When I Was Invisible (7 page)

Todd had had one of his parties last week, and to make up for it (one of his friends had gone too far with his groping), he brought me out to this lovely restaurant for dinner. And I couldn't relax because I knew there was a photographer out there somewhere.

‘You look incredible,' Todd said to me. The restaurant had sedate music, lighting set up to emulate candlelight, black leather booths that gave instant privacy, crystal glassware, fine bone china crockery, heavy silver cutlery. Everything about this place was classy.

‘Thank you,' I replied. I stared down at my manicured fingers, a metallic grey that matched my long silver dress Todd had bought me for the occasion. I was fluttery inside – not in the way I used to be when I saw him, talked to him. This was about the photographers, about the waiting staff and what snippets of our conversation would be passed on, about perfect strangers recognising me and judging me for things I hadn't done.

Even when I was at home, I worried. Yes, I worried less, but I often had the blinds closed, shutting out the views of the river and the city skyline, in case someone used a long-range lens to take snaps of me.
‘Don't be ridiculous,' Todd had said when I'd confessed that was what I did. ‘No one cares any more that you used to take drugs. You're not that important.'

‘I didn't used to take drugs, Todd,' I'd said, ‘I've never taken drugs in my life. I let you tell people I did to protect you.'

‘You know what I mean,' he'd said dismissively. He'd seen the hurt on my face and had pulled me into his arms. ‘I'm sorry, baby, it was an amazing thing you did for me. But don't let it make you into one of those paranoid freaks who sits around in a foil hat cos they think people can read their thoughts. If they were going to use long lenses to watch you, it'd only be when I was here. You mean the world to me but no one else really cares. Just live your life, OK?'

‘We've been through a hard time lately,' Todd told me. He leant forwards, lowered his voice to a whisper – obviously the paranoia wasn't only mine. ‘You've really stuck by me and helped me out when I needed you most.'

I smiled at him, but kept my eyes lowered to make it harder for anyone to take a photo of me. I hadn't wanted to wear sunglasses when Todd first mentioned it, but now, I felt naked and exposed without them. As it was, I was only half listening to Todd since I knew from the way he'd lowered his voice that he had concerns that information about us would be leaked somehow.

‘You're so beautiful and loyal, and I can't imagine my life without you.'

I couldn't imagine my life without him, either. Some days, he felt like my whole world; some days, he was the only person I saw in real life if I hadn't left the flat in a few days. My life wasn't meant to be like that, I knew that, but it was a good life, and I had a great guy. How many other twenty-two-year-olds lived in a flat overlooking the River Thames and had a boyfriend who bought her things, took her to places and, most importantly, knew some of her most disturbing secrets but loved her anyway? My life was about Todd, and there was nothing wrong with that.

I was aware that he was moving, and raised my head.
Are we leaving?
I wondered. Todd tugged slightly on his right trouser leg before he got down on that knee. The music lowered, and a group of wait staff appeared around our table. One holding a mist-covered champagne bucket with a bottle of champagne on ice, another holding an armful of roses, another still with a white cloth over his arm, obviously ready to pour. I looked back at my boyfriend, and he slowly uncurled his hand and showed me a pink velvet box.

I gasped, drew my hands up to my lips and gasped again.

‘Nikky Harper, will you marry me,' he said. It wasn't a real question. Why would he even need to ask? Of course I would marry him. I would have married him three years ago when we met, I would have married him yesterday, I would marry him tomorrow. He was the love of my life. I loved him so much – the thought that he felt the same, he wanted to always be with me, was so amazing. SO AMAZING. I could have jumped up and screamed! Yelled to the world that he was my man and I loved him so much.

I nodded, my fingers still covering my lips.

‘I'm going to need a proper reply,' he said with a laugh.

‘Yes! Of course, yes,' I said. I leapt up and threw my arms around his neck.

One of his arms wrapped itself around my waist as he held me close and laughed happily into my hair. Around us the air erupted with the sound of other diners clapping their approval. And over my happiness, his laughter, and the loud clapping, I could still hear the click-click-click of someone taking photographs.

There's a knock on my bedroom door. I have been staring at my suitcase and trying to remember what it was that I packed. I don't actually have that much ‘stuff', so I'm wondering what I folded inside and then shut the lid on because I'll be blessed if I can remember. I don't want to just open up the case, that would be cheating. That would be admitting that I was completely absent for the whole of the packing process and facing up to that would be like accepting defeat in the fight against the noise in my head. It would be saying to myself that I was so busy trying to find moments of silence I had completely checked out of reality. I did not like to admit to things like that.

Mum is on the other side of the door. She has a silver tray with a teapot, one cup and saucer, a milk jug, a sugar bowl, a large slice of Victoria sponge, and a silver cake fork resting on the plate.

‘I thought you might like tea,' she says.

‘Thank you,' I say and attempt to take the tray from her. She brushes me aside and walks into the room and places it on the surface of what is probably usually her sewing table. She didn't actually think I might like some tea – she wants to talk to me again before Dad comes back from work. She wants to know my plans, how long she has to put up with me for.

The thing about Mum is that more than anything in the world she hates ‘a fuss'. She thinks we should put up with all sorts of things to stop a fuss being made. I don't know what her fear of ‘fusses' is about, really, or what she thinks might happen if one was caused, but that's what my brothers – Damian (the eldest by five years), Brian (three years older) – and I grew up with: a mother who disengaged the second she saw anything that might cause upset in her world.

During the summer holidays when I was eight, our favourite uncle, Uncle Warren, would often come over and take one or both of my brothers out. He'd never take me out because he didn't know what to do with a girl, he kept saying. It didn't matter, really, I adored him. Whenever I saw him coming up the garden path I would fly to the door, ready to be scooped up by him and swung round and round until I felt sick and dizzy. When he wasn't taking the boys out, he would sit and read with me, do jigsaw puzzles, sit still while I drew him, and watch me pretend to be a ballerina.

This day was the kind of hot that made everything seem hazy and sleepy. I'd been lying on the living room floor, reading a book about famous ballerinas, and jumped when there was a loud banging on the front door. When Mum opened it, Damian came limping in.

‘What happened?' Mum asked. Damian continued across the hallway, aiming for the stairs where I was standing, dragging his right foot along the floor as though it didn't work any more. Uncle Warren was right behind, trying to wheel Damian's bike. He couldn't move it very fast, though, because the frame was bent and twisted, as if someone very big (probably a giant) had picked it up and twisted it into a new shape.

I stared at the bicycle frame: its blue and red paint was scraped away in huge chunks, showing the silvery metal underneath. My mother opened her mouth in shock then slammed her hand over it when she saw the state of the bicycle. ‘What happened?' she asked again.

Uncle Warren handed the bike to Mum and chuckled. ‘Our boy here thinks he's a stuntman. Had a bit of an accident, didn't you, mate?' he explained. ‘Don't know how, but he skidded and fell off, his bike went out from under him and under the wheels of a car.'

I went to my brother, took his hand and helped him limp towards the stairs so he could sit down. Mum was stunned by the state of the bike, more than by Damian's pain. His right jeans leg was almost shredded at the knee and dripping in blood. His right elbow and the top of his arm were also scraped, scored with lots of black marks, bits of gravel still sticking out of the chunks of red below where his T-shirt ended.

‘You're all right, aren't you, mate?' Uncle Warren called at him.

Damian nodded, and didn't speak. He looked like he'd been crying but had been told to shut up and be a man, like Uncle Warren always said whenever one of my brothers fell over. He only ever said that when my dad wasn't around, I noticed. I was only eight, but that was one thing I noticed. When Dad was around, Uncle Warren didn't say half of the sometimes not very nice things he said.

‘He'll be all right,' Uncle Warren said to my mother. She was worrying over the bike. She hadn't even looked at Damian – she was running her fingers over the scratches on the bicycle frame, her mouth still open with surprise and shock. Whenever we hurt ourselves, Mum would react like that – she'd stare and stare at whatever we'd hurt ourselves on, like it was her child and not one of us.

‘Are you all right?' I whispered to Damian quietly. I didn't want to get him in trouble with Uncle Warren.

He sniffed. ‘It really hurts,' he whispered back. ‘I can't stand on my leg.'

‘Nothing broken, is it, mate?' Uncle Warren called. ‘He'll be all right. Just clean him up and get him up, he'll be fine. Soonest mended and all that.' He looked at his watch, which had a huge face that you could see from really far away. ‘Aww, must dash. Mag-rat, see you soon. Damian, you were really brave, mate, really proud of you. And Roni, my little dynamo, see you soon.'

I stared at Uncle Warren. I couldn't believe this had happened and he wasn't even going to wait to see if Damian was all right. Up until then he'd been my favourite uncle, but right then, I wasn't sure I liked him at all. Sometimes he could be not nice but he'd always say sorry afterwards, but this was the not nicest thing he'd ever done. He was going to leave us like this, and Mum would take ages to notice that Damian needed help and probably to go to the doctor if not the hospital. Dad wouldn't be home from work for hours.

‘But Uncle Warren,' I said. ‘Can't you stay for a little bit longer and help look after Damian?'

‘I wish I could, sweetheart, but I really have got to run. Damo will be all right, won't you? Your mum will look after him.'

I looked at my mum, who was still examining the bicycle – she was going to be no help at all. When the door shut behind Uncle Warren, Mum propped the bike up against the corridor wall, staring at it like she was confused and upset. ‘We'll never be able to fix this, we'll have to get a new one,' she said. ‘I suppose your father will be upset.'

‘Mum, Damian's leg really hurts,' I said.

‘Oh, poor love,' she said. ‘Like your uncle Warren said, it'll be fine. Just walk it off.' She smiled at us.

‘Mum, you really need to do something,' I said. Damian didn't look very well: he was pale and his eyes were like he was far away. Then he put his head on his arm and started crying. It was quiet at first, but it got louder and louder.

This seemed to shock Mum out of whatever weird mood she was in. ‘Yes, yes, you're right, of course, Veronica. I don't know what I was thinking. Why don't you go and get him some new trousers? Then go into the bathroom and get a few plasters and the TCP.'

I ran up the stairs, went into my brothers' bedroom and got him some clean trousers. Then I went into the bathroom and opened the mirror cabinet and took out the TCP and the whole roll of sticky plasters. I got the scissors, too, so Mum could cut some off the roll. All the while I could hear Damian crying and I heard nothing at all from Mum. I stood at the top of the stairs with everything in my arms, ready to go down, but I decided not to straight away. Instead I went into my parents' bedroom. I wasn't allowed in there normally, but they had a phone in there. I wasn't allowed to use it, but Dad had taught us to call 999 in an emergency. This felt like a nearly emergency. I settled everything on the bed, then picked up the phone. Each button beeped when I pressed it.

Twenty minutes later, Dad came home. Mum was still trying to stop the bleeding from Damian's knee without taking his trousers off, and she kept sending me upstairs to get towels and cotton wool, and warm water in a bowl.

Mum was really surprised to see him. I hadn't told her I'd called him because this was a nearly emergency and I wasn't allowed to dial 999 unless it was a real emergency.

‘He's fine, Geoffrey, really he is,' Mum said as Dad gently bundled up my brother and headed straight for the open front door.

‘He is not fine. Look at him, Margaret, he's barely conscious. He could have concussion or anything. If Veronica hadn't called me, you'd have let your son sit here in pain until six o'clock tonight when I got home,' he said.

‘Honestly, Geoffrey, you do make a fuss sometimes,' Mum said. ‘You and Veronica, both. This sort of thing happened to me all the time in my day and I was fine.'

‘This can't happen again, Margaret,' Dad said. He was so cross I could see all the muscles in his face bulging because he was trying not to shout. ‘It can
not
happen again. Do you hear me?'

Once the door shut behind them, Mum turned to me and shook her head. ‘He's going to look very silly when the doctor tells him it's a little sprain. Children are too coddled nowadays, everything is always the worst-case scenario. He'll be fine.'