The Wicked Girls Read Online Free PDF Page A

don’t see why
you
can’t. It’s not like you’ve got—’
    She catches her mother’s eye, sees the warning in it and stops her sentence. Gets up from the table and scuffs her way over
     to her trainers in her navy-blue socks with her big toes sticking out. Socks, thinks Kirsty. They grow out of everything.
     I’ll need to stop in at Primark. And maybe it’s a good thing she doesn’t like summer camp, because if things don’t improve,
     it’ll be the last one she goes to. We’ll be farming her out to a sweatshop this time next year.
    She glances at Jim and sees, to her relief, that he’s brushed Sophie’s tactlessness off. She can never be sure, these days.
     Sometimes a careless word, some assumption that he’ll be available, that he has nothing better to do, will send him into a
     spiral of self-doubt that will kibosh the job hunt for days. He’s being so good about it, she thinks, but it’s hard for all
     of us, and sometimes he forgets that. It scares me to death, being the only one bringing in money, but I can’t talk to him
     about it. Every time I do, it sounds like a reproach.
    Jim tucks his folder into his briefcase and comes over to kiss her goodbye. He’s still treating job-hunting like a job, thank
     theLord. It’s when he takes to his pyjamas that she feels she’ll really need to worry.
    ‘Sorry,’ he says, gesturing at the uncleared table. ‘I’ll do it when I get in.’
    She feels herself quail at the humbleness. They’re both uncomfortable with the way he’s taken over the bulk of the domestic
     duties, even though it’s the reasonable thing to do. ‘It’s OK,’ she replies. ‘I don’t have to leave till eleven anyway.’
    He shrugs the bag up on to his shoulder. ‘What’s on the list today?’
    ‘Press conference. Some new political movement. Authoritarian UKIP or something.’
    ‘Sounds like a laugh.’
    ‘Fish in a barrel,’ she says.
    Jim laughs. ‘When in doubt, be facetious, eh?’
    ‘First law of journalism.’
    Another tiny, awkward pause. She avoids enquiring as to his plans for the day. Since his redundancy, the fact that all his
     days follow a similar pattern of poring over the job ads, drinking coffee and doing afternoon housework is a subject that
     makes them both wince. Kirsty knows how she would feel herself if she were in his position. She loves work, defines herself
     by it. Just the thought of no longer doing it fills her with a deep, aching melancholy.
    ‘What are they called?’
    ‘The New Moral Army.’
    He laughs. Picks up his tea and drains it. ‘Oh, good Lord. Kids, come
on
!’
    ‘It’s going to be a short day today, I reckon,’ she says. ‘I won’t have to reach for a joke at all. Just type up the speech.’
    ‘I’ve never heard of them.’
    ‘No. They’re new. That bloke Dara Gibson making his move.’
    ‘What? The charity bloke?’
    Kirsty nods. Dara Gibson, a self-made billionaire, has made asplash lately with a series of high-profile contributions to cancer, animals, ecology and miserable kids. All the emotive
     causes, none of the donations anonymous.
    ‘Hunh,’ he says. ‘Might have guessed he had an agenda.’
    ‘Everybody’s got an agenda of one sort or another.’

Chapter Five
    A nice young constable gives Amber a lift home in a squad car, drops her off shortly before eleven. She feels wiped out, dirty
     and dry; but the sight of her own front door raises her spirits, as it always does. The door itself makes her happy. Just
     looking at it. It was the first thing they bought after they moved up to ownership: a proper, solid-wood, panelled front door
     to replace the wired-glass horror of council days. It represents so much, for her, this door: solidity, independence, her
     gradual rise in the world. Every day – even a day like today – she finds herself stroking its royal-blue gloss paint with
     affection before she puts the key in the lock.
    Amber hopes Vic’ll be awake and is disappointed to find the house