All the Invisible Things

by Orlagh Collins

  I’ll never love Pez in the way that Wendy loves Fran because we’re friends and not a couple, but he’s a friend I want forever, and maybe forever doesn’t come without some thunder. Just because I don’t like what he’s said or what he’s done doesn’t mean I should walk away. A forever friend doesn’t quit, at least not before calling them out or causing a shitstorm first.

  Suddenly I’m taking out my phone.

  No suit required. But you better set your alarm on friday. We’re getting an early train.

  I hit send before I’ve got time to change my mind.

  20

  Texts flew back and forth this morning; mostly March and Rob telling me to have fun and both complaining that Pez still hasn’t been in touch. Wendy suggested Pez and I come down early, which I assume means to help set up, but I’m hoping I’ll get some time alone with her too.

  Dad’s just dropped me and Pez at Paddington Station on his way to the office and we wander into Pret A Manger to pick up snacks for the journey. I’m surveying a stack of baguettes but I can’t make up my mind which to choose. I’d like to suggest that we get one each and maybe a muffin too and then we can share everything like we used to, but Pez is already at the till with a juice. I walk over and stand beside him silently and when the server gets to me I point at a cookie behind the glass that I’m not sure I want.

  ‘Any hot drinks?’ she asks.

  I turn around and Pez is standing by the door. ‘Um … a hot chocolate, please.’

  The strange silence follows us to the huge bank of screens, where we wait for one to announce the platform for the Castle Cary train.

  We’ve hardly shared more than two words since he walked out of his house almost an hour ago. Dad hopped into the car at the same time as he did, so I haven’t got close to bringing up anything that happened last weekend. Luna hugged me when she answered the door, holding me so tight I’m convinced she must have heard our argument. I’m not sure whether one person shouting even constitutes an argument but it seems like it was only the warm-up for the storm brewing in my empty stomach.

  I stare up at the black screen, willing it to change. Eventually the number ten flashes up for our train and we join the flock of passengers crossing the concourse towards the platform like swallows. A murmuration, I think it’s called. People break into a run and we do too, making my backpack bounce and my paper Pret bag jostles about, splashing hot chocolate over everything inside. I catch a glimpse of Pez’s face as we run and he looks so lost amongst the crowd but thankfully we’re soon out in front and it’s not long before we’re sitting at a table in the carriage by the buffet car.

  I settle into my seat, grumpily mopping my spilt drink with a flimsy napkin while Pez stares out the window. As the train pulls away, I take out the photography books I grabbed from Dad’s room before we left. One is technical with way too many words, so I put that back. The other is called Portraits of Conflict, which feels darkly appropriate, but I only picked it because I haven’t looked at it for a while and it was one of the few that would fit in my backpack. Inside it’s full of black-and-white faces from Vietnam, Iraq, Cambodia, and I flick through the pages, staring at the images, but they’re so intense it’s hard to look so I shut it and lean my head on the glass for a while.

  The sky outside is still but the fields whip by like ticker tape. Pez continues glaring into space, in some sort of trance. It’s hard to believe I was in Somerset for four years without him visiting, even once. Outside, fields give way to out-of-town business parks and soon these become streets with houses and then the window frame fills up with shops and offices until we pull up at Reading Station.

  I tolerate Pez’s silence for as long as I can but as we’re pulling away, I lean across the table. ‘It would help if you would say something, because it’s not huge fun being ignored like this.’ Then an older man in a smart suit sits down next to Pez and I sit back, defeated.

  ‘Did you write your speech?’ Pez says eventually.

  I look up. ‘It’s a reading, not a speech.’

  He takes a sip of his drink then digs in his paper bag and pulls out a bacon roll I never knew he had. If things weren’t so tense, I’d ask for a bite. Instead I have to watch as he squashes it between his fingers like he has no intention of eating it. ‘And?’ he says.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What’s it like?’ he says.

  ‘Oh … it’s from a book.’ He looks at me, mock exasperated, which is kind of comforting. ‘It’s probably a bit clichéd, but you know …’

  He looks at the guy beside him. ‘I never did get a suit,’ he whispers. ‘Mum was freaking out, so I hope you weren’t joking.’

  ‘It’s not that kind of wedding, trust me.’

  At least we’re talking.

  * * *

  Wendy meets us off the train. She’s wearing wellies and waving wildly even though we’re less than ten feet away. I see her Volkswagen van from the platform. It’s not one of those cute hippy ones, she’s way too practical for that.

  ‘Look how you’ve grown!’ she says, wrapping her arms around Pez like he’s a blood relative. He flinches for a second or two but he looks like he might appreciate it. ‘How’s Camden Town?’ she asks, like there’s an actual answer to this, then she grabs a bag and sets off down the station steps with us scrabbling behind. As soon as we hit the car park she claps her hands together. ‘So, the marquee is up! You guys can start to set out the tables and chairs.’ She laughs but I know Wendy well enough to realise this probably isn’t a joke. The boot is open before she’s taken a breath. ‘Jesus,’ she says, looking at her watch. ‘The generator is arriving in ten minutes. Let’s get going.’

  She keeps up the chat all the way to the farm and Pez watches her like he’s watching TV, but she has his full attention. It’s strange to see them both in the same place again. Like that game where you fold up a piece of paper and one person draws the face and different people complete the other sections of the body before finally opening it out. For sure, the picture is wonky, but it’s not quite as weird as I would have thought.

  When we reach the top of the long bumpy drive, Fran is standing at the top of the courtyard in her cut-off shorts. She finishes signing a delivery note then jabs her pen into her bleached blond bun and gives us both a hug.

  ‘C’mon, I’ll show you Wend’s present,’ she says, heading off down the garden with Wendy running after her. I turn around to make sure Pez is following and see he’s walking backwards down the hill, staring up at their converted barn as he goes. Together we follow the field along by the river until we reach the spot where Fran and Wendy would take me and Arial to have picnics when we were younger. We used to launch tiny cork boats and race them all the way to the bridge. Wendy stops at a beautiful wooden bench under the oak tree.

  ‘Fran made it,’ she says, running her fingers along the back of the bench.

  I sweep my hand along the seat. ‘It’s so smooth.’

  ‘It’s Welsh larch,’ Fran says. ‘It’s our bench really. I made it for both of us.’

  I’m surprised when Pez sits down on it. He looks like he might say something but he leans his head back and stares into the branches above his head. Wendy looks at Fran. ‘C’mon, we need to meet the caterer,’ she says, and they both head off. Wendy sounds so busy I wonder if I’ll ever get time alone with her this weekend. I leave silent Pez on the bench and stroll back to the garden, where two men are tying a string of festoon lights between the two huge peaks in the marquee. Behind it, in the paddock, several tepee tips twinkle in the sun and around the other side an old horsebox bar is parked up.

  I step inside the vast, empty marquee. At the far end there’s a black-and-white dance floor. I walk down and tap my feet on the tiles, enjoying the sound my boots make when I dance. A gigantic mirror ball hangs above my head and I spin slowly around under it, closing my eyes, imagining it glittering in the light.

  After lunch, Fran opens boxes at the table, showing us the fun stuff she�
�s bought for the photo booth, and I’m messing around, trying on a top hat and a feather boa, but Pez checks his phone throughout. When she walks out to answer the door, I turn to him. ‘It’s rude to be on that all the time.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘What’s the point in being here if you’re not going to—’ I’m about to say more when Wendy strolls into the kitchen. ‘Hey, Wend,’ I say, smiling a bit too quick. She picks at the leftover cheese in the middle of the table as she considers the table plan in her hands, which is covered in scribbles. ‘Thought maybe we could talk wedding outfits at some point?’ I say. She pops a grape in her mouth and looks up. ‘Like, maybe now?’

  ‘Course,’ she says. ‘You’ll be all right if I steal her for a bit, Pez?’

  ‘Sure,’ he mumbles, looking a bit too relieved for my liking.

  I follow Wendy up the stairs and when we reach their room, she takes a large suit bag from the wardrobe and unzips it, revealing a pale blue tuxedo hanging inside. Then she holds up the suit, waiting for me to say something.

  ‘It looks better on,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, no, it’s great. The suit is so … you!’

  Her nose crinkles like she’s happy and then she starts undressing. She steps into the trousers, which come up short, just above her ankles, then she takes off her T-shirt, putting on a frilly dress shirt, slim cut, with a black velvet ribbon which she ties in a long bow under a Peter Pan type collar. When she puts the jacket on it fits snugly at her waist and somehow, she manages to look edgy, sexy even.

  ‘Wait!’ she says, holding her hand up before taking a pair of ankle boots out of a box. She puts them on too and walks over to the window. ‘So, what d’you think?’ she says, twirling in the light. ‘Picture … Bianca Jagger, early seventies, with a cowboy twist.’ She swaggers across the room, pinging at some imaginary braces with her thumbs. ‘Squint if you have to.’

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘I love it!’ I say. I mean it. I do. She looks amazing. I just don’t know why tears are pricking my eyes.

  ‘Thank God,’ she says. ‘You’re the only one around here with any taste.’ Then she slides the jacket off and sits back down, looking at me for what feels like a long time, but Wendy has always been able to see right through me. ‘Sit down,’ she says, gently.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, wiping at a tear.

  She takes my hand. ‘Hey, I’m all ears. Always.’

  I look away, blinking a few times. ‘I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s just watching you sometimes and … how unafraid you are to be you, and I’d so like to be more like that, but—’ I stop, then Wendy presses her lips together, nodding at me to keep going. ‘… but it’s been hard in London. I thought it would be easier but it’s more complicated. Everything has changed. Everyone has …’ These thoughts make my head fizz and I feel like a bottle of Sprite that’s been shaken too hard and I get up and stand by the window.

  ‘Pez is a sweet boy,’ she says after a while. When I turn back she’s scratching a sticker from the sole of one of her new boots.

  ‘He’s just a friend.’

  ‘Course,’ she says. ‘But I get that it could be tough, picking up again, after so long?’

  I sigh. Of course, she needs to point this out, like everyone else. ‘It’s not just Pez. Not really.’ I take a breath. If I’m ever to talk to Wendy about this honestly, I need to go for it. I need to put her name out there. ‘See, there’s this girl, March, and … I never expected to have a connection with someone like I do with Pez, but with her, I think I could, but it’s complicated because …’ I can’t even.

  Wendy’s head tilts. ‘Because?’

  ‘Ugh … because everything!’

  She breathes out through her nose behind me. ‘Is March … someone special?’ she asks after a while.

  Oh god, I want so much to be honest. I want to release this pressure in my brain and I’m trying to work out how to explain that yes, she is, and in some ways it’s the same connection as with Pez, but then … more. I want to explain this without Wendy jumping to conclusions. I need to, and I’m trying to think about how I can make her understand all of it, but I don’t know the way in and it pops out as, ‘Did you ever go out with boys?’

  She places the other boot carefully inside the box and then gets up and joins me at the window. ‘A few,’ she says. ‘Early on.’

  I place my hand on the glass. ‘Was it like it is with girls?’

  She looks like she’s thinking. ‘No,’ she says, slowly. ‘I wanted it to be, but no, it wasn’t.’

  I stare out the window wondering how to describe the way my pulse races when I’m around March or how my mouth goes dry when I’m talking to Rob and how good it felt when he kissed me. Should I try to explain that there’s no distinction, that my mind and my body can’t distinguish, or if it can, that it doesn’t, at least not really. I feel her eyes on the side of my face and I stare ahead, heart thumping, but somehow my mouth opens. ‘There have been girls that I’ve liked, but it was a while ago, mostly … and I thought, or I hoped, it was a phase, but—’

  Wendy’s hand lands on mine and the weight of it presses both of ours into the cold glass and the cap on my Sprite bottle twists, a tiny bit.

  ‘March … she is special,’ I say.

  Wendy’s eyes are kind and open. ‘I’m so glad you told me,’ she says. ‘Coming out isn’t easy.’

  ‘But Wend,’ I say, pulling my hand loose. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘OK … ?’ she says.

  ‘I’m sort of seeing this guy, Rob, and I like him a lot and I can’t like March because of Pez and it’s so confusing because I think that actually, really I’m—’

  ‘Vetty!’ She finds my hand again. ‘Lots of lesbians have heterosexual relationships before it all clicks fully into place.’ My free hand clenches into a fist. ‘Some people feel that they’re defined by those past relationships, but honestly …’ I inch back from her face. ‘None of that matters. It’s normal to be confused. It’s a huge step,’ she says.

  I turn from her and start to walk backwards, away from the window. I’m not confused. I feel like I haven’t explained it properly and it’s like she’s seeing herself in me, and that’s not it. Tears prick the corners of my eyes again but I don’t want her to see me cry. Not now. I don’t want any more questions. I wish I hadn’t said anything. This was a bad idea.

  ‘Guess it is,’ I say, moving off across the room.

  ‘Vetty?’ she calls out after me.

  ‘I should find Pez,’ I say, closing the door.

  I don’t look for Pez. I walk out the front door, toward the gate, where I start to run and I keep going to the bottom of the lane and from there I race up the hill by the dairy, where I climb the gate and sprint all the way to the bottom of the big field. My mind is as fast as my legs. Of all the people in the world, I thought Wendy might get it. I thought she’d understand that what I feel is real. My feet slam the hard, muddy ground but I don’t stop running until I get to the top of the hill. It’s not that steep but it’s high enough for a view of the tepees in the paddock and the church steeple over the top of the hill and high enough for things to slowly, slowly look different.

  21

  Dad and Arial arrive after supper. The cottage that was our home is rented out so they’ll share one of the guest rooms in the main house, and because Wendy and Fran have decided to be traditional and sleep apart tonight, Pez and I have been dispatched to one of the tepees in the paddock to make room for Fran’s parents. I take Arial to bed around ten but she’s excited and wants to chat so by the time I come back down the stairs Fran’s family have arrived from Wales and Dad is welcoming them in the hallway with glasses of tomorrow’s wine. Wendy is clearing the table when I walk back in. She takes me in her arms, swaying to some country music I’ve never heard before. ‘Y’OK, love?’

  I lift her hand from my face. ‘Fine,’ I say, doing my best to avoid her eyes. Whatever the opposite of fine is, I’m that, but I’m not ge
tting into it now; not the night before she’s getting married. ‘Where’s Pez?’

  ‘He set off for the tepee soon as you went upstairs,’ she says, sweeping my hair up to see my eyes. ‘I meant what I said, about always being here—’

  ‘I know,’ I say, walking off before she can say any more, but I’ve only reached the fridge when I’m punched by a fist of guilt. ‘Get some beauty sleep!’

  I hear her laugh. ‘I need it,’ she shouts out. ‘Oh, and the wheelbarrow is outside on the right!’

  I’m by the back door, examining the pile of sleeping bags, rugs and pillows in the dark, all of which feel damp having sat outside for so long. I lift the handles of the wheelbarrow and trundle down the garden path towards the paddock, tripping over myself and cursing Pez for not being here or having the sense to get started on the beds while it was bright. I ramble on like an exhausted zombie, stumbling over the uneven ground, lulled by the increasingly distant sound of singing in a Welsh accent. Finally, I reach the wooden gate and trip into the first tepee on the other side with any light. When I fling back the canvas door all I see is Pez’s phone beaming out from the blackness.

  He jumps up like I’ve walked in on something but there’s no one else here. ‘Y’OK?’ he says, reading my face.

  ‘Apart from the new bruises from pushing this thing down in the dark—’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he says, but his eyes look far away.

  I hook the torch at head height and kick off my shoes. ‘Um, can you help?’ I say, nodding at the wheelbarrow.

  He gets up like he’d rather not, but we work quickly, laying out our ground mats. I’m hoping we can finally have a chat to clear the air, but as I throw a sleeping bag on to Pez’s new bed he just unzips it and rolls over, away from me. I unhook the torch and climb into my own bed fully dressed.

  We face opposite directions, Pez towards the door and me into the galaxy of blackness at the back. There isn’t enough pillow, so I double mine over then stuff it back under my head. I shut my eyes tight and when we both stop shuffling, all I hear is him breathing and I lie there for what seems like ages listening to a faint wheezing in his chest, convinced he’s only pretending to be asleep. My legs are restless and I roll on to my back but I hear him moving and when I look left, he too is staring into the nothingness above our heads.