All the Invisible Things

by Orlagh Collins

  She leans in. ‘How was Pez?’ she asks gently.

  ‘He had a good time, I think. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.’

  She sits up. ‘Did he say anything?’ My face twists. I want to reassure her, but I can’t do this without being disloyal to Pez. I promised him I wouldn’t say anything, so I can’t. It’s that simple.

  She slumps back into her chair and if it’s possible, I feel worse. She shifts around to face the floor. ‘He still hasn’t called.’ She puts her hand up to her mouth and tilts her head ever so slightly. ‘It’s stupid, but I was hoping he might say something about it when you were at the wedding.’ She glances in my direction. ‘I thought he might have given you some clue as to what’s wrong.’

  I can’t bear how sad her eyes look. ‘He really cares about you, March. You should know that.’

  She sits up again and moves my glass to the side. ‘So, he did talk to you about it?’

  ‘He said some stuff, but I can’t say more than that. I’m sorry—’ I stop. Her eyes bore into mine, but I just shake my head.

  ‘Please, Vetty. I’d like to know where I stand.’

  ‘I get that, but I can’t.’ I say it again.

  She pushes her coffee cup forward and folds her arms, obviously upset, but it’s as though a part of her senses how torn my loyalties are. What she can’t know is what a tangled mess my heart’s in too. She must never learn that what’s involved in making her happy has the potential to crush me.

  ‘He’s given me his camera,’ I say after a while, desperate to move into safer territory. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting back into taking pictures for a while and then, after we spoke about it on the bus, I’ve been feeling … more motivated.’

  ‘To take photos again?’ she asks, and I nod. ‘That’s cool.’

  ‘I’ve only been messing about, taking snaps with my phone, but last night I got some nice shots of Arial over breakfast and I was thinking—’ She leans forward. ‘If you need some portfolio shots, maybe I could … I dunno, give it a go? And mates’ rates too … and by that, I mean free.’

  She smiles. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Course. I’d love you to take my picture. I’d also love not to deal with creeps like the guy at that model place again.’ She sighs.

  ‘He was the worst.’

  She looks up. ‘Is it me, or does that feel like ages ago?’

  It really does, and I want to agree but her face looks suddenly sad.

  ‘Hey, it’ll be fun tomorrow,’ I say, taking a big gulp of my drink.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says after a while. ‘It will. And we’ll get to be together for a few days, so it’s not all bad.’ I put my glass down, replaying what she said, enjoying how easily she said it. ‘Why don’t you come over to mine tonight? You could bring some of your clothes and we’ll try stuff on together,’ she says, looking at me. ‘And plan what we’re going to wear?’

  I’m about to say yes when my phone clatters around on the metal table between us. I lean in and March does too. It’s Pez! I snatch it and read the screen from my lap.

  Up for more stranger things later?

  I stare at the words, not thinking about Pez. I’m picturing March and me in her room, trying on clothes, talking and laughing and maybe me taking some pictures, and next thing I’ve let the phone slip back into my bag.

  ‘Tonight sounds great,’ I say, looking up. ‘I’ll bring the camera.’

  After dinner Dad offered to clean up so I’m having a bath. I’ve lined up every decent beauty item I own on the window sill: exfoliating scrub with hemp and sea salt, fake tan wipes, new razors, some tea-tree spot stick, coconut lotion and lastly my new bikini-line hair removal cream. I could really do without the embarrassment at March’s house later if we’re up close and she notices that I’m less groomed than most.

  I start ripping packets and folding open paper instructions with my wet hands, determined not be left behind the curve again. I’m not sure how much hair to take off so I keep my knickers on as a guide, but then all the tucking and folding goes wrong so I whip my pants off only to find the two sides of my lady garden are unevenly slathered in cream. I’m bent over assessing the sorry-looking triangle that’s definitely more scalene than isosceles when it hits me: I might as well bite the bullet and go the whole hog. I set my phone alarm for eight minutes as advised and get to work exfoliating the rest of me.

  By the time I’ve finished scrubbing elbows, knees and ankles, I’m so worn out I have to sit down on the edge of the bath. Steam has fogged up the mirror, which might be a good thing. There’s no way I don’t look like a plucked chicken. Finally, the timer sounds and I hop into the shower to hose myself down but I’ve only put my head under the warm water when there’s a loud thump on the door.

  ‘Vetty!’ It’s Arial.

  ‘What?’ I shout grumpily, turning the water off.

  ‘Can I come in?’ She’s already sitting on the loo.

  ‘And what if I’d said no?’

  She smiles, then picks up a packet of razors from the floor. ‘Oh, can I use one?’ she says, standing again and slinging her left leg on to the bath, pulling up her leggings. ‘I’m getting man legs. Look!’

  I stare down at the downy fluff on her bruised shins. I want to tell her she’s bonkers and that she shouldn’t be worrying about any of that rubbish but I’m hardly in a position to reassure her about anything right now. Besides, my teeth are chattering.

  ‘What do you want, Arial?’ I don’t try to hide my frustration.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, deadly serious again. ‘A beam.’

  I wasn’t expecting an actual answer and certainly not this one. ‘For gymnastics?’

  She nods. ‘Grace has one! I know Dad hasn’t got any money, so I was thinking for Christmas maybe, if you and Wendy chipped in?’

  ‘Arial, it’s August?’ She rolls her eyes at this like it’s beside the point and I’m left working out how to deflate her tiny dream as gently as I can. It isn’t easy standing here naked, barely concealed by the shower door. I decide to take the practical approach. ‘I expect most beams are longer—’ I stop. My whole down-there area is starting to tingle. ‘… than your entire bedroom.’

  Now the tingling’s more like a burning sensation.

  ‘Oh, and can I get a crop top? Like an underwear one, but not like a bra.’

  I’ve got to wash this cream off! ‘Um, can we talk about this later?’

  She sighs. ‘OK. And by the way, I’ve already checked beam lengths with Siri, so you know.’

  ‘Fine, whatever! Get out!’

  ‘There’s no need to be mean!’ she shouts, leaving the door wide open.

  26

  I set off to March’s place on foot, with a half-empty backpack of clothes and Pez’s camera heavy around my neck. The camera feels like armour, some kind of simultaneous protector and strength giver, and I lift it to my face occasionally to snap amusing shop signs or faces made by dirty gum on the pavement. Having no pubic hair feels weird. It’s kind of raw as I walk but then it’s also surprisingly exciting to have done something so drastic.

  March lives on the top floor of a small tower block off Junction Road and I crouch down, taking a photo of it glistening against the bright blue sky.

  I feel comfortable as soon as I’m through the door. From the outside, it looked like any other flat, but inside it’s cosy and colourful.

  ‘Alright,’ she says, reaching to give me a hug but the camera gets in the way.

  ‘Sorry!’ I say, glancing down. ‘Thought I might start on those photos, if you’re up for it?’

  ‘Awesome,’ she says, pottering off to the tiny kitchen, where she yanks tiny green leaves from a plant by the window and tosses them into an ornate metal pot. She sloshes water inside and gives it a stir, then she takes two delicate glasses with gold rims down from a shelf and spoons a dollop of honey into each one. ‘Mum says we should keep these glasses for good,’ she says, handing me
one before clinking her own off of it. ‘But I say, today is good!’ Then she reaches into a cupboard and takes out a packet of Tunnock’s caramel bars. ‘You like these, I’ve noticed,’ she says, throwing one to me. ‘Good taste,’ she says as soon as I’ve caught it.

  I follow her into her bedroom, which is no bigger than Arial’s and even more messy. There’s stuff everywhere; lights hang from the bedposts and there are posters all over the walls. An old mannequin, wearing angel wings, lies horizontally across the top of the wardrobe.

  ‘She had to go somewhere,’ she says, following my eyes. The dressing table is covered with pen pots and Post-its as well as eyeshadow palettes and a shiny old baked bean can full of make-up brushes. There’s a large mirror with photos and scraps of paper jammed into every inch of its wooden frame. On the wall behind it are study charts and revision timetables, coloured in neon stripes. I lean over to read one about biology. ‘I’d take them down but they took ages,’ she says, catching me looking. ‘Anyway, I’m proud of them.’ Then, with one giant swoop of her arm, clothes fly on to the floor as she clears the bed. ‘Sit down,’ she says, patting the thick bedspread before bouncing back up. Then she thumbs the screen of her phone before slotting it into a small dock on the bookshelf.

  Music starts to play and she stands there, eyes closed, hands twisting to each side then rising slowly above her head like a belly dancer’s. I don’t know the song but the girl’s voice is like smoke and honey but also powerful too, and as March starts to dance her T-shirt rises up and up and I glimpse the soft curve of her stomach underneath. She sings along, like she’s truly lost in the music. It’s all strangely mesmerising until suddenly she stops, as though snapped from a spell.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I think I’m in love with Jorga Smith. She sings about stuff that matters. Her voice could heal the world.’ I don’t know who Jorga is or what’s going on but I nod like I get it, like part of me might already understand. I open my mouth to ask about the singer, but March is talking again. ‘She does it her way too. Like, she’s sexy on her own terms. She just is who she is and it’s such a … force,’ March says, looking at me like she’s trying to find something in my face I’m not sure is there. I pick up my tea to take a sip. ‘But you’re a bit like that, aren’t you?’

  I place the glass down without drinking. ‘Um, what?’

  ‘Come on. You are,’ she says, smiling and making my heart pound. My mouth is inexplicably dry and I’m not sure my voice works so I attempt another tiny drink of my tea, but it’s too hot and then I laugh because it’s all I can do. I can’t believe anyone would think to put me in the same sentence as the word sexy. It seems ridiculous and yet I can’t deny the tiny thrill rippling through me.

  Thankfully she’s up again, looking in the wardrobe, humming along as she flings things over her head and on to the bed. She pulls out an army shirt and turns around, holding it up against her chest, her eyes travelling between the shirt and me and then back.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she says, slotting the hanger back on to the rail like I’ve expressed an opinion. Then she reaches deep into a shelf up high. ‘This would be nice with your hair,’ she says, throwing something into my lap.

  I hold up the vintage-looking lace top as though I’m really looking at it, but I feel spaced still.

  ‘And how about this for me?’ she says, waving something gold-coloured in the air. Before I can answer, she’s undressing. ‘You’ve got to see it on.’ Her T-shirt flies to the floor. Next, she’s rolling her jeans down her legs. They’re so tight she has to peel them off and soon she’s standing there in her underwear. She kicks off her socks and turns around. That’s when I see, just inside the lace panel of her pants, unmistakeable tufts of dark hair.

  It’s not like I meant to look, I didn’t, but it was impossible not to see and my heart plummets. I pretend to pick something up from the floor, reaching for my backpack and rooting around in it for a while, feeling like a complete idiot for turning myself into a plucked chicken.

  ‘What did Pez say in his text?’ she says. ‘You know, earlier?’

  I put the backpack down and sit straighter. ‘Oh, he was checking times for tomorrow,’ I say, reaching for the vintage top and smoothing it over my knees.

  March yanks what’s beginning to look like a dress over her chest and then examines herself in the mirror before turning around. ‘What’s happening tomorrow? Besides us becoming famous.’

  ‘He’s agreed to look after Arial for a few hours.’

  She sits down on the bed. ‘So that you can take this job?’ I nod. ‘That’s so decent of him,’ she says, biting the nail of her thumb. ‘His heart has always been in the right place. Even at the beginning when we first met, he’d listen like no one else. I wish—’ She stops. I can’t look at her. If I do, I might open my mouth and that’s the last thing anyone needs right now. Not just because I promised I wouldn’t but if I told March the truth, that Pez has a problem with porn, not with her, I don’t know what she’d do. She could be disgusted or judgemental and I’d hate that, but if I’m really honest, part of me is more panicked that she’d be supportive, that she’d get it and know all the right things to say. Either way all of this loveliness between us could be lost. Suddenly she’s standing up and rolling herself out of the dress. ‘What am I like?’ she says, stepping back into her jeans, doing tiny jumps up and down to fasten the top button. ‘It’s cool. I get it. You’ve already said you can’t say and I’m not going to push it.’

  I meet her eye. ‘Thanks.’

  She nods at the camera around my neck. ‘So, is that thing an ornament or are you actually going to use it?’ she asks.

  I look down and lift the camera to my face. Holding it in front of my eye helps my breath settle. I focus the lens, then I get up and move to the window, pulling back the blind.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ she says, reaching for the mannequin on top of the wardrobe. She lifts it down and strikes poses as though dancing with it.

  ‘Nice,’ I say, moving further back to the light.

  ‘I can smize too, watch!’ she says, giving it the whole Tyra Banks. I keep snapping, adjusting the aperture and shutter speed as she moves around in the light.

  Her movements are so free and natural I start to wonder whether she was like this when she took those pictures for Pez. Or was she all posed and pouty. Staged sexy, like something he asked for to get turned on. My heart races and I try to stop thinking how it would feel if it was me she was posing for, gripping the camera tighter in my hand.

  ‘How about this?’ she says, putting on the angel wings and sitting at her desk. I take a few shots as she stares pensively into the mirror, eyes far away, then she purses her lips and that single dimple pierces her cheek. She’s just dicking around but she looks so beautiful my chest starts to hurt. I let the camera drop around my neck.

  ‘Nailed it,’ I say, sitting down on the bed.

  Thankfully she gets up. ‘I have an idea,’ she says, ‘Mum’s got an old jean jacket. It’s small on me but it would look ace on you. I’ll go grab it,’ she says, disappearing out of the door.

  I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

  27

  It’s exactly 6.15 a.m. when I turn on to Camden Road. I’ve never been up and out this early, but I’m meeting March at the Overground train station in five minutes and I’m not planning on being late. I’m wearing Viv’s old denim jacket and a brown suede miniskirt that belonged to Mum. The waistband is rubbing but my T-shirt is soft and familiar.

  When I arrive, March is already outside. We take the stairs to the empty platform and it’s just us sitting there, sharing a cereal bar, with London all to ourselves. If you were to edit out the dirty chicken boxes and the pigeon nibbling on last night’s puke, it could feel like we’re already in a movie.

  We get to Acton Central, follow the directions on March’s phone and soon we arrive at an abandoned car park, full of trucks and large white caravans. We ask someone where Matt is and th
en make our way to his office, which is one of many white trailers parked up in the middle of the huge yard.

  ‘Come in,’ a raspy voice shouts and when we step inside, a small man wearing a flat cap looks up from his laptop with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He smiles and hands us some forms to sign, then he points out the window at a large bus two vehicles up. ‘The girls from wardrobe will check you out,’ he says. ‘Grab breakfast afterwards and sit on the bus until you’re called.’

  Wardrobe is an enormous truck racked out with double-decker rails down both sides. The lady who looks like she’s in charge walks over and starts examining me.

  ‘I love this look for the rave scenes tomorrow, but today you’ll need to wear these,’ she says, holding up a green school tunic with a shirt and tie. Then she pushes a pair of the ugliest brown shoes I’ve ever seen along the shelf. ‘And try these on for size.’ My heart sinks until I see the cardigan March has been given to wear over a pair of mustard corduroy dungarees. Guess it could be worse.

  Once dressed in our super unflattering clothes, we line up for breakfast along with other people who look like they’ve stepped back in time. March goes for scrambled eggs and I get some porridge, then we make tea in polystyrene cups and sit on the top deck of the stationary London bus.

  ‘Look on the next page,’ March says, flicking through the A5-sized call sheet in front of her. ‘It’s the dialogue from the scenes they’re filming today.’ Her lips move as she traces her finger over the words, then she puts her hands on her hips and flicks her head back like some comedy gangster. ‘Aye, Gerry,’ she says reading a line from the script out loud, ‘you’re the big man around town.’ I expect she thinks she’s doing a Belfast accent but it’s more, I dunno … South African. ‘You read the next line,’ she says, stabbing the page. I look over my shoulder to see whether the people on the table behind are watching. ‘Don’t mind them,’ she says. ‘Go on!’