Invisible (3 page)

I understand why he’s so
emotionally closed off and hesitant to have children, what with his past. I’ll
never forget that time he told me about his mum, way back when we’d very first
started dating nine long years ago.

He’d looked like a little
boy then, those massive hands of his twisting the hem of his shirt backwards
and forwards like he’d been trying to wring the life out of it.

I hadn’t dared move, in case
I’d broken the spell; I’d had a feeling something big was about to happen.
Those bright blue eyes of his, so piercing that sometimes they feel like they
can laser-beam straight into my soul, had come up so suddenly to meet mine.
There’d been the strangest look on his face as he’d forced his fingers to
still, his hands to stop
wringing
. Something almost
dangerous; they’d been such a cold, steely blue that they’d reminded me of the
dead eyes of sharks. I’d realised why as he’d spoken.

‘Me and Mum aren’t close,’
he’d admitted softly. And the second he’d said those words his eyes had softened
back to the more usual bright blue. I’ve never known anyone before whose eyes
seem almost to change colour with his mood, but Daryl’s do. Right then, I’d known
he’d made a momentous decision about me, something I couldn’t understand.

He’d decided to let me in,
just the tiniest bit.

‘I used to get bullied at
school.
These
g-’ he’d stopped short then continued.
Had he been about to say girls, or had he just cleared his throat? ‘These kids
made my life a misery.
Called me
rubberlips
.
All the time, it never stopped.’

Daryl has full lips. All right,
so his top lip is quite long, a bit like that old prime minister we had, who
was it?
Yeah, John Major.
But that’s the only thing he
has in common with him; my Daryl is tall, strapping, handsome, with pale skin
but not pasty. He even suits having his hair shaved off, since his dark wavy
hair started receding badly two years ago.
 
And he always has the most wonderful,
comforting smell to him. Diesel and oil mixed with aftershave to create
something so uniquely him that whenever I inhale it I feel like I’m home. After
all these years of working around engines the aroma is impregnated into his skin;
no matter how much he showers he can never get rid of it. It’s another thing he
hates about himself, but that I love.

Anyway, I’ve gone off the
subject – but suffice to say, anyone picking on my fella’s lips is just being
rotten for
rotten’s
sake.

Still, I hadn’t said any of
that to him, not right at that moment nine years ago; still too scared to break
the spell. He’d picked up his coffee then, taken a slurp as if to lubricate the
passage of the words that were stuck in his throat. Then his big hands had
cupped it protectively – like it was protecting him like a shield, I mean, not
the other way round. His fingers had obscured bits of the ‘World’s best
trucker’ logo that ran round it front and back, making it look a bit rude if
you were trying to piece together what it said just from the fragments left
showing.

My own coffee had been going
cold, but I hadn’t cared. Because I’d known that what he was about to tell me
was about more than just being bullied by kids.

‘They picked on me all the
time. I’d tried holding my lips in to make them less big, less ugly,’ he’d
continued finally.
‘Thought if I trained my muscles that
somehow they’d start doing it automatically and hey presto, no stupid, big, fat
rubber lips any more.
Didn’t work that way, of course.
Nothing stopped me looking the way I did, nothing stopped the bullies.

‘They’d scrawl my nickname
on the board at school, chant it in the playground until it felt like the whole
world was joining in, leave notes in my bag or desk threatening to rip my lips
off if I told anyone what was happening. They’d steal my sports kit and throw
it on top of the flat roof of one of the classrooms so that they could watch me
trying to climb up and get it back; or just stuff rubbish into the bag or pour
yoghurt over it so that then I’d get into trouble with the teacher for not
having my kit – I couldn’t tell them what had actually happened or my life
would have been made an even bigger misery.

‘I just reached a stage where
I couldn’t take any more. I ran home one day, told Mum about it because I knew
I couldn’t deal with it alone any more. Told her things were so bad that I
wanted to die. “So what, dear?” she said. Just like that, “so what”.
Like it wasn’t a big deal.’

Bloody Cynthia, I could just
imagine her saying something like that. I can’t stand the
woman,
she’s so odd, so cold and unemotional. And she calls everyone ‘Dear’ yet
manages to makes it sounds nothing like an endearment…it’s quite a skill.

Daryl’s words had seemed
freerer
suddenly at the moment, like the coffee had washed
away whatever had been causing the blockage of emotion. He’d taken another sip
to be sure,
then
carried on.

‘When she said that, I’d
realised then that I really was totally alone. There wasn’t a single person in
the world who gave
a stuff
about me. I’d run up to my
room then, locked myself in. She didn’t bother coming upstairs to check on
me…not for three days.’

I hadn’t been able to stop
myself then.
‘Three days?!’
I’d gasped.

That couldn’t be right. What
mum would do that to their own kid, just let them hide for days on end because
they were so traumatised, and not even be bothered to comfort them. His dad had
died in a car crash before Daryl was born, so there had only been Daryl and his
mum, no one else for him to turn to.

At that moment I’d been able
to imagine him – still can – a poor little confused kid, longing for someone to
hug him and tell him everything’s going to be all right; longing for someone to
get angry and take on the battle for him, saying ‘I’ll get straight down that
school and sort this – I’ll give them what for!’

Poor kid should have had his
mum making him his favourite comfort food of sausage and mash to cheer him up,
then cuddling up and watching his top programme on telly too. Even letting him
stay up a bit later than usual as a treat, so he knows he’s not in trouble.

Certainly what any sane
parent would not do is leave their kid alone after something like that.
And definitely not for three whole days.
So I’d reckoned I’d
clearly misheard him.

But
no.
His flaming mother had let him sob his little heart out
for half a week, starve himself because he didn’t come out for meals even. God
knows what his bedroom must have smelled like, with him not going out even to
the loo…

That’s why I hate Daryl’s
mum, Cynthia. And yes, I do understand why he’s not mad keen on having kids
himself. Poor
bloke’s
probably terrified he’ll be
about as good a parent as she was. But we can get past this thing, together –
with a little help from a counsellor maybe.

That’s what I told him as we
lay in bed today. He said he’ll think about seeing a therapist.

‘I’ll be there for you,’ I
whispered. I know the thought of talking to a stranger terrifies him and I’m
very proud of him for taking this step. Hope we make it.

Thurs 7

Met
up with Kim for lunch today.
Although we work in the
same office we don’t get the chance to chat much, so it’s always good to take
our break together.

After our usual round of
slagging off the boss and saying how much better a job we could do than him if
only we were in charge, we got down to the real business – exchanging gossip
and having a catch up. I couldn’t wait to tell her about my glorious day of
skiving with Daryl.

I knew it wouldn’t go any
further, we tell each other everything, could both blackmail each other from here
to kingdom come with the amount of information we’ve got on each other.
Besides, I know for a fact that that ‘24 hour stomach bug’ she had the other
week was actually her staying at home with her boyfriend (why she would want to
let that
weasely
runt near her with a bargepole is
not something I shall dwell on).

So I expected her to be
happy for me. Instead, she looked like she’d just sipped sour milk and was
trying not to let it show, her mouth twisting to one side slightly in a weird
cross between grimace and smile, her cat-shaped eyes narrowing almost
imperceptibly. It took the shine right off my mood, I can tell you.

‘What?’ I demanded, aiming
for jokey, sounding closer to snappy.

‘Well…just…’ I could tell
she was choosing her words carefully, her eyes glued to her chips as she dunked
one into the yolk of her fried egg, breaking its delicate skin so that the
contents spilled out across the plate. Finally, as she lifted the yellow-
nubbed
fry to her mouth she looked up at me and hurled the
words out in a hurry. ‘Don’t you think sometimes you end up doing more what he
wants than what you want?’

As a full stop, she shoved
the chip quickly into her mouth, as if to stop herself from saying more that
she might regret.

‘No, I wanted to stay at
home with my husband. I wanted to spend time with him, and frankly I wanted to
have great sex. So, no, I reckon I did exactly what I wanted, and can’t see a
problem with it.’

I forced my voice to stay
light, even though my heart was thumping a bit and I could feel the heat storming
across my skin and making my cheeks flame.

I really, really hate
confrontation, but there was no way I was going to take criticism from a woman
whose own relationship is a total and utter mess and she can’t even see it!
Seriously, our nickname for her fella, Sam, is Psycho. Says it all really,
doesn’t it.

Bracing myself for a row, I
pushed my chair back slightly with a high-pitched scrape, while at the same
time easing my plate away from me. I couldn’t face food, not now.

But instead of an argument, Kim
did something even worse. She just looked at me, mouth smiling, but eyebrows
knitted together and
raised
so high in the middle that
they did a pretty good impression of Kilimanjaro. It was a pitying look she was
giving me.

‘I just worry about you,’
she said apologetically. Her brow had so many ridges in it that it almost
looked frilly. Then it smoothed as she shrugged and sank another chip into the
egg. End of subject. To show we were still mates, I nicked a chip off her
plate.

I didn’t bother telling her
about the rest of my day with Daryl though. About how I’d felt all warm and
fuzzy inside ever since, like someone in a Mills and Boon. I refused to let her
negativity seep in and slowly cool my warm glow and make my fuzzy all sharp
again.

The problem is
,
people just don’t understand me and Daryl. There’s no
point in me talking to anyone about us, because they just don’t get it.

Fri 8

Oooh
,
lunchtime gossip was that Kim has decided to finish with Psycho Sam. Hurray!

Sat 9

Okay, what I’m trying to
think of right now is ‘what the hell can I do for Valentine’s Day?’ Ah, the
eternal question. Something nice and romantic, which shows I really do care,
but not off-
puttingly
sloppy. At first I tried to
think of things men would like but drew a blank. Then I tried to think of
things I’d like and came up with quite a few ideas.

Then I got depressed because
I realised that what I actually wanted was for Daryl to do something like this
for me, not the other way round. I want so much for him to give me stupid, big
gestures and thoughtful stuff. To show me he cares. Maybe I actually want to
change him. Or maybe it’s not that he’s not like that…maybe it’s that he’s not
like that
for me.
Because
he doesn’t love me enough.

So now I’m scared. I was
supposed to be planning Valentine’s Day and instead I’m depressed.

What’s more, I’m fat. I
don’t just feel fat, I am fat. 10st. And under one week until VD (that actually
looks really wrong written down!) so no chance of losing any pounds, really.
Bet Daryl won’t even be around either, bet he’s working. He’s always bloody
working. God, I feel so alone.

One thing’s for sure,
sitting here moping won’t make me feel any better. So…my romantic ideas are:

1)
   
List the reasons why I love Daryl, and what
makes him unique. Put each one on a bit of paper and pin up round the room. I
read about this one in a magazine. Sweet but, to my mind, verging on obsessive.
Maybe just list in a card instead?

2)
   
Have an indoor picnic, with finger food and
low lights and candles, in the lounge. Feed one another,
then
dance to his favourite Barry White CD, and our song: You’re My First, My Last,
My Everything.

3)
   
Take him to a show (he’d probably hate that
though, so more for me than him!)