Soul Beach

doesn’t really satisfy you like it did before. I guess that’s something to do with not being alive.’
    Another thought occurs to me. An awkward one. ‘What about sex ?’
    She laughs loudly now, no more tension. ‘Oh, there is that . Risk-free and available whenever you fancy it, especially with the newbies when they first get here. They’re rampant when they realise there’s no need for condoms, no STDs, no pregnancy worries.’
    I try not to think about whether my sister ran wild to begin with. ‘But you can actually feel touch? Between ghosts I mean.’
    ‘Shhh!’ She looks alarmed. ‘Don’t use that word. We’re not ghosts. I don’t know what we are. Lost souls, maybe? But we’re not ghosts. ’
    ‘Sorry.’
    Meggie smiles. ‘Don’t be. It’s too weird, at first, isn’t it? Anyway, yes, sex does feel good here. Not quite the same. A bit . . . distant, somehow. You know when you kiss a new person for the first time, it’s always different, even though it’s only a variation on the same slobbery theme?’
    I’ve only kissed two boys, but I don’t tell her that. ‘Hmm?’
    ‘The sex here is so easily available and so . . . samey that I miss something real, something as ordinary and messy as snogging. Plus, it’s extra weird because everyone here is gorgeous. Different colours, different looks . . . yet we’re spookily similar, like mannequins. Highly shaggable mannequins, but all the same . . .’
    ‘Meggie! You never used to be this coarse.’
    She shrugs. ‘That’ll be the company I keep. Speaking of which, would you like to meet some of my new best friends?’

20
    Her new best friends are sitting on the bamboo steps of the beach hut, in the shade of a giant palm. They hug Meggie as though they haven’t seen her for years, but ignore me completely – which strikes me as incredibly rude, though it does gives me the chance to study them.
    There are three friends: two boys and a girl. The girl is Indian and very petite and pretty. I’d guess she’s around my age, but she looks older, thanks to enormous boobs that are barely contained by her orange-and-white striped bikini. She wears a huge amber-and-crystal necklace that draws the eye down to her cleavage, and dangly earrings that move softly in the breeze like wind chimes. Despite her brown skin, there’s an odd bluey sheen to her, as though she’s slightly translucent. For a moment, I imagine I can see her skull, but then I realise it’s just the sun shining on her sharp cheekbones.
    Sitting next to her is a tall, skinny guy with Italian colouring. His lilac cotton shirt is unbuttoned to show toned abs, and his gestures are larger than life. There’s something superficial about him, somehow.
    But when the other guy looks straight through me, I shiver. I can’t take my eyes off him. He reminds me of someone famous. Leonardo di Caprio, maybe. He’s chunkier than his friend, and shorter, with blond highlights running through slightly curly hair. Not my type at all, but those eyes seem so knowing, as though he understands everything but wishes he doesn’t. They’re old eyes, though the rest of him is young.
    What is it about him that’s so intriguing? Then I realise. This guy with the knowing eyes is the only person I’ve seen on Soul Beach who doesn’t look airbrushed: compared to the rest of the clones, he’s almost normal. Still cheesily handsome, yes, but his hair is messy, and his baggy white t-shirt is crumpled and not quite as wash-day bright as everyone else’s. And as Meggie leans forward to greet him, he seems more awkward with the air kissing than the other two.
    Meggie releases herself from the Italian stallion then looks puzzled for a second. ‘Oh. Shit. Sorry, sis, I forgot. They can’t see you until I introduce you. Not sure why. I think they’re worried that Guests might get jealous if they never have a Visitor of their own. You’re the ultimate accessory, believe me.’
    She grins at them. ‘Guys, allow me to introduce my sister, Alice.’ Meggie sounds proud of me in a way I don’t ever remember her being when we were both alive.
    They turn in the direction of her hand but they still don’t seem to see me. ‘Oh,’ she says, flustered. ‘There’s obviously something I’m not getting right here.’
    ‘You have to use our names,’ explains the guy in the white t-shirt. ‘It helps control who can see her and who can’t. Like privacy settings on Facebook or whatever.’ American. Posh