When I Was Invisible (14 page)

It is 7 a.m. I am standing in the oratory, singing Lauds (our morning prayer) – the voices of my Sisters bring tears to my eyes every morning. The purity and the innocence rise up towards our Lord, and I feel a part of it. It is not silence, but I am a grateful, happy part of it.

It is 8.15 a.m. and I observe myself from my present as I listen to today's selection of readings as we eat breakfast. I am working in the kitchen today. I like to cook. I like to lose myself in the silence of working for my Sisters, making food that will fill their stomachs and lift their spirits.

It is 5 p.m. I have worked all day, and the silence imposed upon me is tiring now. I am always searching for silence, but today it seems hard, it seems a burden, not part of my vocation. I know I have to pray on that, to try to uncover why I am struggling. I watch myself hang my head in shame as I enter for Vespers, our Latin songs every bit as beautiful and moving as our Lauds in English. I watch myself sing our evening prayer and I know I am sad because I am struggling.

It is 7.30 p.m. And I am not reading my book, taking part in my free time as usual. I stare at the pages of the book, seeing nothing but alien squiggles that I cannot decipher today. Those few words I do manage to read fall out of my head again, unable to find purchase or rest in my mind. Inside my head is becoming loud. That is why I am struggling. The noise inside wants to come out.

It is 8.30 p.m. I am a little more careful with Compline (Night Prayer) tonight. I see myself enunciating every word, pushing the noise inside my head out by trying to coat every word we sing in it. I feel better as I enter the Great Silence for the night. I do not feel I will combust because I have let a little of what is inside out and I will not struggle to stay silent and extremely quiet until Lauds tomorrow.

I see you, Sister Grace
, I think to myself.
I see you lying in bed, reading that book and seeing the words this time. I see you, Sister Grace, waiting for Lights Out at eleven so you can sleep until five. I see you, Sister Grace. I see you and I see that what is on the outside is not what you are feeling on the inside.

In my parents' house, I roll over, I close my eyes again, shut out the visions I have of Sister Grace, the person I used to be, and try to be Veronica Harper. Roni. The girl who was so very often hungover from drink and drugs, for whom waking up at eight every morning was an issue, let alone waking at five. I tug the duvet right up over my head, feel the metallic groan of the fold-out bed in every part of my body. I can sleep as late as I want now. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. I missed Vespers and Compline last night. Once I came to my room Uncle Warren ensured that the Great Silence didn't happen by coming to my bedroom door. I am no longer a nun, nor am I a Sister. I am Veronica Harper and sleeping in is what Veronica Harper does.

It takes me another minute of pretending before I slip back the cover, I get down on my knees and I start to pray.

‘You seem to have a lot of long gaps in your CV, Miss Harper,' the interviewer, Mrs Nasir, says diplomatically.

‘Yes, yes, I do,' I reply. I had thought of an explanation, something that would help gloss over the mess that is my CV. No college experience, A levels started but not finished, three years of waitressing and working as a stagehand in a London theatre. And then yawning years between then and now when I was Nikky Harper, then Grace Carter. My CV isn't so much like Swiss cheese as the crater-pocked side of the moon – big gaps everywhere. I did have an explanation polished up and ready to present to her with a clever flourish of diversionary prowess, but I can't quite recall it. Not when I'm sitting in front of a real-life person, and not when I know it would sound like a load of nonsense. It would be lying, anyway. Concealing, like I did when I was living as Grace Carter, I can do – I had to do – but out-and-out lying goes against my nature.

‘Can you explain why?' Mrs Nasir asks. I think she was expecting me to jump in after her statement and I haven't.

In response, I sit up straight in my seat, pull back my shoulders, and tuck the strand of hair that has escaped from behind my left ear back where it belongs. From the waist-length dreadlocks that I've had these past few years, I have had my hair cropped to just above my ears, and straightened. Even now, nearly three weeks later, it's still a mini shock when I move not to feel the comforting weight of my dreadlocks twisted into a low bun at the back of my head, or hanging down to the middle of my back when loosened to hide my face. (The Brighton-based hairdresser had asked for reassurances several times that I knew what I was doing with this extreme cut and I wouldn't come back and sue her when I realised what I had asked for.) But this is who I am now. Grace ‘Ace' Carter had long dreadlocks grown over ten years; Nika Harper has short, straight hair, and she wears rectangular tortoiseshell glasses. When I had my eye examination, the optician didn't want to give me any sort of glasses, because the prescription was so weak it was hardly worth her time writing it up. I'd insisted; they were the perfect way to cover my face, they would allow me to hide and they would distinguish me from all the different names I've had. Now, they feel a part of my face whenever I leave my flat.

Slowly I push my glasses back up my nose, buying myself time. Nika Harper has a lot of explaining to do and I'm not sure how I do that. If I couldn't tell a police officer even the half of it, how am I going to tell this immaculate-looking woman who has a neat, orderly desk, flawless make-up, and wears a hijab that is the exact same colour as her suit? She is beautifully presented, has a gentle manner and runs the HR department of a large hotel – she won't be able to comprehend what the last ten years of my working life have entailed. Nor the five years before that when I was with Todd.

‘The thing of it is …' I begin, and the shame of it, of what my life has been like, bubbles right up to my throat, it chokes the words and I am mute, suddenly, tearful, as well. I am scared, too. I'm not sure why, since danger is so many miles away and all I have to do is perform well in this interview and I may have a job and I can move on. But suddenly, I am scared. I want someone to come and hold my hand, help me through the hard bits. I think, then, of the other Veronica. She was always wanting to hold my hand, trying to connect us with that touch.

‘I see,' Mrs Nasir says when my muteness extends beyond the acceptable time limit of starting a sentence, pausing, then finishing it. She sits forward in her seat, knits her fingers together over the papers on her desk. She sighs heavily, and fixes me with her large, maple-brown eyes. ‘What were you convicted of and how long were you in for?'

That sweeps away my muteness. ‘I'm sorry, pardon me?' I ask.

‘We do have ex-offenders working here, but it is wise to be honest about these things and state them clearly on your CV. Most people will give you a chance if you are honest.'

‘No, no,' I say, shaking my head.
Where's my hair?
I wonder for a few seconds before I speak again: ‘I wasn't in prison. I've never been in trouble with the law. You can run all the checks on me you want and you'll find nothing. No, I fell on hard times and I had to do a lot of cash-in-hand work, mostly cleaning. I like cleaning, making things right again. I'm efficient at it; I can do things properly but quickly. I'm discreet, which I'd imagine is helpful for a hotel. I'm also available to work as many shifts as you need, especially unsociable hours because I'm new to the city and I don't know many people. Well, actually, I don't know anyone.' I stop speaking.

Mrs Nasir listens to me with a slightly puzzled expression – she clearly doesn't know what to make of me: am I a bit crazy or am I simply odd? Now that I have stopped talking, she opens her mouth to speak and I interject with: ‘Sorry, and I meant to add that I'm a fast learner. If you give me a trial of one shift, after someone shows me the ropes, I'll prove to you that I can do the job and do it well. Sorry, sorry to interrupt you there. But I thought it was a good idea to mention that in case it in any way influenced what you were about to say next or whether you'd give me a chance or not.'

She doesn't speak this time, doesn't move to speak; instead she looks down at my sparse, one-page CV. Not even the most creative writing and rewriting could have made me sound desirable. I'd been tempted to use forty-eight point for the section heads and twenty-four point for everything else, just to fill the page a bit.

‘Nika Harper,' she murmurs, staring hard at my name in capitals at the top of the page. I had written Veronika but told her when I sat down to call me Nika. That was probably a mistake since it is so very close to Nikky Harper, and now she is dragging through her memory, trying to remember where she has heard that name before. Wondering if I am telling the truth about not having been in prison, not having been in trouble with the law. Thinking that even if I am being honest about prison, maybe she's heard that name for another reason and not a good one, since anything good of note that I have done would surely be there on my flimsy-as-tissue-paper CV.

If I want this job, which I do, I can't risk her connecting me to that other life, that other time.

‘Mrs Nasir?' I say gently, tugging her away from the words on the page. ‘If you were possibly considering offering me the job, I could start straight away. I could even do the trial shift this afternoon if you want?'

‘Hmmm?' She lifts her gaze to me. Frowns. ‘No, no, that won't be necessary. I'm a little torn right now, Miss Harper, to be honest. It is not our policy to offer positions in our hotel to people without experience or references or who have been working – as you have admitted – cash in hand.'

My heart sinks. So much for being honest and from that people will give you a chance.

‘However, if there's anything I know about jobs that are cash in hand, it's that there are so many people queuing up for that type of work, if you don't work hard enough you have no work. Which does tell me you're a hard worker. Can you see where I am conflicted?'

I nod. She seems a fair woman, not someone overly given to being nice or doing people favours, but not one to dismiss people out of hand, either.

‘I suppose the best thing I can do, to be fair to my head of housekeeping, who is desperate for good cleaning staff, and to yourself, is to give you a one-week trial.'

Without meaning to, I gasp. I'm finally being given a break. Another one, actually, if I count having enough money in my semi-defunct bank account to find somewhere temporary to stay and get my hair cut properly and buy a decent second-hand interview suit and glasses. But this break is huge. This break could change everything.

‘May I remind you, it is only a trial. If the head of housekeeping doesn't think you are up to the position, I will be forced to terminate your employment. Does that sound fair to you?'

‘Yes,' I say. I have to stop myself reaching across the table and grabbing her hand to shake it vigorously, and I put my hands on the arms of my chair to physically stop myself climbing over the desk and throwing my arms around her. ‘That sounds so fair, I can't even begin to tell you.'

‘Very well. If you will kindly wait outside for a few minutes, I will contact the head of housekeeping to let her know to expect us and I will show you around the hotel and introduce you to her. Since you said you could start immediately, shall we say six o'clock tomorrow morning?'

‘Yes, yes, that's brilliant. I can't even begin to tell you how much … Thank you. Just thank you.'

‘This is your chance to show us what you're made of, Miss Harper. Please don't let us down.'

‘I won't let you or myself down,' I say.
I promise.

I am starting at the very beginning. And yes, that thought has triggered the song from
that
movie to play in my mind. I have tried to push it to one side, but it's there.
‘Veronika Harper.'
I type the words into the Internet page on my parents' computer, hit the return button and pages and pages come up. Some have photos, some are links to the glossy magazines and a woman who spells her name the same way that Veronika did. I was supposed to start looking for a job today. I woke up at 5 a.m. like I do every morning, and when both my parents left the house, I came down to their computer to start my job search. Instead, I became distracted by the search for my former best friend.

Tomorrow I will look for a job. This is more important. I have to know where she is, what is going on with her. She left home at seventeen and as far as I know, she never came back.

Of the thirty-five children who had come to the taster sessions at Daneaux Dance Studios, a year ago, only fifteen of us were left, and Nika and I were the only ones who came every single week to the lessons.

This lesson, Monsieur Armand asked us to stay after class. Everyone looked at us like we had done something wrong, and Nika seemed terrified. I was, too. We sat cross-legged on the floor by the mirrors while everyone else picked up their bags, coats and shoes from along the back wall, and then waited for their parents to come and collect them. They were all still watching us, feeling sorry for us, because we were probably going to be asked to leave the ballet school and then that would be the end of our dreams of being dancers.

It was all Nika and I talked about at school. We would discuss the different ways you could move from first position to third without going through second. We would talk about which ballets we would like to dance in. We would sometimes have everyone staring at us in the playground as we practised what we had learnt the week before. I loved to watch Nika dance, she was so good at holding herself upright, looking as professional as Madame Brigitte – like she was born to dance. She often told me that when she watched me dance she couldn't breathe because she thought I looked so beautiful, that I
was
Odette in
Swan Lake
.