When I Was Invisible (16 page)

‘Grace Harper.'

The last name to try. I knew it wouldn't be easy to find her – I have no idea what she even looks like now – so I have to try every combination I can think of.

She was incredible. Not even Sylvie, the most amazing ballerina in the world, could have done better than Nika. Everyone was on their feet at the end of her solo, exactly like when I had been to Central London. She did not put a foot wrong, her body had been strong and steady the whole time. I had watched from the wings with eyes of wonder. Madame Brigitte had made her a pink dress covered in sparkles that reached her thighs, rather than a tutu. Her hair was swept back into a high bun, with a tiara on top. Madame Brigitte had dusted her cheeks with gold and pink glitter and she had put on false eyelashes. When Nika was on the stage, she
was
the queen who welcomed children to the land of sweets.

Nika smiled all the way through her performances, she beamed at the end of the show, she even smiled when the local press took a picture of her with Monsieur Armand. I could see she was somewhere else, that she recoiled a fraction when
he
put his arm around her. We'd agreed. After this, we were going to stop. We were going to tell our parents that we wouldn't be dancing any more. We were going to tell them why. That was how we had both made it through the extra rehearsals – we knew after the last performance, in three days, there'd be no more. No more of any of it.

Before I shut down the computer, I begin one more search:
‘Veronica Harper'
and
‘December 1994'
and
‘Chiselwick'
.

The picture, which looks like one of a series that have been scanned in from someone's newspaper cuttings, is one of the first to come up. There I am. Standing beside Monsieur Armand, my arms full of flowers, in my white swan costume, a beautiful tiara on my head. The caption reads: ‘Odette/Odile, danced by Veronica Harper with her mentor, Armand Daneaux'. In the background, I can see Nika. Standing with the ensemble, smiling like a professional, putting on a show.

In situations like this, I would usually unwind the headphones of my music player, push them into my ears and find a song to listen to.

There are various songs that take me away, make me feel safe, hide me in moments of uncertainty and fear. This flat I am standing in is as big as Todd's and is set over the top floor of an iconic Brighton block of flats that sits two roads away from the seafront and everyone knows by name.

Once I had a job, I could rent a small one-bedroom place five floors below this one. This flat has panoramic views over Brighton, I'd imagine. Not that we'll get a chance to see it. The man who owns this flat, Sebastian, knocked on my door three days ago to invite me to this residents' meeting and went on and on until I said I'd be there. The living room is vast – as big as my whole flat and furnished by a couple who obviously have a lot of money: thick carpets line every floor, expensive flock wallpaper, dark wood furniture that looks antique. They have set out a long table with nibbles, red and white wine, juice and fizzy water.

I have chosen red wine and stationed myself by the table, so I can watch people arrive, and maybe find someone to talk to. I have not drunk red wine in so long I have forgotten what it tastes like. When I take a sip from the plastic wine glass I have carefully filled to the middle, I'm surprised. So surprised I look at it sitting like blood in its plastic vessel, then look again at the bottle. Red wine, even from a bottle, even from a bottle with a fancy label and a posh-sounding name, tastes remarkably like vinegar. To be sure, I take another sip. It washes out my mouth, leaves it clean and arid. In fact, this red wine tastes more like vinegar than most vinegar I have had drizzled on my chips.

I cast my gaze around my fellow guests: they stand in small groups, chatting to each other in quiet tones; it's almost funereal. They all seem to know each other, they are all connected to each other. Anxiety coats my tongue and mouth like the scratchy aftertaste of the wine. I have to do this. I have to stay here and become a part of something. I have to slip myself into this life if I want to hide in plain sight. People notice the loners and the non-joiners, they notice and talk about the people who don't want to share in their community. If you dip yourself in the right amount into the pool of other people, they overlook you most of the time, they don't notice you.

If this is going to work, I have to be normal, join in just enough, try not to draw attention to myself by being too friendly or too offish.

‘I'm impressed,' a woman's voice says, just to the right of me. I didn't see her approach, didn't notice her at all because I've been too busy looking around, trying to blend in enough for people to speak to me. I turn in her direction, and notice how liberal she has been with her perfume, how heavy-handed she's been with her beige foundation and peachy-coloured powder. She is slightly taller than me, dressed conservatively in dark blue skirt and white shirt; her hair hangs like blonde curtains on either side of her face.

I smile at her. She grins back at me, obviously waiting for me to say something. ‘Sorry, what are you impressed by or about?' I ask.

She leans in towards me, her perfume filling the space around us, and lowers her voice: ‘I'm impressed that you're drinking
that
.' She nods her head slightly towards the glass in my hand, while pulling a grimace across her face. She leans closer, lowers her voice to nothing more than a whisper: ‘Astrid and Sebastian always buy the cheapest wine they can find for these meetings. They are so tight I don't know why they bother. Everyone always offers to do a B.Y.O. but they always insist on “catering” for their neighbours. Wouldn't mind, but you should see the amount of pricey plonk they've stored up in their “pantry”. It's almost like they assume we don't appreciate how generous they are to hold these meetings here so they punish us with cheap offerings. That, and obviously to have the home-field advantage and to control the meetings.' She smiles, stands back and then pulls a face at herself. ‘Wow, wasn't that a classic case of bitter over-sharing! Sorry.' Now she holds out her hand, wanting me to shake it. ‘I'm Eliza,' she says. ‘Please ignore everything I just said, it was a moment of madness. The fact you're still standing here talking to me
and
drinking the wine tells me you're new in the building?'

‘Yes, yes, I am,' I say. I push my glasses up my nose and take her hand. ‘I'm … I'm Nika.' I almost forgot which name I am meant to be using. ‘I have just moved into the building.'

‘Buying or renting?' asks a man who has joined us. He is taller than both of us, he has a pleasant smile on his face, and from the way Eliza has subtly but definitely shifted her body ever so slightly towards him, like a heater she wants to warm herself against, I'm guessing the tall man is also hers.

‘Sorry?' I ask him.

‘No, no, I'm sorry. How rude of me. I just heard you saying you were new in the building and I was wondering if you'd be sticking around for a while, in other words, had bought the place, or if you might be gone in six months because you were renting. And then, I realised that it was none of my damn business so I should probably shut up. I'm Marshall, by the way.' I can see why these two are together. I wonder if they have these sorts of conversations where they retract everything they've said all the time. It must be so tiring.

‘As in the speaker system?' I say to the man. ‘As in, you go all the way up to an eleven?'

‘Hmmm, never heard that before,' he says without humour. ‘Ever.'

‘You seriously, honestly have issues with being namechecked via the most famous line in
Spinal Tap
?' I ask him.

‘Only if people expect me to actually get a guitar out and play all the way up to eleven,' he replies. And I get it: he isn't offended, he was joking.

‘Not a problem for me, personally, but hey, we all have our limitations.'

Marshall moves to speak but Eliza clears her throat, a small
aha-hem
sound that reminds us that she is there and I am skirting dangerously close to what could be mistaken for flirting with her man.

‘I'm Nika, short for Veronika,' I say. I want to bring Eliza into a conversation, stop her thinking she has anything to worry about from me. ‘How long have you two been together?'

They both immediately look at each other, shock lacing their very different faces. I look from one face to the other: his has slightly widened eyes, hers has a slight grimace at the mouth – that's not shock. True shock is momentarily expressed, this is more like mortification.

‘We're … we're not together,' she stutters and her cheeks take on a deep flush that is visible even under her heavy make-up. She is mortified that it is obvious, even to a stranger, how she feels about him.

‘We've known each other a long time,' he adds. ‘Since our uni days, actually, and our paths keep crossing, so we've ended up working in the same building – for different companies, and living here – in different flats.' He is mortified because he does not feel that way about her,
at all
. From the way he looks as if he hopes the ground will swallow him up, I doubt he's ever had anything other than platonic feelings towards her.
Poor Eliza
, I think.
That must hurt. Seeing the object of your love every day, knowing he is not interested, must be a special kind of torture.

‘Sorry,' I mumble and take a huge mouthful of the wine as punishment. ‘Sorry. I didn't … I just assumed … sorry. Sorry.'

‘No, no,' Eliza says, ‘don't apologise. It's fine, really. We don't mind if people make mistakes like that, do we, Marshall?' She laughs and lightly rests her hand on his forearm.

Marshall's smile is a little tighter, and he carefully moves his arm away from her. In fact, he has been carefully edging away from her. His black-brown eyes betray a little pain. This is so much worse than a case of unrequited love: at some point, Eliza has declared undying love to him, and he has been forced to turn her down gently. Marshall suddenly takes a big step away from her, using the excuse of reaching for a glass of juice to do it.
Urgh
. It's been more than once that he has had to tell her he doesn't see her that way.

I down the entire glass of wine – the vinegariness makes me gag, coats my mouth and tongue with a just-scrubbed sensation. I think:
Good, it's no more than you deserve. Next time, think before you speak.

‘Good evening, everyone,' our host says. ‘If you'd like to take your seats, we can get on with the meeting and get that over with as soon as possible so we can get back to mingling and chatting.' There's a definite undertone to what he is saying. His glossy brown hair is combed with a perfectly straight side parting, he is tanned to the point where it gives him a bright, white smile that can probably be seen from space. He is presenting a pleasant façade, but there is a threatening edge to his words, a subtle hint that anyone who challenges him in his own home will be dealt with – severely. I understand what Eliza means: the meeting is in their home, but the virtually undrinkable wine, the welcome that is more menace than gesture of neighbourliness – all point to a seriously dysfunctional man with an odd way of viewing the world.

‘And the final item on the agenda, not that this is a formal meeting or anything like that,' Sebastian says, laughing hollowly, ‘is the issue of the “people” who hang around outside the building.' He has an impressive way with inserting ‘air quotes' into ordinary speech without so much as raising a finger.

‘To be fair,' Marshall says from the other side of the room, ‘since that hostel opened up a few streets away, there haven't been as many transient people as there were previously.'

‘Not as many, no, but still not zero “people”, though, hmmm,
Marshall
?' Sebastian says. ‘We want to get the figure of people who hang around near and outside our building down to zero, don't we. Hmmm?' He's telling us, not asking. Which is why he keeps talking before anyone can commit the same sin as Marshall by interrupting or being a bit too ‘right on'. He continues: ‘I've been researching the methods that seem to have worked to peacefully and non-confrontationally move these “people” on and it seems some of the more exclusive buildings in London, buildings that aren't too dissimilar to ours, I have to say, have had these deterrent measures installed outside their properties.' At this, Astrid, Sebastian's wife, comes into her own. She has the vaguest look of a 70s game-show hostess about her, and she is suddenly on her feet, handing out A5 sheets of paper with a picture of what could be a torture device from the 1600s: metal spikes, evenly spaced and welded into a metal sheet protruding from the entrance to a building.

The room becomes a hush of embarrassment as people stare intently at the paper they've been handed and studiously avoid eye contact with anyone else around them.

‘Deterrent measures?' Marshall asks casually. He's the only one, it seems, brave enough to say something. ‘Are these those so-called anti-homeless spikes people were up in arms about in London recently?'

‘I give money to
Big Issue
sellers,' Sebastian suddenly declares. Colour rises to his cheeks, his eyes widen and his body becomes rigid, ready to defend against any and all sorts of attacks. ‘I understand it can be hard to be out there in all weathers, when you've got a drink or a drug problem and you don't have a hope in hell of getting clean, but let's be honest, most of those “people” don't
want
help. They want to live out there, where they can drink wherever they want, take drugs whenever they want, and that's fine. I'm a liberal man. I can understand the need to be free and to live without rules. But why do they have to do it on my doorstep? Your doorstep?' He holds up his piece of paper, shakes it with conviction. ‘I, for one, don't mind saying the things most of us can't say nowadays because of all this blessed political correctness. Something needs to be done. And because the police won't help us, we need to do it ourselves. These are just an idea. Something for those of us who care about our homes, who want to protect and preserve what is ours, to think on, to consider and to weigh up against those “people's” rights to be free and ours to live in nice properties.'