Suddenly Liz saying ‘MAST-UR-BAY-SHUN’ back in Shakeaway the other week pops into my head. Is there a more awkward word in the English language? Wanking would have been way less embarrassing. Less clinical. God, why did I say anything that day? It’s not like I’m some expert. I’m pretty positive I’ve never even had an orgasm, at least not like the ones I’ve seen on TV where it’s groaning and hair flicks within minutes.
I watch one video play out, unsure I like what I’m watching – it’s pretty fake – but I’m inching my hand below the waistband of my pyjama bottoms anyway. It’s weirdly gripping and I quickly start to feel panicky and excited, like I’m shocked and turned on at the same time.
There’s a knock on my door.
Aghh!
Dad is the only one who knocks.
Holy shit.
I slam the laptop shut and shove it off my knees, frantically wriggling my bottoms back up, but they’re tangled up around my legs. ‘Um, c’mon in.’
‘How’d it go?’ he says, pushing into my room far too quickly.
I sit up, face like a furnace. ‘Um … the casting thing?’ My voice is too high.
He sits down. ‘Isn’t that where you were?’ He’s looking at me strangely.
‘Oh, it was rubbish,’ I say, and his face falls. ‘But I had a good time.’ I drag the duvet up higher. Really, I had a great time, but I’m not getting into that now.
‘Thought it sounded dodgy,’ he says, trying to look sympathetic. ‘But you’ve got to work these things out on your own sometimes.’ Then he leans over and fishes a dirty T-shirt up from the floor, mumbling to himself. ‘What else have you got?’ he says. ‘I’m about to put on a dark wash.’
‘Huh?’
He looks around the room. ‘I can’t stand putting on a half load,’ he says. ‘Pop up and see what else there is?’
Ohmygod, the ‘not wearing pants’ part of this equation is going to get in the way of that. ‘Like, now?’
He checks his watch. ‘I need to unload the dryer before bed, otherwise those creases are for life.’
‘In a minute,’ I say, but he stands there, face scrunched, for far longer than is comfortable. ‘Check Arial’s room too,’ he says, eventually.
‘Sure.’
Then he gives me a thumbs up and walks out the door.
A thumbs up!
I cradle my face in my hands. You could fry an egg on these cheeks.
16
I walk into the living room and plonk myself down beside Dad. I’ve been up early with Arial every day and I’ve done five shifts at the cafe this week too so it feels acceptable to be in my pyjamas at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon.
Dad’s reading the newspaper on his iPad and doesn’t take his eyes off the article, so I just pull my feet up on to the couch and stare at his hair, which is still wet from when he took Arial swimming earlier. Then I peer at the date on Dad’s screen. I’ve got less than a week to find a fun speech about love that, knowing Wendy, should ideally be deep and meaningful too. I should probably start trawling the internet but my eyes land on the kitchen clock; only five hours until Rob’s party and I still haven’t addressed the pressing question of what I’m going to wear.
I’m all jitters. I’d almost rather be at work and not have this much time to overthink. In Somerset, I was happy to copy what everyone else was wearing, as long as what I wore was reasonably comfortable and didn’t attract too much attention. Attracting attention for clothes I genuinely like and take pride in would be one thing, but when I was trying to wallpaper myself into the background it felt wrong. I’d like to dress for myself now. I’d like to feel like I’m making a choice. What I’d really like is to look more like me. Trouble is, I’m not exactly sure what me looks like these days.
Unopened moving boxes are still scattered all over the flat but one corner of the living room in particular looks like an abandoned game of giant Jenga. I stare at the cardboard tower. On our last night in Somerset I saw Dad in his room smoothing Wendy’s stickers on to these boxes. He didn’t see me. They had red stickers, but I could tell by how he handled them that they were special, as though it was Mum herself inside. They’re the boxes we may never need but will always want; boxes full of her stuff, stuff that’s too difficult to sort out. Dad’s keeping them for us to go through together one day. Today’s definitely not that day, but there’s one box in particular I’d like to see.
‘Could you help me get some of those down?’
He thumbs his screen to the next page of an article. ‘Whatcha looking for?’
I stab the air in the direction of the boxes. ‘I’d like to take a look.’
His neck cranes left. ‘Could you narrow it down, perhaps?’
‘Mum’s clothes,’ I say, before biting my lip shut.
He stares at me for a moment, then slinks his iPad shut, laying it gently on the arm of the couch. ‘C’mon then,’ he says.
I run the scissors along the length of the box, splicing neatly into the brown packing tape and peeling back the cardboard flaps. Mum wore men’s cologne and the smell of it hits my stomach like a fist. I breathe to settle myself. Thank God I told Dad I’d do this alone.
It takes a minute before I can peer inside at the pile of old clothes. A checked shirt sits on the top and when I press the soft flannel to my face my eyelids shut, and I picture her at the writing desk that’s no longer here, wearing her woolly tracksuit bottoms and staring out into the garden. I can even smell the half-drunk coffee in her cup and a faint hint of the cigarettes she lied about smoking.
I place the shirt back and I lie on my bed. Maybe I’m not ready for this and I know it’s not something I should rush. I sit up to close the box but as I’m folding over one of the cardboard corners a flash of her favourite gold skirt catches my eye. I reach in and drag the silk out from under the weight of jeans and a heavy jacket. I tug and tug, like a magician on a never-ending handkerchief, until all of the exotic silk unveils itself, then I go to the mirror, pressing the fabric that’s covered in clock faces and strange-looking fruit, against me. I trace my fingers along the navy ribbon trim then hold it against my pale skin and my not-quite-reddish hair, admiring the burnt-autumn colours as I turn from side to side. Mum was even taller than Dad and the skirt spills in a pool at my feet. On me it could be a dress.
I quickly step out of my clothes and hoist the waistband up over my chest, then I grab the brown leather belt from my jeans and loop it around me, hoicking swathes of silk over my loosely cinched middle. I examine myself from several angles, holding my make-up mirror up to see the back where my bare shoulders appear white and surprised. When I look at my face, I’m smiling. For the first time in a long time I’ve found something that feels special and I sit down on the bed, letting a wave of something warm wash over me. It feels like she’s here.
* * *
Rob only lives in Gospel Oak but walking there is taking forever. When not on his bike, Pez is like a fish on land. I’m literally dragging him up Kentish Town Road, then he insists on stopping at Nando’s and I have to sit there and watch him eat. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even sure I want him to come tonight and I begin to wonder whether March really feels as casual about the whole sex thing as he does. It seems at odds with the girl I’m getting to know, the one who seems to genuinely care about people and openness. I’m even asking myself whether Pez is any better than that Sully guy she was talking about. These thoughts nag at me. I never thought I’d have feelings like this about him, but I can’t shake them.
He picks at his chicken like he’s not hungry, which is more than annoying. I watch his teeth bite into a corn on the cob next, causing tiny yellow explosions under his nose, and I snap a few photos of it, partly for something to do, partly because I want him to notice me taking photos again.
‘Quit dicking around,’ he says, waving my phone away.
‘I’m not,’ I say, still looking through the lens, waiting for a smile, but he moodily slurps up his Coke. ‘Just
because I don’t have a fancy camera doesn’t mean—’ I stop because I’m not sure what it means. He tilts his eyebrows up, waiting for me to continue. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t still enjoy …’ I trail off again.
‘Enjoy what?’
‘You know … photographing stuff.’
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Whatever,’ he says, turning his face away.
I snap a few more photos, mostly to annoy him, then I pretend to edit them or something while staring at the last photo I took; corn cob looming large in the foreground with Pez’s features blurred behind. It’s OK but the focus is the wrong way around. Pez’s face is what’s interesting, but it’s harder to go there. I reach over and steal a chip. ‘Should we stop on the way and get something to drink?’
‘What kind of something?’ he says.
‘Dunno. Beer? Isn’t that what you like?’
He takes another long slurp. ‘I don’t really drink.’
I sit back and take another photo, of his chicken bones this time, which are piled up high. ‘Right. Well … good for you.’
He sighs quietly, crumpling his napkin into a tiny ball then tossing it right at me. I look up, placing the phone down. ‘But I know a place that will serve us,’ he says. ‘If you want?’
‘Whatever,’ I say, doing my best to mimic him a moment ago. He gives me a look, not quite a smile, more like the promise of one, which is enough to make me feel like I’ve succeeded and I stand up, grabbing a celebratory handful of his chips on my way out.
Rob’s street is lined with redbrick houses and tall, thin trees down both sides. The restless leaves above our heads dapple us in welcome shade as we walk. We’re by the Heath, almost at the back of the lido. If I could pick anywhere else to live in all of London this would be it. There must be soothing properties in the nearby water because we both seem less tense.
We stop outside a house with two slim hall doors; one for each flat. Pez steps forward and presses the buzzer on the bright yellow one. When no one answers he pushes it open and I follow him inside.
Loud music tells me we’re not the first here and we continue straight through, stepping over a colourful rug and past a bunch of framed family photographs. Nick, the boy with the red hair from the canal – Amira’s boyfriend – is sitting at the bottom of the stairs on his phone, eating crisps from a huge bag, but there’s no sign of Amira. Three boys appear from the kitchen, laughing. Pez seems to know them and there’s some back slapping before we pull into the living room doorway to let them pass up the steps behind Nick’s head. Further along the hallway, I see a photo of Rob and Tom by the sea, then another of a woman who must be his mum, in front of a Christmas tree. It feels nice that his house is so homely.
‘In here!’ someone shouts from the kitchen. I recognise the quick smile. ‘Hey, Lucas,’ I say. There’s more backslapping before Pez slings his backpack around and unloads a couple of Mars Milks into the fridge. Then he takes out a cold bottle of Corona and hands it to Lucas, who slickly pops the top without an opener.
‘Welcome,’ Lucas says, handing me the beer.
‘It’s his party trick,’ Pez says, grabbing his Mars Milk, and together we lean up against the wall just inside the door.
I look around. It’s a good spot; without moving my head I can see the whole room, into the hallway and halfway up the stairs. I notice the chairs tucked in under the dining table that no one is sitting on. I notice Pez’s shoulders are slightly further down from his ears. I notice Twenty One Pilots playing, I notice nobody is looking at me or Mum’s crazy skirt like it’s remotely weird, all of which makes me surprisingly happy and relaxed. I’m hot from the walk and I take my shirt off and tie it around my waist.
Pez turns his head. ‘You look good,’ he says. It’s an olive branch and I take it. I even smile. I’m watching him pick sweetcorn remains from his teeth when the three guys we met in the hall spill back through the door, pushing each other around like they’re already drunk.
Rob follows behind. ‘Vetty!’ he says, leaping towards us, but then he stops and stands there. I can’t work out whether we should hug or something but he’s studying me up and down. ‘Nice dress,’ he says, after a while. ‘Got a drink?’
I lift my bottle. ‘Courtesy of kind Lucas here.’
Then he leans into Pez. ‘Nick’s been on to Amira,’ he says, slapping his palm off Pez’s chest. ‘They’re on their way.’ I expect he thinks he’s whispering. Pez grunts but I see how hard he works to stop his lips from giving way to a grin. ‘Back in a minute,’ Rob says, heading off towards the fridge.
Just then Kyle pushes into the kitchen backwards, holding forth about something or other. I know it’s Kyle because of the way he constantly whips his hair off his face. He is at full volume even though Nick is literally inches in front of him, walking the right way around. ‘… but if Rob thinks he’s getting anywhere he’s dreaming. I mean, there’s a challenge and then there’s a CHALLENGE,’ he says, stopping in the doorway. ‘Not even Rob could turn that.’ He laughs loudly, but I notice Nick isn’t laughing. He’s staring over Kyle’s shoulder with a funny look on his face. As I replay the words in my head, for a stupid paranoid second I get the feeling Kyle’s talking about me. I look around and catch Lucas’s eye.
He holds up his beer and clinks it against mine. ‘What’s up, girl?’ he says, all cheery.
I’m trying to smile back when Pez tugs on the shirt around my waist. ‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘Let’s sort out these tunes.’
‘I like this song,’ I say, dragging my shirt from his grip, but when I look in his eyes I feel unsteady because for a split second I imagine him taking my hand and squeezing my fingers in tiny pulses the way he used to under our white willow tree. Then his hand drops and he walks off.
Lucas jumps down off the counter. ‘Pez’s right,’ he says. ‘Those guitars are hurting my ears. C’mon!’
The three of us are by the speaker, arguing about whether Twenty One Pilots even have a guitarist, when March and Amira burst through the doorway. March is out front in a bright white crop top and a huge puffer jacket draped over her bare shoulders. Amira follows in a minidress and silver Air Max. It’s hard not to stare. It’s as though the H&M poster on Oxford Street has been brought to life.
March is the first to reach me. ‘Alright,’ she says, that way she does, then she looks behind as Kyle storms out of the room. ‘What’s up with him?’
Before I can answer, Rob walks over. ‘You made it!’ he says to the girls, staring at them appreciatively, then he turns to Pez to get his attention but Pez does a fine job of acting uninterested and then strolls off. ‘Let me get you drinks,’ Rob says, and heads for the fridge.
Amira leans across me to get to March. ‘Has he even said hi to you?’ She’s whispering while glaring at Pez, who is opening a window above the sink. ‘Seriously, what’s his problem? That boy needs to step up his game. I’m telling you, babe.’ March stays silent, but Amira shakes her head at both of us. ‘I mean, where are his manners?’ It’s pretty uncomfortable until Nick arrives and hugs Amira from behind, making his hands appear magically from the crooks of her arms. She kisses him backwards before lifting the phone from the speaker dock and selecting another track. ‘Let’s get a drink,’ she says, taking Nick’s hand and leading him away.
‘Those colours suit you,’ March says, nodding at my dress. It’s so nice to hear this I bite my cheeks and slide my hands down the silk like it has magical properties.
Rob walks back towards us with a tea towel slung over his shoulder and holding two beers. He’s about to hand them over to us when he stops and sniffs the air, then he slams both bottles down on the nearby counter. I pivot to watch him pushing his way across the kitchen in the direction of the boys I don’t know who are gathered in the far corner. Kyle has reappeared and stands with them, smoking a large spliff. Rob lunges for Kyle and lifts him up against the back door, then with his other hand he opens the lock and shoves Kyle down the steps on to a patio, f
illed with bins.
‘You can’t be doing that shit in here,’ he shouts at Kyle. ‘This is my mum’s house!’ Then he slams the door shut and everyone around us laughs.
‘He’s fiery, that one,’ March says, smiling. ‘And sweet on you too by the look of things.’ She nods at the two beers. ‘Don’t think he’d have sliced a lime just for me.’ I look down at the tiny green wedges stuck in the necks of the bottles, then she pokes the lime down into hers and takes a sip. We turn to watch Lucas, who has started a dance move. Actually, it’s not really dancing; they’re bouncing around with their arms in the air but they’re having a good time and it’s fun to watch. Drake is blaring out now and everyone is feeling it. Amira is dancing too, smiling like this was her plan, and next thing she’s doing the same move that Arial showed me in the mirror, only she’s so good, she’s gathered a crowd. ‘Look at the boys,’ March says, digging me like I’m not already watching. ‘Amira’s slutdrop brings them all to the yard.’ Nick stands behind Amira, gyrating up against her, and true enough the boys stand around, heckling. Then Amira does it again, lower and more dramatic, and March starts cheering too. When she’s finally upright she waves March over.
‘Back in a bit,’ March says, walking away, only she doesn’t get as far as Amira because Pez, who is stationed by the oven, puts his arm out. Her hand lands where his T-shirt sleeve stops and it stays there. His lips part and then for the very first time tonight he smiles like he means it.
I’m processing Pez’s spontaneous facial expressions when Rob reappears at my side, fixing his shirt. ‘Like he’d spark that up in his own house,’ he says. I should say something about what’s just played out between him and Kyle, I know I should, but March has stopped mid-flow and I can’t shift my focus quick enough. When she laughs, Pez leans in and her body moves closer too, mirroring his, and I can’t take my eyes off them. Maybe it’s best I can’t see their faces. Maybe I should be glad that I can’t. Pez is still playing it cool, but he’s different around her; it’s obvious and it unsettles me in a way I never expected. Is he different good? Or is he just acting all smiley and smooth?
All the Invisible Things Page 13