My Invisible Boyfriend (12 page)

Maybe this could be
Twelfth Night: The Naked Musical!
?

The sliding walls of the auditorium are pushed back, along with most of the seats, and the cast are all lined up against the back wall doing stretches for…some reason that probably makes sense if you are the theatrical type. Or Scheherezade just wants everyone to see her in a leotard, which is just as possible. Dai’s doing sit-ups, sweatily. I can see Yuliya, long arms in a graceful arc over her head, and Ludo behind her with her tongue trapped between her teeth, face scrunched up in concentration, trying to replicate it. Fili’s sitting off to one side, reading her script, and glancing up every now and then at Simon, as if she’s checking he’s still there (which of course he is, watching her with a sort of dopey dreamy expression). I’d be thinking how sweet and coupley they were together, if I wasn’t just a little bit mad at her not liking how sweet and coupley me and Ed are (or would be, if dopey dreamy expressions were possible when your eyes are made from icing).

Ludo still has one arm in Yuliya-pose, but the other starts waving madly, and through the misted-up window I can see Peroxide Eric, huddling out there in the drizzle with his coat collar flicked up, smoking a cigarette. That would be sweet, too, if I wasn’t wondering whether his little smirk was from seeing Ludo or thinking about Girl B. I narrow my eyes, switching back into Covert Detective Genius mode, to track down the true direction of his gaze. I’m not being Covert enough, though: He’s just looking at me.

Then I notice that Henry isn’t even here, which might explain why Dai’s looking quite so miserable (unless that’s the sit-ups), which gets me thinking all kinds of not-cute things.

The foyer doors bang, and Venables comes flying in, his half-unbuttoned shirt going alarmingly see-through from the wet, and his usual cloud of hair sticking damply to his head. He does a pantomimed look of surprise at finding people already there.

“Sorry, guys, you know how it is, crazy schedule! So much to do! But it looks like you’ve got it all in hand, yeah? Great. Brilliant. Cast, I’ll be right with you. Just got a little bit of business with my dear old friends over here. So. Props guys, looking good. See you found that glitter paint, Timo. Fantastic. Brilliant. Love it. Now, then: costume department?”

Simon and I exchange nervous looks. Well, I look nervous. With him, it’s a bit hard to tell.

The doors bang again. This time it’s Henry, looking perfectly untroubled by the weather, carrying an umbrella and a huge cardboard box.

“Delivery for the Hungry Performers’ Club!” he shouts, making his way over to us and bringing a tide of curious Finches behind him. “Chocolate Rehearsal Cupcakes! Fudgy Date Loaf! And there’s a special order of Yogurt Raisin Oatbars in here for the health-conscious gentleman who likes to watch his waistline—for no apparent reason, I might add?”

Dai beams, pinkly, as Henry gives him a wink. From the
looks on their faces, I think that qualifies as “showing” Dai he cares.

I stare at the box, curious, as Henry swats people away, holding it up over his head and promising goodies after they’ve worked on the opening number.

“I took the liberty of phoning in a standing order at the Little Leaf,” Henry murmurs to me, thumping it down on top of the piano at last. “Couldn’t help but notice that business seemed to be a little slow, and, well, I’ve never been in a production that didn’t run more smoothly with the aid of chocolate. I hope you don’t mind?”

I grin. I don’t mind. I don’t mind to the point of possibly skipping about like a loony. Betsy must be thrilled, and Henry—as if there were really any doubt—has officially proven himself to be Not Remotely Evil.

“For you,” Henry adds, lifting a cardboard tube out of the box and throwing it over to me. “Teddy said you’d left it down there by mistake?”

OO.

ER.

My hands are kind of shaky as I open up the tube and pull out a big sheaf of curled-up sheets of paper. The costume designs: It has to be. I can feel Simon’s breath on my arm, standing close. And as the crowd of cake-hunters fades away, Venables appears, too, his hands on his hips, eyes wide with expectation.

I wish I had time to look them over first. This could be a total disaster. Part of me even wants them to be rubbish, so
I’ll know there’s no way Teddy can be going to art school: no way he’ll be heading to Chicago, and taking Betsy with him.

But they’re not scribbly rough cartoons, like the ones Teddy drew in the Little Leaf. Not anything like those. They’re proper designs:
Project Runway
-style swoopy figures with mutant rectangular heads and triangles for hands. I can see all my original ideas, but he’s built them up, twisted them about, made them into something beautiful. The cast are split into two groups, like I suggested: Niteclubbers in sharp neons and silver flashes; New Visitors in flouncy pirate shirts and military jackets, all navy blues and red ribbons. There are splashes of color and tiny handwritten notes on the costumes for the twins, Viola and Sebastian (matching military jackets: hers powder blue, his pale pink), to show that when she’s pretending to be a boy, she wears a white stripe across her nose, like Adam Ant—just like I’d wanted.

Then Simon tugs the Feste costume to the top, the one which will be Fili’s: a Pierrot, a sad clown with painted tears, all very David Bowie circa
Ashes to Ashes
, somehow all very Fili at the same time. It’s exactly how I pictured it, only about four thousand times more brilliant.

Teddy is a star. A pencil-wielding angel. A cupcake with legs. I’m going to do all the washing up for him next Saturday; that’s how awesome he is. But still, I feel so proud of myself. I mean, I didn’t do the clever bit, the pretty-making bit, but I did the thinking-up-stuff part when I’ve never done anything like that before.

“
Ace
,” says Venables, impressed to the point of almost shutting up.

He also says I’m amazingly talented, which is where I get fumblingly and awkward and start trying to explain that actually that would be someone else. But then he starts going on about responding to the inherent cultural subversion of the post-punk era, exploiting the androgynous themes, and how my faux-militarism is an amazing critique of Thatcherite economics. The rest of the Artistic Team starts to crowd round and make cooing noises, patting me on the back. I go sort of blushy and giggly and un-Heidilike, and the chance to explain that I hadn’t really intended any of that, and actually the impressive parts weren’t me at all, kind of passes by.

Simon’s too busy still gazing adoringly at the Pierrot and her jaunty little hat to mind anyway. I feel a little stab of envy, watching him as one black fingernail traces the curve of the painted face, his lips slightly parted. No boy has ever looked at me like that.

And then she’s there, at my side, stepping in as the rest of the Artistic Team go back to their glitter paint.

I wait, a little breathless, for her reaction. She’s not going to leap around squeaking like Ludo would, obviously. But I know she’s going to love it. It’s impossible not to love it. And even though it wasn’t actually me who drew it, she’s going to hug me, and give me one of those rare smiles, and case number 3 can be forgotten about because everything’s perfect.

She blinks. Flicks her eyes up at Simon. Flicks them back to the sketch. Flicks them to me, and holds them there. No smile. Then she sighs and takes Simon’s hand, walking away looking even sadder than the Pierrot.

Heidi Ryder PI gets a little flashback to ITP: to gloomy Fili who doesn’t like Ed.
You like who you like, that’s just how it is.

And I get a little shiver, and I realize it’s not that I’m angry. It’s that I miss her.

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

dear fili,

this is probably a really weird thing to do, but heidi seems kind of upset about whatever it is that’s happened between you. though i don’t really know what that is. anyway she doesn’t know i’m writing this, but i have her passwords in my laptop (that’s how i got your e-mail address) and i thought i’d just write and say that she seems kind of sad about it, whatever it is. and that she’d still really like to be your friend. and she misses you.

i think she doesn’t really know how to say it to your face, though, so I decided to send this.

hope it isn’t too weird,

ed (heidi’s boyfriend)

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

Dear Ed,

I know how you must feel. I feel very strange writing to you like this, too. It helps me to write things down when I’m feeling like this, shape the feelings into words, find the order in the chaos. I might not even send this message, but I feel calmer already now I’m sitting still, alone, still alone. Talking, without having to speak out loud.

The thing of it is, I’m a terrible person. I don’t think Heidi would like me too much, if she really knew what I was like.

So it’s a very kind gesture, you writing on her behalf, but I think I deserve to meet this darkness alone.

Fili

WOE.

UH.

I was enjoying Ed being Mr. Sensitive. I hadn’t really expected him to turn into my own private Secrets Box.

I’ve always thought Finches—even Leftover Squad Finches—had a sort of shell that I wasn’t born with, that made them somehow unbreakable. But it looks as if we’re all equally squishy under our skin. Even Fili: Fili the Unique,
Fili the Tower, not Fili Who Does What It Says On Her Tin, Yawn, Next Please. She might look and sound like another Flick Henshall, but we kind of laugh at Flick Henshall and her Epic Emopain as Expressed Through Her Poetry/ Wrist Warmers, and no one laughs at Fili.

Maybe no one listens to Fili, either. I thought I’d tried, but I didn’t, not really: I got distracted by my Precious Ed. I watched her and her doting Gothboy, and maybe possibly perhaps I was a little bit jealous, and I didn’t realize that she could have a perfect non-imaginary boyfriend and still feel lost.

I want to wake up the Mothership, and make her drive me up the hill so I can give Fili a hug, and tell her whatever it is, I’ll understand. But Heidi doesn’t know about this stuff. It sounds like Fili doesn’t want her to, either.

That hurts. But I need to be grown up and non-whiny about it, because Fili’s the one who matters right now.

to:
[email protected]

from:
[email protected]

dear fili,

i’m really glad that you wrote to me. not that i’m glad about what you wrote, obviously, because you sounded really sad, and even though obviously we’ve never met i wouldn’t want that for you. but it sounded like maybe it helped to tell someone, and i’m happy i could be that person. heidi told me that sometimes you feel blue, but it’s different hearing you
describe it. like i can see it from the inside a little better now, or something.

i’m sure heidi wouldn’t hate you, if you wanted to talk to her. i hope simon’s being supportive and boyfriendly, too? but you can always write to me if you prefer. i know what you mean about writing things down being a way of getting things out of you. so you can write to me whenever, and i won’t share any of it with anyone unless you ask me to, i promise.

i hope you’re feeling better anyway.

ed

The penthouse, on a dark night. Mycroft Christie is seated at his desk, delicately sipping a cup of tea. His youthful associate, Miss Heidi Ryder, does not have any tea. She is not very pleased about that, but cannot be bothered to go all the way downstairs to make some, talk to the Mothership, stand in cold kitchen, etc.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: So, Miss Ryder. How goes the investigation?

HEIDI: Horribly. Or brilliantly. It’s a bit hard to tell. I’ve definitely found some stuff out.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Very good. Although I understand your colleague Mr. Hartley has done most of the work?

HEIDI: Yes, but he is actually me. Try to keep up.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: It is all rather confusing, you know, even for a time-traveler like myself.

HEIDI: Tell me about it. I keep forgetting which one of us is meant to know things.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Try keeping World War Five under wraps, my dear.

HEIDI: Four. World War Four.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (chokes slightly on tea) Yes. So. Progress report?

HEIDI: Case number 1: Ludo and Peroxide Eric. Have interrogated her and gathered valuable evidence. No Girl B suspects as yet. Propose further interrogation of relevant witnesses, and possibly hitting Eric on the head with something heavy.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Excellent. Case number 2?

HEIDI: Dai and Henry. Can confirm that Henry is
not
evil, that Dai does really like him, and that the two of them are kind of ridiculously adorable. Propose gently squishing them together, until they definitely see it, too.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I’m positively moved. And case number 3?

HEIDI: Um. That’s the horrible bit. She’s not a witch. She’s just really sad. About…something.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Proposed course of action?

HEIDI: Feeling really guilty for thinking mean things about her? Followed by crying?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Or, perhaps, confrontation?

HEIDI: Definitely can’t do that. She says she doesn’t want me to know. I might make it worse, if she thinks she can’t even talk to Ed about it. And maybe I don’t want to know what the problem is. I just want it to go away. Could I borrow your Time Bureau guest pass from episode 3.9 and just go back to when we were friends?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I think you’ll find I’m dressed in the blue pinstripe suit and have completely perfect hair, meaning I’m Mycroft Christie from somewhere in the middle of season 2.

HEIDI: Oops. Bad fangirl. Don’t grow that beard, yeah?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Might you, perchance, be changing the subject away from the emotionally distressing topic of Fili to something silly with which you feel more at home?

HEIDI: Yes. Which is a bit pointless, since you’ll already know that.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: It’s getting confusing again. You really should stop being quite so many people. Dressing yourself up as others. Wearing a different costume. Playing a new role?

HEIDI: You’re being kind of weird.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: I’m hinting. You’ll work it out in a minute.

HEIDI: Dressing up? But I’m not wearing a costume for PAG; I’m just designing them. Or pretending to anyway. I don’t even dress up for…

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Halloween?

HEIDI: Ooh.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Isn’t that rather soon, Miss Ryder?

HEIDI: Yeah.

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: And wouldn’t a certain fond-of-black-clothing person be the ideal person to ask for costuming assistance, thus offering a fine opportunity to casually drop in on said person and say hello?

HEIDI: You’re a bit good, you know that?

MYCROFT CHRISTIE: Unfortunately, I do. But I have it on good authority that my overwhelming self-belief is all part of my charm.

Mycroft Christie sits back in his chair and looks unbearably smug, if also quite snoggable. Miss Heidi Ryder takes the opportunity to stick out her tongue and steal his teacup.