicy.’ Libby’s casual acceptance of her care was part of the game too. The girls scurried off to Libby’s room to get ready for the party and the merciless beat of dance music thudded through the flat.

After making the popcorn, she returned to her work. The sun had set and it was the perfect moment between day and night, the sky lit up pink. She opened the windows in the sitting room and the warm evening air brought compound scents of silty river water, mown grass and the roasting meat smoke from a nearby barbecue. Quite some time passed before Libby’s bedroom door opened and the two girls made their entrance. Bright red lipstick, overdone eye make-up, teetering heels and miniskirts revealing lengths of bare, skinny legs. Their arms were covered with glitter, their nails painted bubble-gum pink. They looked like caricatures of underage sex workers. ‘Wow!’ Daphne tried to smile.

Gripping Paige so her wobbling heels would not betray her, Libby switched the television on to a channel with pop videos. An American singer in satin underwear and fishnet drapery was twisting and grinding, the camera angle aimed at her crotch. The video was filmed in a club where the performers had mocked up a druggy party: rough-looking men were locked pelvis to buttock with girls covered in tattoos and piercings. The dancers were fast and slick, cupping their genitals, thrusting and cutting through explicit imitations of the sex act. There was nothing ambiguous. Libby and Paige took up the beat and began dancing to the music. They knew how to do it. There was little Libby, flicking and twisting her hips, lowering herself parallel to her friend until they were almost squatting, then writhing up again. Daphne found the sight mesmerising and awful.

The previous evening, Lib had begged her mother to watch a DVD of The Lion King – her favourite cartoon since babyhood. She had actually sat on Daphne’s lap, entwined in her arms, which she gripped at the scary parts. They’d both sung along with the familiar songs. Yesterday Libby had been a child. A baby. Today she was… well, it was hard to say a woman. It was more as if she was veering violently and uncontrollably between one state and another.

It was only too clear that Libby was being swept along by natural forces. Attempting to prevent it would be pointless. And yet there was something alarming about the scene playing out in their sitting room. ‘What would you do if a man made Libby love him?’ She shuddered. The shocking question had abruptly become more plausible.

The song on the television changed and Libby and Paige abandoned their improvised dance floor, ankles quivering. Libby’s cheeks were pink-sheened, her eyes brilliant blue. She was taller than Daphne in these shoes. There was a steamy gust of sweet perfume as they swayed and grabbed each other, giggled and made their way through to the kitchen to get some water. Daphne followed, half-horrified, half-fascinated, unnoticed by the girls who were laughing at the red lipstick imprints they left on their glasses.

‘So, Libby, what time should we leave for the party? And when does it end? Shall I collect you at eleven?’

‘No way eleven! Mum! At least midnight. Oh come on. It’s the holidays. Nobody will leave before twelve.’

Daphne might have enjoyed these age-old parental negotiations in other circumstances, but after witnessing the girls dancing, it felt as though the rules had changed.

‘OK, eleven thirty. But that’s my last offer.’ She didn’t like the sound of her own voice. She had never spoken to Libby like that before.

When she returned home after dropping off the party girls, the block of flats seemed even quieter than usual, as if everyone else was out on this beautiful July evening. The fourth-floor corridor looked bleak and bland and, yet again, she experienced the disconcerting sense of entering Aunt Connie’s home rather than her own. A wave of Saturday-night loneliness drenched her for a moment as she opened a bottle of wine, poured a glass and sipped it while inspecting the fridge. Methodically, she picked at the remains of lunch, extracting a few olives, some bread and cheese and a tomato. Pleased by this efficient means of completing her supper, she took the wine to the sitting room and looked out at its view of her past.