Soul Beach

Meggie, either. I look for her Alice in Wonderland halo of hair. (I deserved that hair to go with my name, but instead I got impossible kinks that even Mum’s GHDs can’t iron out.) My sister must fit right in here, with her curves and her heart-shaped face that never needed make-up, not even under the harshest studio lights.
    But if the surfers and the sunbathers here are all dead, then where do average -looking teens go after death? The ones with thick ankles or frizzy hair? Before Meggie died, I’d never thought about life after death, but if there is a judgement day, shouldn’t it focus on good deeds, instead of sex appeal?
    ‘Florrie?’
    I spin round.
    Oh my God . . .
    Meggie, a hundred times more beautiful than before.
    Her hair has lightened in the sun, so it’s even fairer than it is in the picture of her as a baby Mum keeps on the mantelpiece. Normally, Meggie just has to look at the sun to burn, her one flaw, but right now, only her face is pink, cheeks the colour of garden roses. Her body is a flawlessly airbrushed bronze.
    We reach out to touch each other at exactly the same moment . . . but my hand strikes the screen, and hers drops like a stone through empty air.
    ‘Oh, Meggie. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’
    She’s struggling to answer. She reaches out her arms a second time, but of course, there’s nothing there. Even if we weren’t online, I’ve seen enough movies about ghosts to know you can’t feel them, beyond a half-imagined breath in your ear or the sensation of their eyes watching you.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ she says, moving backwards like she’s been slapped. ‘I don’t know why I did that. You look so real, that’s all.’
    ‘Do I?’
    ‘Yes. Oh yes. I was frightened you might stay a blur, but you’re not. You really are here. On the Beach. With me.’
    It’s then I realise that the light on the built in web cam is glowing for the first time since I got to Soul Beach. So part of me is here, in my bedroom, hunched over the screen, and then a virtual me is on the sand. I struggle to make sense of it. ‘What am I wearing?’
    ‘Oh, the usual,’ she says. ‘The usual for here, that is. Today you’re in a bright red t-shirt that makes your eyes look greener, and a short denim skirt that shows your very lovely tanned knees.’
    ‘They’re not tanned at all. The weather’s been crap this summer.’ Though I only know that from newspaper headlines; I’ve hardly left the house.
    ‘Well, your tan looks pretty fab to me, Florrie. Then again, everyone looks fab here.’
    ‘I noticed. Where do the mingers go? Is there a separate heaven for them?’
    She looks serious. ‘I’ve heard it’s on a rubbish tip, and, when you get there, you have to scavenge your own clothes from among the tin cans and the rotten food.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Oh, God, Florrie, you’re still bloody gullible, aren’t you? No, there’s no audition to get onto Soul Beach. The good thing about being dead is that suddenly you’re perfect. Look . . . .’ and she lifts up her ankle, ‘. . . my trampoline scar.’
    She runs her finger along untouched, hair-free flesh.
    I look closely. ‘It’s not there.’
    She laughs. ‘No. And I haven’t had a single spot. No periods, no PMT, no headaches, no hangovers. There’s booze here, of course, but it doesn’t affect you in any bad way, and after a while most people don’t bother to get drunk, because everything here is so damned wonderful already .’
    I suddenly notice that there’s an odd shrill tone to her words.
    ‘Unlimited booze but no one gets wasted?’
    Meggie nods towards the group of Scandinavian-looking blond kids sitting on a rug having a picnic further along the shore.
    ‘Look closer. What do you see?’
    I stare at them for ages, trying to work out why they make me feel so uncomfortable. The picnic is incredibly lavish, the rug laden with bright green salads, fresh juicy peaches and nectarines, barbecued burgers and chicken, baguettes, chocolate cake, strawberries and cream.
    For the first time in days, no, months , I feel properly hungry; it all looks so mouth-watering. Then there’s the booze: jugs of ruby red sangria with oranges floating amongst the ice-cubes, cans of beer in a bucket, bottles of white wine with condensation frosting the glass.
    Then I realise what’s wrong.
    ‘They’re not drinking. Or eating. Are they on drugs?’
    ‘No,’ Meggie replies. ‘But after a while . . . it’s hard to explain. It