Page 1 of Forbidden Fruit

ONE

THE UNIVERSE HAS MY BACK

“You can’t fire me! I’ve only worked here for two weeks,” I plead, panic rising in my throat.

I can’t lose yet another job. I can’t afford it. Fear makes my heart beat faster as my brain immediately jumps to worst-case scenarios, like going to live with my aunt.

Even desperate, I’ll never set foot in her house again after what she did.

“And that’s two weeks too long. You can’t pour a drink to save your life, girl. You cost me more in damages with each shift than you make me. Maybe try something that has nothing to do with carrying glasses, alright? Here’s your week’s pay. Good luck, kid.”

And with that, Betty, the manager of this piss poor excuse for a bar called The Happy Frog—what a stupid name—dismisses me like I don’t need to pay rent in a week.

I know that’s not her problem, but I was hoping she’d keep me around for a little longer. It’s the second bar to fire me in since I arrived on the island and I’m at my wits’ end. If I don’t find another job soon, I won’t be able to pay for my room in the shitty apartment I call home.

I don’t have a fancy college degree, so my options are rather limited.

And my roommate, Chris, is an asshole who will be all too happy to kick me out.

Apparently, I use too much hot water when I shower, so the bastard times me. I can’t stay under the spray for more than three minutes and thirty seconds, or he’ll bang on the door like a madman. I could just about manage that, but he also claimed that electricity is too expensive, and it’s best if we don’t use the heating and just put on extra layers of clothes. It’s February on Kalliste and the temperature in the flat dropped to sixteen degrees Celsius last night, for Christ’s sake.

Thank God he’s not the type to suggest we share body heat.

If I’m late paying rent for the second month in a row, he’ll kick me out for sure.

Betty must see the fear and despair clear as day on my face, because she takes my hand. “You’re a good kid, Vanessa, but I’m no charity. You know that. Listen, if you really need the money, go to Lady in White. They always need staff, and looking like you do, you’d be a gem.”

I know what she means. My body’s athletic due to all the yoga I do. With my almond-shaped, brown eyes and long wavy hair, I’m aware I’m not ugly. It’s helped me get extra tips these past few weeks, but I’ve never considered using my body as a job.

Located down the pier of Sant Armellu, Lady in White, the mysterious club Betty speaks of, is more than a strip club. With a stellar reputation, it’s said to be where political careers are made, business deals sealed, and desires fulfilled.

Since I came to Kalliste two months ago, the club has intrigued me. People whisper the name of its owner, Alana Moretti, like she’s more legend than woman. They seem to fear and admire her in equal measure.

Curiosity has always been my biggest flaw.

You should appreciate what you already have, child. You could be homeless right now.My aunt’s voice echoes in my head.Learning to be contentwas one of her favourite tools to keep me and my mother small. That and prayers.

Newsflash, prayers don’t cure cancer.

Since I left eighteen months ago, after burying the only person who mattered to me, I’ve learned a thing or two about resilience. And I vowed I’d never rely on anyone but myself.

I shake my head to dispel the rage and the grief thoughts of my mother always brings, and thank Betty before making my way out the door.

Lady in White is a short distance away and I decide to walk the pier and wait for a sign. It might be stupid, but I believe the universe has my back. If I didn’t, I’d probably give up and go back, and that’snothappening.

At 3 am, the pier is busy with party-goers. Most bars have closed their doors by now and drunk people of all ages are making their way home or to the clubs that pepper the adjacent streets. I wrap my cheap coat and wool scarf tighter around me to stave off the cold wind coming in from the sea, but the air is wet with the promise of rain.

I get some fries at the food truck parked a hundred metres from Lady in White.

“Hey, beautiful. Same as usual?” Mo, the owner, asks.

I might have been here only a couple of months, but when you end your shift at 3 am on a Friday—or I guess, Saturday, technically—you pick up on certain habits. Fries baked in oil that hasn’t been changed for days is mine.

“Yes, please. Thank you, Mo. How’s the evening going?”

“Same, same, but at least it’s not raining, so everyone’s eating before going home. And they know my fries are the best recipe for their incoming hangover.” He winks.

He hands me my portion with onion rings on the side, and I eat it mindlessly, my eyes glued to the door of Lady in White. The doorman isn’t outside anymore; they don’t let anyone in after midnight.