When I Was Invisible

by Dorothy Koomson

  The woman in room 213 hides things.

  I’m not sure exactly what, but I know she does it because the things that most hotel guests, especially ones like her, who’ve been in a hotel for a week, almost always have – toothbrush, toothpaste, face wash, make-up – are nowhere to be seen. Also, the various gadgets and businessperson’s accoutrements that go with the various chargers she has plugged in around the room are missing. I’m sure she’s hiding all this stuff from ‘the cleaners’. Maybe she thinks I will use her toothbrush to clean out the toilet, possibly she thinks I will use the twelve minutes I have allotted to clean her room to sit down and use her iPad or laptop to surf the Web.

  Oddly enough, I’ve noted that every day this week she leaves out the little blue and white contact lens case on the frosted glass shelf in the bathroom, beside the bottle of cleaning fluid. I wonder, as I’ve done every day this week, why she’s more concerned about her teeth than her eyes. If I was the sort to use her toothbrush down the loo, would I not be as likely to pour bleach into her lens case? Every day she leaves a tide mark around the white enamel interior of the claw-foot bath, she leaves reddish-brown pubic hairs along the tray of the shower, and every day her towels are left in the bath so she can have fresh ones – she clearly doesn’t care about the planet. I’ve made up a story about her, like I make up stories about all the guests whose rooms I clean. I think she is a corporate spy. I saw a programme the other night where people were getting caught for being corporate spies and I reckon the way she leaves her room, hides her essentials, probably doesn’t need her contact lenses, points to her being one.

  Or not. Maybe she’s an ordinary businessperson who has a deep mistrust of cleaners and hotel staff, who forgets to hide her contact lens case and promises herself every night to remember to do it before she leaves. Once I have sprayed the bath, I get on my knees to scrub the shower tray, remove all the soap scum, pubic hairs and other stuff that sticks out of the plughole. After that, I spray and polish the shower screen. I clean the sink, I bleach the toilet. I mop the white, brick-shaped tiles.

  In my ears, while I clean, Bobby Brown sings about his prerogative.

  I am happy. That is what is odd about this. I am happy being a cleaner, having a small flat, living in a city where very few people know me.

  I am happy. I’d almost forgotten that is what life is meant to feel like.

  Birmingham, 2004

  Reese was right, this did feel better, safer. There was the smell of rotten food that clung to the air because I was behind the bins of a supermarket car park, which had been emptied earlier, and that smell was undercut with the stench of constantly wet earth, and leaked car oil, but it was better than the shelter. I was out of sight, no one knew I was there, and I could bed down wrapped up in my newly bought blanket, and zip myself up in my also-new sleeping bag, with my rucksack as a pillow. Being hidden meant I could pretend that I was back in Todd’s flat in London, sleeping with the blinds open so I could see the lights of London, I could watch the journey of the stars. Because I’d wanted to do that, Todd had always refused. I was free of him, so I could do it now. I could lie back and fall asleep after watching the stars.

  This was one of those nights that was clear, the sky a dark royal blue, the stars so bright it felt like I could reach out and pluck them out of the air, hold them in the palm of my hand. I loved the stars, loved how they reached all the way back to the beginning of time. I could look up and see all the way back to the point, that pinprick of light, where I began; where my future was being written out for me. I could look up and see right to the end of time, where how I would end was marked on the eternal timeline of life.

  I watched the stars, each one probably holding the answer to where I began and also where I would end. I knew my end wouldn’t be out here on the street. I knew that. I didn’t know why, I just did. I felt safer out here, safer than I had in all the time I had lived with Todd. It was scary how those realisations kept coming to me. The longer I was away from him, the more I had space, the more I realised how uneasy I had felt around Todd, even in the early days. When I’d thought I’d been bowled over by love, now I could see I had been constantly in a state of high alert; I hadn’t had a chance to catch my breath, wonder if being with him was what I’d actually wanted since he wouldn’t actually use my name. He had been constantly there, if not in my head, then on the phone, then in the house with me. If he had given me the chance to think, given me a moment’s space, I would have seen him for who he was much sooner. I would have seen the ridiculous things I did to be with him: I still couldn’t believe I used to sit in the dark for hours sometimes, waiting for him to come back. (He must have known he had me when I did that, because it was such an outrageous request to make of someone.) If, in the early days, I had had a chance to think, I might have hung on to my job, instead of giving it up because we were out so many nights that getting up was so hard. I might have found another job instead of listening to him when he’d said he liked me to be there when he got home and questioned me constantly about whether I really needed to work when he would look after me financially.

  Out here, I was free; I had all the space in the world to think. I tugged my hat further down on my head, covering my ears. I was going to do something about my hair. I hadn’t had a chance to wash it since I’d left, and it was becoming a mess. Todd had paid so much money for me to get it to what he’d deemed perfect, and I’d never really liked it. I’d grown it long to please him, having it straightened every eight weeks without fail. Once it was down past my shoulders, he’d wanted me to have my hair curled so it touched my shoulders. It’d meant going to the hairdresser’s every week for her to do, and every time I’d come back, I’d look in the mirror and not recognise myself. It was Todd’s favourite style; he’d asked me to just give it a try and when I’d admitted it looked good – not like me, or what I liked, but good – I’d somehow never managed to get it back to how I wanted. Admittedly, the longer style had become useful for hiding behind when the photographs started, but it still wasn’t the hairstyle I would have chosen. Apart from the fact I’d never be able to afford its upkeep, this was my chance to change who I was. To make a choice about what I looked like after years of being controlled by Todd’s idea of perfection.

  I closed my eyes, the sounds of the night, of a city still in motion despite the hour, continued on around me. I was near to where people were, but also hidden, secreted away so I could sleep.

  I can do this, I told myself. I can do this.

  I wouldn’t have chosen to live on the streets, even for a little while, but this was the best option I had. If I wanted even the smallest chance of being free, if I wanted to put all the flashbacks behind me, I had to do this. I had to make a move forwards, get over this little bit of my story written in the stars above, and see what the next bit held.

  Brighton, 2016

  On the little red mat outside my flat there is a bottle of wine, with an elaborate, shiny red bow tied around its neck. I pause for a second at the end of my corridor when I exit the stairway and see it. I glance around, checking if anyone is watching me because they have put it there. There is no one on the stairs as far as I can see; the lift doors are firmly closed, as are the doors to all the flats. There is no one. Just me and this mysterious bottle of wine with a bow. This is the sort of thing Todd would do, the kind of overblown, public romantic gesture I hadn’t realised was actually controlling and creepy until I left him.

  I pull the folds of my jacket around me as a layer of protection, clutch my bag a little closer to my body. It wouldn’t be Todd, would it? My heart stops then painfully turns over to start beating again. Have the other people, the people from Birmingham, found me? Is this what this is? None of them know my real name, but what if it is them? What if they’ve found me and are waiting to kill me?

  My footsteps seem to echo suddenly on the pale marble tiles of the corridor as I approach my front door. To hush my racing mind, I mentally scroll through the tunes o
n the music player that is my mind. I need something with a calm tune but a positive beat. Gwen Guthrie’s beat to ‘Ain’t Nothin’ Goin’ On But the Rent’ is suddenly running through my mind, being hummed out by my lips. I stand with the tips of my toes touching the edge of my mat, staring at the bottle. It is supermarket Prosecco. The bottle is cold, sweating slightly as it sits on my mat, its red bow screaming for it to be noticed. Maybe it’s not for me, maybe someone’s got the flats mixed up and their ‘romantic’ present isn’t for me. Maybe I should just leave it there and let whoever left it realise their mistake. Mayb—

  ‘Oh, good, you’re back,’ Eliza says right beside me.

  I jump back, clutching my chest, and bite back the scream that was about to hurtle out of my mouth. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask her, backing away a couple of steps.

  ‘Overreact much?’ she says, tilting her accent to sound like an American teenager. I should have smelt her, her perfume being so potent today. It’s so much more copiously applied than the other night that it is now officially offensive.

  ‘Again, what are you doing?’ I repeat.

  ‘I came to see if you got my welcome-to-the-building present,’ she says. Her face adds: ‘Duh! What else would I be doing here?’

  ‘The bottle’s from you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, of course. Who else did you think it’d be from?’

  ‘No idea – there’s no note.’

  She giggles, and clearly has no idea how forced, false and unsettling that laugh is. ‘Sorry, I totally forgot to write a note.’ She takes a step towards me and I step back. Can’t help it, that’s the reaction I have to her. She stops and frowns a little at what I’ve done. In response I put my left foot behind me, and step back in a semicircle so it seems I am moving around anyway. ‘I thought, well, it was all so rushed the other week, I thought you might need a friend if you’ve moved in recently. Marshall mentioned we should all get together, but I wanted first dibs on welcoming you properly. So, here goes.’ Eliza reaches for the bottle and holds it like she is about to present me with an award. ‘Welcome to our building, Nika Harper.’

  Reluctantly, I take the bottle from her. She’s going to invite herself inside in a minute, using this bottle as the excuse to cross my threshold.

  ‘Thank you, that’s really sweet of you,’ I say.

  ‘Come on then, get the glasses out, I’m gasping for a taste.’

  ‘Ah, thing is, Eliza, I’m really tired. I did a double shift today and I’m really looking forward to a sit-down after a lengthy shower.’

  ‘I totally get you,’ she says. ‘I won’t stay long.’

  ‘Seriously, Eliza, I would be no kind of company right now. How about we go out for a drink tomorrow night instead?’

  ‘Oh, boo, you’re no fun.’ She pouts with her thin pink lips protruding oddly from her face.

  ‘You’ve got that right,’ I laugh. ‘Tomorrow night, OK? I fancy that bar that’s down on the seafront on the way to Brighton. How about we go there tomorrow, about eight o’clock? Maybe we can get something to eat afterwards?’

  ‘OK then, spoilsport,’ she pouts with her words now. ‘But no excuses – tomorrow, definitely.’

  ‘Definitely,’ I echo.

  Happy now, she turns to leave.

  ‘Don’t you want your bottle?’ I call at her.

  ‘No, no,’ she replies over her shoulder. ‘You keep it – we can drink it when we come in from our night out tomorrow.’ With that, she happily sashays her way to the staircase, and hums to herself as she skips down, a potent trail of her perfume scenting the air in her wake.

  Nika

  Brighton, 2016

  Knock, knock, knock! at quarter to eight.

  I’ve been hoping against hope that she’d call at the last minute and cancel. Well, actually, I was hoping she’d just cancel this morning, and then during the day I was holding on for a miracle that she would magically know my phone number and contact me to cancel. At about seven o’clock, when there was no sign of a cancellation, I had to peel myself off the sofa and go for a shower to get ready. (The absolute luxury of being able to leave soap and face wash and towels in the bathroom for use another time, knowing that no one else will touch them, still hasn’t worn off.)

  On the way to answer the door, I pick up my glasses, slip them on. When I’m alone I don’t wear them, don’t need to: I know who I am, what I really look like and I can see perfectly well. With anyone else, I need to hide my face. I’ve already got my coat on, and before I open the door, I slip on my shoes. I guessed she’d turn up early so she would have a legitimate reason – waiting for me to get ready – to come into my flat. I’m wary of inviting anyone into my personal space, it is a haven that is all mine, the first time I’ve had something that I don’t have to share any aspect of with someone else, and I don’t want anyone to breach that too soon – especially not someone like Eliza, who has issues with maintaining other people’s boundaries and paying any attention to them saying ‘no’.

  ‘Hi,’ I say to her when I have opened the door and she is standing there, coat over her arm, ready to step inside. ‘I’m all good to go so I’m glad you arrived a bit early.’

  She needs a second or two to rally and hide her disappointment. ‘Oh, right, great,’ she replies. Her gaze darts inquisitively over my shoulder before I step over the threshold and shut the door behind myself. She won’t have seen anything because I have very little on show.

  Outside, it is spring. The clocks will go forward in a couple of weeks and the evenings will become even lighter, the days warmer and less gruelling on those who spend most of their day outside.

  ‘How was your day?’ I ask her when we arrive on the pavement outside our building.

  ‘Fine,’ she mumbles. She’s still sulking. She has sulked the entire journey down to ground level because I thwarted her plans to come inside my flat. Today her perfume isn’t as heavily applied and I’m grateful. ‘How was yours?’ she adds grudgingly.

  ‘Good. Actually, great.’ I have great days now. Great days where nothing out of the ordinary happens, where I don’t have to worry about where I’ll sleep, if I’ll eat, if I’ll find one of my friends in a heap and will need to call an ambulance. I think about Reese and the others every day, they are there, haunting my thoughts, but not being able to do anything is oddly liberating, too. When I was there, I knew I couldn’t do anything, but was always trying to work out how to. It was a madness I couldn’t break myself free from: powerless to change anything, desperate to change everything.

  A man in a long wool overcoat, a body-warmer and with his hat pulled down to cover his ears is coming towards us, and the desperate ache of missing Reese takes over me. So strong is the missing him, my insides feel squeezed and I want to gasp, to stop at the agony of it. I don’t; I walk on, I stare at the man, wondering about his story, where he’s been, where he’ll go.

  ‘You all right?’ I say to him when we accidentally make eye contact.

  He stares blankly at me, glances behind himself to see if I’m really talking to him, then glances back at me when he realises I am. I see him scouring his brain to see if he knows me from somewhere, if I am a woman from his former life who has recognised him. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Did you know that man?’ Eliza whispers when we are a few feet away from him.

  ‘No,’ I say to her. ‘I was just being polite.’

  ‘Got any spare change, darlin’?’ the man calls after us in the gap before Eliza speaks again.

  I stop and turn around. While looking right at him, I shake my head. ‘No, sorry,’ I say. ‘But I can go to the supermarket café down the road and get you a coffee or a tea?’

  He laughs, the grey-white of his teeth breaking up the griminess of his face. Still with a cheeky grin he replies, ‘I’d rather have the money, to be honest.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, but that’s not what’s on offer,’ I joke back. ‘Tea, coffee, hot chocolate – that’s all I can stretch to.’
<
br />   ‘Thanks, but you’re all right.’

  ‘Cool,’ I reply. ‘Next time, maybe?’

  ‘Yeah, next time. Maybe.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know him?’ Eliza asks as we resume our journey to the bar/restaurant near the centre of Brighton.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  ‘But you were talking to him like you knew him,’ she says.

  ‘I’m talking to you like I know you,’ I reply.

  ‘Yeah, suppose so,’ she says.

  I don’t add that out of the two of them, I know which one is probably the most honest about their intentions towards me.

  Birmingham, 2004

  ‘No chance of you going home, then?’ Reese asked me.

  We were in Bernie’s at 1 a.m. We had an arrangement to meet every third night: if one of us didn’t show up, the other one would go looking for them. I thought he’d set up the arrangement to look after me, but it was for his benefit, too, he’d confessed. ‘Everyone’s got their demons, Ace – mine’s smack.’ He’d been matter-of-fact about it, so matter-of-fact I thought he’d been joking at first. His eyes fixed on me the whole time, he’d shoved up the multiple sleeve layers on his left arm to show me. His forearm was a dappled mess of healing needle punctures and short, scabbed-over lines. I had almost been able to see him, holding his needle in place, his finger pushing the plunger down, filling his veins with the liquid that would take him away from his everyday life. At least, that’s maybe why he does it, I’d thought as he’d tugged his sleeves back down, his face suddenly shy and his gaze avoiding mine. It had been an assumption. Maybe Reese didn’t do drugs because he needed to escape, maybe he had other reasons. Whatever they were, he’d been very forthright and honest with me early on about being an addict.

  Reese had cleared his throat, sipped from his coffee and let us sit in silence for a while. I sensed he felt emotional about admitting that to me; doing that had maybe hit him again in a part of him that wasn’t ready to face up to what he was. ‘At the moment, it’s all good,’ he’d said when he could face me again. ‘Don’t need it, don’t miss it.’ He took another sip of his coffee. ‘Ain’t going to lie to you, though, mate, don’t know how long that’ll last. But when I fall, it’s a long way down and a long, long way to crawl back up. You look out for me, Ace, and I’ll look out for you. That’s how I’ve stayed safe out here – you hook up with someone who looks out for you. When I first ended up out here, cos of my stepdad beating the shit outta me every night, and my mum who looked the other way because he kept her in booze and fags, I had people who looked out for me. Some good, some bad, some really, really bad.’