All the Invisible Things

by Orlagh Collins

Rob shakes his head at him, trying to smile. ‘We’ve got to work on your timing, bro.’

  I step back. Whatever moment we had is no longer. ‘Well, thanks, I guess.’

  Rob sighs. ‘I’ll message you later.’

  I raise my hand in a wave, then head off across the road.

  I feel like I’m sleepwalking again.

  12

  Just sex.

  I can’t get it out of my head. I picture Pez’s face as I left his room yesterday, only I’m not sure what I see looks like him any more. The eyes are too hard and the face more severe. I don’t know why I feel so unsettled by it. It’s honestly not about March or how pretty she is and how nice her clothes are. It’s not the photos she sent him either. Yeah, it was surprising to hear about those but really, so what? I guess I’d assumed Pez and me would always be on the same level. Like, experience wise. Naively it seems, because it turns out he’s bolted off down the track before I knew the race had begun.

  It’s not so much that he’s watching porn or that he’s having sex with March. It’s the fact that none of it seems like a big deal. That much bodily contact with so little … connection. I don’t get how it can all mean so little to him when it feels so momentous to me.

  I need to get out the door to work, but my third attempt at a messy bun still isn’t right. Arial is watching so I yank a few strands loose then do a twirl in the mirror, smoothing my T-shirt down over my leggings. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘How do I look?’

  She’s rifling through a toiletry bag. ‘Sexy,’ she says, twisting up an old lipstick and examining the colour.

  ‘Sexy isn’t quite what I was going for. Or what you should think I’m going for,’ I say.

  ‘Whatever,’ she says, cocking her head like a dog and giving me that evaluating look she’s taken to dishing out. I’m already falling short of her expectations, I can tell. ‘You’ll need some of this,’ she says, handing me the lipstick, which I can see is a fetching frosted pink. ‘It’s waitressy.’

  She says it with such certainty. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Hundred per cent,’ she says. I pretend to put it on, but she stays watching, awaiting my transformation. ‘Go on,’ she says.

  I begin painting my lips for her amusement, half hating myself and half enjoying it too. I look ridiculous, but what harm? I’ll wipe it off on the way. ‘C’mon, grab your backpack,’ I say, but she’s still eyeing me up, trying to decide whether I’ll do. ‘Arial, we need to go!’

  I reach Clementine’s two minutes early and bask in a shaft of sunlight, taking in all of its loveliness from outside. The orange paint bursts forth, so bright and juicy and sure of itself. Earlier rain has left drops on the sign and these glitter in the light like tiny jewels. The sandwich board outside is covered in swirly writing that’s tricky to read but someone has drawn flowers all down the side and it looks cheery. Through the window I see enough bodies to know it’s busy so I quickly check my hair then step into the soft, welcoming noise. I make my way to the counter, taking in the shiny square tables with matching silver chairs and tiny white vases with daisy-like flowers in the centre. The coffee machine steams and chugs alongside the hum of customers’ chatter and the old-school R & B that plays in the background; the kind Wendy and Fran are into. I don’t know how I didn’t notice these details yesterday, but I’ve got a powerful sense that this is a place I could be happy.

  Clementine pops up from under the glass almost on cue. ‘You’re here!’ she says. ‘Nip around the back and grab yourself an apron. Then come help me label these baguettes.’

  I’m tempted to salute like a soldier but of course, I don’t. She’d think I’m mad and that could ruin everything, so I dash towards the back of the cafe, quick smart. I push through the door and step into a brightly lit room, delighted at the prospect of a staffroom and overjoyed with the fact I’ve landed such a proper job. There, on a chair, directly under the bright strip light sits March.

  March! The same March who texted Pez her bits is casually punching words into her phone like there’s not one remotely unusual thing about her being there. I think about trying my entrance again. Maybe this is some surreal game of life roulette and if I put all my money on red and try walking in once more, someone else – Beyoncé, Jesus, anyone else, please – might be sitting in the chair next time around.

  She looks up. ‘Alright,’ she says, low and slow.

  Um, hello! I want to say. What are you doing here at my new job? She stands and slips her phone into her pocket. She’s wearing high-waisted jeans and a plain black T-shirt that’s tied in a knot to the side. A stripe of her coffee-coloured skin is visible between the two and her curves fill every inch of her clothes, but instead of just taking all of this in and moving on like a normal person, my brain keeps shouting Pez has seen her boobs. Pez has seen her boobs!!!! I feel like a ten-year-old.

  ‘Mum mentioned she’d hired someone called Vetty. I wondered whether it was you. Can’t imagine there are many of you out there.’

  Her mum! I take my backpack off, trying hard not to look bothered, but truly, the thought of having to deal with that face, and all the madness it brings for the rest of the summer, is making my head hurt. Clementine being March’s mum just makes this reality sharper and makes March more … permanent. Only five minutes ago life looked so joyful and bright but a huge curly-haired cloud has eclipsed my sun.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in a tiny mirror above the coat hook behind her head. It takes a few seconds for me to connect the pink lipstick I’m seeing with my own mouth, then I swipe at my lips, wiping madly until all traces of sparkle are gone. She’s watching me, smiling. I do my best to cover. ‘Where do I find one of those?’ I ask, pointing to the apron slung loose around her neck.

  She opens a drawer and hands me a folded black square that’s been neatly ironed. ‘Here,’ she says, staring at my lips, which I’m sure are red raw. I shake the apron out, watching how she takes the strings of her own and loops them around her waist, and I copy how she pulls them to the front and ties them in a bow. Then she bends over and scoops all her hair up into an elastic band, leaving a pineapple-shaped stack of curls high upon her head. She doesn’t fiddle with it or even check it in the tiny mirror before she leaves the room.

  I follow her out and cross the floor to the glass counter next to the till, where we perch together behind an array of sandwich fillers and giant bowls of salad. I’m telling my brain to behave and wondering whether I should be doing something useful when March takes a small writing pad and a biro from her apron. ‘You’ll need these,’ she says, holding out her hand. I take them and flick through the pages. Scratches of blue ink say things like 2 x cappuccinos – 1 x STRONG – underlined a lot, and 1 x smoked salmon bagel (no cream cheese!!!) – hot chocolate – kid!!! It’s the handwriting from the sandwich board outside. I look up. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘It’s not private.’

  Private hadn’t crossed my mind but Clementine has arrived and is standing on the other side of March. While not exactly tall, March looks it beside her mum. Her skin is a shade darker than Pez’s, whereas Clementine is paler than me and her fair skin is covered in freckles.

  ‘We do a lot of takeaway trade over lunch,’ Clementine says. ‘Best let March do the sandwich prep today. Watch as you wrap. You’ll learn a lot that way,’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, nodding away, like a bobblehead doll.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll show you how to take orders and we’ll move on to the till after that. For now, just keep the tables clear and wiped down,’ she says, dropping some plates in the sink. ‘Oh, and be nice to the customers,’ she says, giving March a loaded wink. March returns the look in a way that makes it clear she’s told to do this a lot and as her mouth returns to how it was, I notice they share the same dimple on the left side of their cheeks.

  * * *

  I’ve only been here two hours and I’ve already wrapped what must be a thousand baguettes. And I’ve learned how to froth milk properly. Who knew there are at least eigh
t variations of what is essentially coffee with hot milk. I’m quick at turning the tables around, clearing away dirty cups and glasses and getting them loaded back into the dishwasher. I enjoy spraying the surfaces and wiping them until they gleam, then rearranging the plastic menus behind the tiny flower vase in the centre. A toddler tipped a whole bowl of pasta on the floor earlier. I got the mop out for that and even had to put up a yellow flap sign that said Caution! which I thought was a little over the top, but who am I to argue?

  A group of suit-wearing men spill through the door at one o’clock. I can tell they’re regulars by how easily they arrange themselves into the chairs inside the windows. There’s no break in their loud chatter as they settle in, the four of them taking up the space of three small tables. I wipe at a spot of dried pasta sauce on the table leg beside theirs, listening to their talk about buyers and vendors and sale prices.

  ‘What’ve you got for us today, darling?’ One of the men is out of his chair, leaning across the table to me.

  I look up at the till, but Clementine is with a customer. ‘The specials?’ I say, turning around, trying hard to remember what they are.

  ‘I’m fond of a special,’ he says.

  My palms sweat, and I look up to the till again, but I still can’t catch Clementine’s eye, and March, who is stuffing lettuce into a pile of baguettes, just watches me. I hide the dirty cloth and disinfectant in my apron pocket and force my face to look more pleasant while I try to remember what the specials are. ‘For this afternoon?’ I say, trying to buy time while I rack my brain.

  ‘A matinee!’ the guy exclaims, and the others laugh heartily. I can’t bring myself to laugh along but I worry I’m being rude, and I kick myself for having messed up already. A hand lands on my arm. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got,’ he says.

  I pull away, pretending to scratch the back of my head while squinting at the board behind the till. ‘Um, spinach, warm goats’ cheese and tomato,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘That’s the sandwich. It’s on sourdough. And, um … the main is a grilled halloumi and chorizo salad.’ When I look up, their faces are stone. ‘Or there’s a pasta?’ I can’t make out what type of pasta it is from here, or what sauce. ‘It’s something to do with a chicken breast,’ I say, going redder by the second. ‘That is what you meant?’ I want the floor to rise up and swallow me.

  ‘He’s only winding you up,’ says another man at the table.

  I fake-laugh like an idiot. ‘Course. I’ll get someone to take your order,’ I say, reversing from the table at speed. When I round the glass cabinet and drop the dirty glasses in the sink, March’s eyes follow me. Arial would have handled that situation better than me.

  ‘You don’t have to smile at them like that, you know?’ she says, stirring pesto into a giant bowl of penne.

  That’s what she’s got to say to me right now. ‘Sorry?’

  She goes to speak and then stops. ‘Just … don’t think you have to be nice to all of them.’ She says this out of the side of her mouth.

  ‘But—’

  She places the bowl down between the coleslaw and the broccoli salad. ‘You’ll learn,’ she says, walking off. I grip the sink, quietly fuming as she glides towards the estate agent men, moving like self-doubt has never troubled her. As she writes their orders in her pad, her body stays still, and her face is calm and professional. She doesn’t smile, not once. She doesn’t fake-laugh at their lame lewd jokes. She doesn’t look awkward, squirm, or go remotely red of face either. I wish I wasn’t so impressed with every bit of this.

  Before I know it, it’s ten minutes to four and time for me to finish. Clementine has agreed I can leave a few minutes early each day for Arial’s pickup. Thankfully there was no chance for any more small talk with March and as I leave, I stuff a laminated menu in my backpack. By tomorrow I’ll be able to recite the whole list along with the prices. Clementine was right; she really did need an extra pair of hands. The lunch rush didn’t let up at all until after three and there was no break, not that I’m complaining. I discovered that March is well able to smile when she wants to. In fact, she smiles a lot, even at me. On one hand, having to endure her every day is pure cruelty, but on the other, I’m already fond of Clementine’s sunny little cafe.

  I saunter down Kentish Town Road, rattling the coins I earned in tips inside my pocket, but this makes me think of the man by the parking machine yesterday and then this makes me think of Pez’s bedroom. I’m trying to pretend that the whole porn-watching, casual sex business means nothing, but it’s not nothing to me. I just feel so behind on all the important stuff and I wish I could talk to someone about how little I know about any of it. But at least if the tips continue this way I won’t stay super skint. As I walk, I busy my head making lists of all the glorious stuff I might soon be able to afford and so far this list mostly contains clothes, decent underwear and a lengthy list of personal grooming products.

  I collect Arial from the square and we walk home side by side. I find her hand far up inside her sleeve. ‘So, how was today?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says, trailing a small stick along the iron railings. The vibrating noise of the bars does something to my heart.

  I look down and check her eyes. ‘Just fine?’ She sticks out her bottom lip and I realise it’s a long way from amazing like I told her it would be last Sunday, and I feel bad. ‘So, what did you guys do all day?’

  Her shoulders droop. ‘Crafts.’

  ‘Meet anyone fun yet? Anyone—’

  ‘No one talks to me,’ she says, head low. ‘I’m the youngest in our group.’

  ‘Oh.’

  As we pass by the shops on the opposite side she lifts her face bit by bit. ‘One of the girls can do a perfect walkover,’ she says, like it’s bad news.

  ‘Front or back?’ I ask, because this kind of detail is important.

  ‘Both,’ she says, flatly.

  ‘Was she nice?’

  ‘I told you, no one talks to me!’ This comes out angry and I let her cool off as we turn the corner into our street but then she stops walking and looks up. ‘So, were you a good waitress?’

  ‘Not bad. But I didn’t get to take any orders. Apparently, I have to learn lots of other stuff first.’

  She nods like this makes sense. ‘When will I start … growing up?’ she says.

  ‘Growing up?’ I repeat. She nods again but more urgently. I walk on, smiling a bit too wide, and she tugs at the cardigan around my waist, pulling me back.

  ‘You know, puberty, or whatever it’s called.’

  I shake her hand away. ‘It won’t happen for a while. Don’t worry.’

  Her chest falls. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Like, how long a while?’

  ‘I dunno.’ I’m trying not to sound annoyed but she’s looking right at me, fixed eyes wide and waiting for me to say more. God knows I’m struggling enough without having to deal with Arial’s anxieties on top of my own. ‘It’s hard to say. If you’re like me, at least two years. Maybe three. Ages!’ This seems to satisfy her for now and we walk on the last few steps. When we reach the pavement in front of our flat I look up at Pez’s window and there he is, sitting in front of the screen.

  ‘Can we go see him?’ Arial’s followed my gaze.

  I push her down the side passage towards the flat. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Inside!’

  13

  Yesterday was a good day at work even though I didn’t take any orders. The bank across the road had a lunch meeting and they asked for two giant sandwich platters at midday. Clementine was slammed so she told me to make a selection. I made a mix of brown and white ones involving everything I could find: prawn and salmon with avocado as well as the usual cheese, ham and chicken, and veggie options too. I included some without butter, in case anyone at the bank is as fussy as Arial. When I was finished, I sprinkled salad leaves around the edges and when I carried them out, March made a vaguely impressed face as I passed.

  Even without the sandwich platter challenge, time’s gone just as quick
today. I took a whole load of orders and got them all right, and I recited the specials like they were a poem I knew by heart. It has gone three thirty and I’m wrapping the filler tubs in cling film when Clementine tells me to grab a drink. ‘Sit out on the floor,’ she says. ‘That way you can see if it gets busier and I need a dig-out.’

  I place a tiny teapot under the water boiler and pull down the lever, watching hot water spit inside, then I flip the lid and drop the right change for an oat bar into the till. I make my way to a single table nestled against the wall at the back.

  I’ve just taken a bite of my bar when March drags a chair around and sits down opposite me. When she cracks the ring pull on her can of lemon San Pellegrino, I can’t help but notice how ridiculously colour-coordinated her yellow fingernails are with her drink; like an ad someone’s spent time thinking about. She holds the can up high and pours the fizzy liquid into a tall glass of ice. It bubbles into a cold, cloudy haze, making a lovely hiss as it fills the glass, stopping exactly at the rim like it was made to measure. As the very last drop drips out, she looks up at me and it feels like she’s done this trick before. ‘Alright?’ she says, which I’ve worked out is her signature opening.

  ‘That went quick,’ I say, looking at my watch even though I know the time.

  Her eyebrows rise and she nods. ‘Mum’s pleased to have the help, just in case she doesn’t say it. She wasn’t sure the owner would allow her to take anyone else on. Took some convincing apparently. She said you walked in as she put the phone down. Seems like your timing was perfect.’

  It’s the most I’ve heard March say in one go and as I replay her words in my head I smile for a load of reasons. ‘But I thought Clementine owned the place,’ I say, sitting forward on my chair.

  She sets her glass back down. ‘Clementine’s not a real person,’ she says, putting a hand to her mouth and screwing up her face. ‘Mum’s name is Viv.’

  I blink and I look up at the person I now know is Viv and then back to March, who is laughing so hard. ‘Oh god, don’t say anything, will you?’ I reach across the table. ‘Seriously, please don’t. I must have called her Clementine at least nineteen times since Tuesday!’