An actor and a voyeur, that's all it takes to be an online webcam sex worker.

Or so she thought, once upon a time.

Areola, the solo act. The voyeurs, plentiful, for she has talent, bending into shapes and contortionist poses, while performing the voyeur's script: words, contraptions, actions, fulfilling an invisible person's fantasies, for she never sees their faces. Rehearsals, a thing of the past; she has now become professional.

On a good day, it makes sense. A poor degree from a university no one's ever heard of, she would probably be earning a third of what she does now for ten times the amount of work, while losing direction and any sense of self-worth. Impending academic disaster forced her to find someone else to write her final papers, so saving her from failure and probably some shame. But finding an imposter who had the needed skills and treachery came at a price. With the imposter paid off, she just never quit her newfound quick-fix job.

Other days are such an effort: endless yoga sessions to keep in shape, heavy make up, fake lashes and finger talons, cutely painted toes nails, drastic coiffures, and those awful wigs to help stop her being recognised. All things she would never do outside her job. And then there is the job itself: always needing to be bubbly, accommodating and in control, no matter how she feels that day. Listening to those needy, seedy voices, men are often worse than women, sometimes sounding, alarmingly way too young. The demands for sound effects, bigger, harder, wider, deeper, more cream and jelly, the bane of every session. Fortunately, she's small and everything looks bigger than it really is, a camera trick she'd had to quickly learn while still at university. Some acts she won't perform, no matter what the price. Voyeurs need go elsewhere for that depravity, and if they creep her out too much with what they say and ask, she taps the kill switch, blocking access to her account.

An actor and a voyeur, she had told herself, to overcome humiliation during early raw and painful sessions. Now, she's an illusionist, conjuring magic pixel spells for her clients' sticky screens. But no matter what, it's still the same, except the numbers in her bank account get bigger by the day.

The afternoon session finished, she leaves Areola's make-believe, safely locked behind her spare room door. Going public would advertise her wares and, undoubtedly, her whereabouts, luring unwanted visitations to her front door. Not risking danger, she's best invisible, unnoticed in plain sight. Quite the girl next door.

Make-up and talon free, Kirsten leaves the apartment. It's a lengthy walk from her sleepy spot on the edge of town to the busy port, where she likes to meet and catch up with different friends, a few times every week. Head down, hair blowing wildly in a gusty warm breeze, she pushes hard, trying to break her record to the port: an hour, many months before. She fails by twelve minutes; it was nine three days ago. Just a game she tells herself, helps take the secrets of her day away.

Slightly out of breath, she studies her reflection in a spotlessly clean glass window. The wind abated, her long thick hair's hanging in a tangled mess across her clammy face. Flushed and glassy-eyed from walking in the wind, she wonders if she needs transforming before meeting her immaculately turned out friend. No, Areola can't be here, Kirsten will have to do.

She looks through her reflection and sees Nicole sitting at a table near the bar, inquisitively looking round to see who might be here. Or, more likely, Kirsten thinks, to see who's watching her. Nicole, an alluring magnet for all the suckers in the bar.

Kirsten catches Nicole's eye, both smile and wave. It's been a while and there's an awful lot of catching up to do.

Later, Nicole returns from the bar. 'Here, another drink. By the way, are you? 'Mind your own damned business!' 'Whoa, I only asked if you were seeing someone What's got into you, the life and soul of every party ever had?' 'Sorry.'

But Kirsten isn't sorry, yet looks away, embarrassed.

The life and soul? Drunk and amnesiac, would be nearer to the truth. She didn't remember at the time and certainly not now. Nicole had been the player. Me, Kirsten, an outrage of dysfunction. What's got into me? Don't ask me that. Ever.

The awkward moment quickly passes. Both women peering around the busy room, not speaking, sipping their drinks.

'Over there, those two, what do you think?'

Nicole isn't interested in what Kirsten really thinks, she's already started beckoning, an invitation to come over, join them at their table. Kirsten feels dismay. She's been well aware that the evening may well end up this way.

'If you hadn't kept staring, they would hardly know we're here. Now their on our scent.' 'Exactly! Here they come.' 'Can't we just get drunk, alone…'

But Nicole isn't listening and soon introducing Kirsten as every party's animal. These people have faces and she's not pixilated. Wondering what dark thoughts run through their minds, Kirsten shows Nicole a worried look, which she totally ignores.

She knows Nicole's well-played game: entertain and tease them, then offer hope with a fake phone number as the night begins to close. On occasion, the number is correct. Then Kirsten only guesses what may happen next.

And what about me? Kirsten, the best friend you had from school to uni-graduation, whom you've just so purposely lampooned. My daytime job would shock you numb, strip away your gloss veneer. And my veneer, false appearance, is standing here, pretending what I'm not.

Infuriated, the wind behind her, she makes it home within the hour. Breathing hard, she pauses outside her front door, looks up and sees a shooting star. Kirsten laughs. But before she gets into her apartment, she's crying, fumbling with the key, and by the time she flops onto the couch, sobbing uncontrollably. What she needs is another drink, just one, to calm her down, let go of what she did.

The hard stuff's in the fridge. One tall glass, where's the lemon, here it is.

Illumination from the open fridge shows the outline of her spare room door. Kirsten stares and hesitates before shutting out the light with a gentle shove of knee. The fridge closed, she's left in darkness. Sliding open the balcony door, she drags a chair out, sits and stares: her only friend, the twinkle of a star.

She should have known better, and that Nicole would spoil all her fun. She hasn't changed one bit that one, still the same, using Kirsten, the shameless clown, while she plays the field out, leaving Kirsten here with only dregs, stragglers at best, all looking for a place to rest. If only he hadn't got too close, tried to touch her, she never would have slapped his cock-sure face, glass flying out of hand and smashing down on some shocked folks' dinner plates. And then her own drink, sloshed across Nicole's perfect looks, splashing down her costly dress. That ghastly silence, those looks of dread, it's in that moment she had fled.

No coming back from that. Damn, the bottle's in the fridge.

Kirsten doesn't remember moving from the balcony to the couch. The balcony door wide open, the morning wind makes her shiver. Reaching for a blanket, she realises there isn't one. Her head pounds and her mouth is dry, like the inside of a horse's arse, a drunken friend once said.

The pressing need to pee, forces Kirsten up. Swaying, she steps over the empty bottle and stumbles to the bathroom. Feeling rough and full of sticky sweat, she takes a shower to wash the rotten night away. The heat, the sound and force of water does just that, and Kirsten steps out, relieved. Pausing, she sees her naked self in the steamy full length bathroom mirror. Like Nicole, she's lean and toned but doesn't have her stature, let alone the boldness of her splendid looks. Damn the jammy swagger of that girl.

Back on the balcony, sitting in the same chair, gazing across her leafy suburb, Kirsten finishes a very late breakfast. Warily, she checks her pinging phone. It can't be work, that's hidden in another room. It's Nicole, of course it is, who else would it be?

The text's a rant, as Kirsten knew it would be, an essay of accusation and concern:

What the hell's got into you and how dare you do those things you did? You never used to push away, much less turn on a violent burst. And what, in God's name, had Nicole ever done to her? Well, nothing really, Kirsten thinks, she's just a sucker for misuse.

The bar went quiet. Nicole, self-conscious and dripping wet, blurted out a lame excuse: it's nothing, just a silly squabble. Offering to pay for broken crockery, spoiled food and over-turned drinks, people understood: oh no, it's that raving loony's fault, not yours, yes, the angry one that's just stormed out the door. Good job her new companions were compassionate, driving her home to change, so they could all go out again. Without you Kirsten, you lonely unhinged witch, we had fun, drank and danced 'til morning came. And the dress? Well, Kirsten will be getting the dry-cleaning bill for that, which they both know she'll never pay.

Definitely no coming back from that.

Kirsten tosses the phone across the balcony on to the cushions of her much loved post-work summer recliner and pretends she hasn't read the text. Turning, she looks through the open sliding door into the front room to read the time from the glass fronted, oval wooden clock on the far wall. After some badgering from Nicole, she had reluctantly bought it in an overpriced country fair, with the idea that she would never again miss another Uni classes. But she ended up missing the lot. A week after purchase, the clock stopped. She just never wound it up again. Divine intervention, a friend exclaimed, as Kirsten showed-off on graduation day.

Now she keeps it wound, the large hands telling her it's time. Kirsten walks over to the spare room door: Areola has a job to do.

Positioning the recliner to catch the late afternoon sun, Kirsten lies down in her favourite faded red bikini, remembering Nicole once noted that Kirsten loves the faded look, because if she holds on long enough, would likely fade and disappear herself. What kind of silly notion's that: the faded look just looks good.

The phone rings. Oh God, not you again. I may be disgraced, the one who made you falter and face a startled, starring crowd, let alone blight your immaculate facade, but so what, you still managed to have a good night out without me. You said so yourself. Get used to it Nicole: without me.

The phone's vibrations are somewhere beneath her back. Irritated, she feels between the cushions to find the phone. She should have turned the ringer off, as it's ruining her après action rest and relaxation time. It's not Nicole but her mother, she obviously wants to talk. Kirsten answers. Nicole is worried. Her mother wants to meet. She can't come here, she'll want to stay, in the spare room no doubt, and spoil absolutely everything. So Kirsten fixes going home, a long drive to a small town, where she and Nicole grew up, playing games and forging their ridiculous relationship.

Badly on edge and aware she's been chewing her fingers and tugging at her hair, Kirsten ends the call. Between last night's events and now Nicole's disturbing interference, making her mother so concerned, she knows she needs a break. Besides, the job's recently been so taxing.

She'll miss out on work, maybe lose some regulars, but voyeurs never really fade or disappear, they're just replaced by other faceless paying customers. She'd learned that before her graduation.

What on earth did Nicole say? No way can her secret be out, surely that Katz still securely in the bag.

Deep and dreamless sleep leaves Kirsten empty-headed as she cancels all her coming spare room sessions. Stopping off early at the yoga studio (her shapely flexibility, one thing she can't afford let fade), she realises she's forgotten to pack a travel bag. In the morning heat, having completed her workout and still full of tacky sweat, she starts the joyless drive home, not wanting to return to her apartment, not now, not for a while, at least. Anyway, there'll be a heap of outdated clothing collecting dust in her old bedroom drawers.

The rush of air through open windows on the open road cools her down. Kirsten starts to hum an off-key melody, a strategy she'd learnt as a kid, to blank out all things bad. It still comes in handy now and then, but what it's for right now she doesn't know, but something wicked is bound to show.

Still humming and holding that dark thought, she drives on.

The way she feels, the sky should now be black, wild wind tearing branches from the trees; except, as she enters her picturesque little town many hours later, the air is still and the sun sits low in a bleached blue sky. Dehydrated and perspiring, Kirsten pulls up in her parent's drive and stares out at her old front door. Anxious, because whatever's bothering her just won't show, Kirsten walks up to the door. Breath exaggerated, heart beating fast, she turns her key in the well-used lock.

The house is empty.

Maybe it's just the humid heat, driving south in late July, that had filled her full of dread. Kirsten flops on her old bed, pulls off her sweat pants and soaking top and clicks on the switch to the overhead fan. The whir and swish of air takes her back to where insects sang on muggy nights and to summer storms that shook the shingles off the roof.

Feeling chilly, she wakes to darkness. After switching off the fan, the house is silent. Even so, she knows she's not alone.

Having showered, she changes into a faded blue, teenage dress. It's loose and baggy: Areola's made her lose a lot of weight.

Her mother's waiting in the kitchen. It's the usual stuff, big hug, welcome home, good to see you, yes Mum you too. Her mother notices her loss of weight but doesn't pass a compliment.

As Areola had a busy Christmas, Kirsten's not been home for eighteen months. Festive season was triple time with lots of added tips: how else could she have ever saved to buy her small but stylish car.

'How's the job?'

The job? She can't remember what she said; it must have been something dull online, enough to pay the rent and bills, but what about the car, looking out of place on their weedy, gravel drive. She'll say it's leased, but before she gets herself tied up in knots, her mother annuls the question.

'Nicole says, it must be stressful, what, locked up all day working alone at your computer screen, demanding clients needing answers, wanting fixes for their problems. You are still working for the bank?'

'Yes, it's just like that.'

Nicole says, and thank God she has, not that Kirsten remembers; she would have said practically anything to stop Nicole from prying into her private life after her debauched amnesic college days.

Her mother doesn't mention the fiasco in the bar, just seems happy, doesn't want to make a fuss; Kirsten's home and that's enough. Chewing cud, they talk old friends, who's been doing what with whom and how her father neglects the garden now that he's found the church again; community work, or at least that's what he always says.

'Do you have anyone?'

That throws a spanner in the works. Of course she has, a good friend indeed, her name is Areola, and Kirsten, not holding back, tells the tale of her active sex worker friend.

While she speaks, near lucid ranting, she stares down at the green mottled tiled floor. Then, relieved and somewhat satisfied, Kirsten looks up and into her mother's slightly hollow hazel eyes, inquisitive and good at holding back the lies; they must be, because they are just like hers, Kirsten thinks, and then, all of a sudden, she feels funny, takes a turn and almost falls into a chair.

She's just seen the old video player, sitting on the counter by the back door.

She blames it on the lack of food, low blood sugar, exhaustion, the drive home, the bank, anything but face the truth; but her mother notices that Kirsten, near terrified, is unable to take her eyes off the player. If only she'd thrown the darn thing out instead of waiting for the church jumble. Is that the problem, surely not.

'Kirsten, what's wrong, tell me.'

What, that I am Areola Katz? It's not that, something else is out of sight, prowling close, unable to reveal itself. She feels she's losing her mind, every noise exaggerated, shapes sharp, shadows other worldly. Her mother holds her, tries to comfort and then starts humming an off-key lullaby.

How could I forget, bury such a damning thing?

Sobbing, the easy part is telling her mother that she is Areola and that Kirsten had been Nicole's doormat slut to make Nicole look flawless, so cliche-handsome, well-heeled college boys would forever chase her: Nicole, the perfect prize.

Areola, my bestest friend, never lets me down, she even sings that twisted melody, just like you are now Mum; where does that come from: some haunted shadow lurking in your own demented past? You know damned well, don't you, you came and sang it to me when I cried and couldn't sleep. Yes, years of Dad watching porn on that ancient thing now sitting by the door. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to funny noises, ghastly shrieks, and going downstairs to look for you, only to be assaulted by brutal images on the screen. I hid in shadows, terrified, yet unable to tear myself away, as Dad prepared himself for you. He even saw me, imagine that, his eyes, black pits, scaring me shitless. I was six years old, what the hell were you both thinking? That I wouldn't find out? I had recurring nightmares, trouble fitting in at school, let alone what came next.

And, on occasion, ear pushed hard against your bedroom door, I heard it all: me, the accidental actor, novice and voyeur. It was here that Areola Katz was born.

Kirsten looks at her mother, shaking, her pale face, petrified.

'You were never meant...oh...'

And the worst part: Later, when I was brave enough and you were out, I used to watch them on my own, thinking it was normal. Yes, normal, for a child. Jesus Christ Mum, no wonder I fell off the rails and abused myself. Areola saved me, she came so easily, without a shred of awkwardness, guilt or any shame at all. And the best part: Areola's safe, no one knows or touches her and she doesn't have to feel a thing. I've got you and Dad to thank for that: the diploma for my job. I didn't even have to pay an imposter to fake it for me. I'm fine faking everything on my own.

Hushed, they hold each other for a while until bright car headlights cut through the sombre setting of the kitchen.

'Please don't tell your father.'

'From video tape to community work, why are you still here?'

'For you, Kirsten.'

It's not easy for her mother to explain to her father why they're both a mess, their wide-eyed, frightened tear stained faces staring as if they've seen a ghost. His tall and bullish figure stands motionless outside the open kitchen door and, without even acknowledging Kirsten's presence, he shrugs before whispering in that awful rasping voice of his that he needs a shower. Yes, a shower, Kirsten thinks, to wash your grimy sins away. As he disappears upstairs, the room seems to empty out of air. Kirsten, chest tight, gasps:

'Did he need tapes...'

She hesitates, trying to find right words.

'...to make me?'

'Don't, please.'

Upstairs, Kirsten listens to the fan knowing she'll never again hear a summer storm blow the shingles off the roof, not in this house, anyway.

The following morning, still wearing the faded blue dress, Kirsten collects everything she needs and loads the car. Her father is suspiciously missing.

'Did you tell him?'

Ashen, her mother nods.

So that's it, the Katz finally out the bag. With immense relief, Kirsten starts the lazy, humid drive back to her apartment, knowing a black storm is now ripping her parents' lives apart.

Some hours later, Kirsten bangs the steering wheel.

Damn.

She left her mother all alone to deal with the mess: sordid secrets, her father's endless lies and, most probably, a very broken marriage. Why did she do that, her Mum's a victim just like her; must be, maybe worse.

Cursing, she hits the wheel again. Unable to turn the car around, she knows she's never going back down there.

Arriving with the setting sun, she parks in the long shadows behind her block and stares up at Areola's room, curtains drawn, as they always are. Despondent, Kirsten, bangs her head down on the steering wheel, accidentally pushing the horn with her forehead. Scared witless, the startling noise has her bolt upright and clambering out the car. She hurries up to her apartment on the second floor.

The red sky fades to night. Sitting on the balcony, she pours herself another drink, an ice cold Katz she likes to call it, to slake the fire now blazing in her heart: a brand new feeling that she's sure she doesn't want to have.

She and Areola, flawless twins that used to be so easy, are now in such a muddle.

Call Mum, at least she sings the magic lullaby. But Mum's a mess, as she knew she would be: marriage over, father gone, they'll sell the house as it's all gone wrong. Wrong! Disaster comes to Kirsten's mind.

Kirsten can't bear to listen, her mother's sobs and pleas for vindication. Stop it Mum, just come down and stay, maybe we can buy a place.

Stay? What is she thinking? Another ice cold Katz will put a stop to that. No more thinking, that's it, great.

At least she had the sense to grab a blanket before passing out on her recliner, but Kirsten soon realises that the bottle on the floor is still three quarters full. As it can't be drink that took her out, it must have been the stress that Areola's made and groomed by Daddy's vulgar tapes. What kind of double slap around the face is that?

Still early, the sky a moody grey, time to ponder, make a plan, that's if she really can.

Having showered and changed, now eating breakfast at the balcony table, Kirsten's back into a routine. As Mum is coming, things must change. Maybe Areola can discreetly rent a room downtown. After all, the job pays well, and the hours are to suit, and if hysteria starts to turn her head, she'll quit and find a proper job.

No, that won't work. Damn, this thinking hurts.

Looking at the clock through the open balcony door, Kirsten realises it's nearly time. She'll let them wait; that's new, but it's Kirsten Katz that now has a job to do.

---

Ben Gilbert is founder of TheBlueSpace Adventure Guides Co-operative and Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. He has published four books with Garuda Books and appears in numerous US literary journals. Submissions reader for The Masters Review. Living in the United Kingdom he presently runs cross country ski expeditions in the Scandinavian Arctic and writes short stories he likes to think are on the edge and a bit literary.