The Shape of Us: A hilarious and emotional page turner about love, life and laughter

by Drew Davies

  ‘There. I’ve deleted you from Facebook. That’s how you break up with someone.’

  Daisy sighs.

  ‘This isn’t like you, Warren, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and…’

  ‘Instagram too.’

  She hangs up, and just in time – Chris is on the other side of the street, holding a big bunch of flowers and smiling from ear to ear.

  In Croydon, south London, Dylan Moon is having a writing crisis. He stares at the screen. What has he done today? The cursor blinks expectantly.

  I walked my dog, types Dylan.

  He screws up his face. This week he’s written about Otis once already, an observational piece about how owners look like their pets (Otis is chocolate brown, and sleek and handsome like a seal pup, so not a terrible comparison), which means dog-related ideas are out. Otis, sprawled out under his chair, seems to sense this decision and whimpers.

  Dylan stares out of the window. The weather is grey, unexceptional. The house is quiet. His dad won’t be home for another hour. Dylan recalls the old proverb they half-heartedly debated once at school: when nothing happens in a silent forest, does anyone write about it?

  If the blog was supposed to motivate him to live a more interesting life, it had failed. Dylan had started with such energy too. After much deliberation, he’d named his blog ‘Moon over Croydon’ and with aspirations of becoming a travel writer, filled it with reviews of local attractions. He’d started with the museum (‘a stunning collection of old and semi-old relics’) and moved on to icons such as the Croydon Clock Tower (‘a must for anyone who enjoys tall clocks’). His passion for reviewing ended one day, however, after an anonymous reader left the comment ‘Ha ha, mate, hilarious!!’ on his very detailed report of the local IKEA. ‘Ha ha, mate, hilarious!!’? Dylan couldn’t work it out. How was an 800-word blog post on the merits of Swedish cooking in Croydon hilarious?

  Without the travel essays to fall back on, his life was revealed to be repetitive and dull. Take tonight, for example. The highlights would include making his dad dinner (meat and three veg, nothing revolutionary there), watching telly and playing Xbox. There were only so many times you could fall back on writing a jolly, tongue-in-cheek meta-post about not having anything to write about, and Dylan felt he’d reached his limit weeks ago. That left social commentary (his recent post ‘On the Other Side of the Glass’ had examined the sometimes turbulent relationship between bus driver and passenger), his reactions to new music and things he’d read online… and Otis. Dylan nudges the dog with his foot, and Otis peers up expectantly.

  Dog lies on floor, he types, Crowds go wild.

  There are other things he could write about – growing up with a white father and an absentee black mother being one, his illness another, but he feels coy about starting anything too personal. Anyway, who would want to read about that?

  Janelle might, of course. Janelle, Janelle, Janelle. Even thinking her name makes Dylan feel light-headed. Obviously, with his chronic fatigue syndrome (also known as M.E.), Dylan felt light-headed quite often, but this was the nice sort, not the gasping, dizzy kind – and it meant only one thing. He was in love.

  Being in love with Janelle was beneficial for several reasons. Firstly, it gave him something to do. Because of his illness, Dylan wasn’t able to leave the house much – even now he was technically a lot better – and boredom was his greatest enemy. Secondly, he worried less about his sexuality (Dylan had questioned if he even liked girls at all, and what that might mean bigger picture, but now he loved Janelle, so that put matters to rest). And to top it off, Janelle was an exceptional human being – someone he could look up to, a person who had helped him – healed him, even.

  Dylan was amazed at how much they shared in common. Janelle (who was twenty-one, a mere five years older than him) had mixed-heritage parents too: a Welsh mother and a British-Nigerian father. She’d also been unwell in her teens, with the double whammy of a rare form of ovarian cancer and M.E. She’d beaten the cancer, of course, and overcome her chronic fatigue using a technique called The Firebolt Process. Afterwards, she’d even trained to be a practitioner of the neurolinguistics programming course, becoming the youngest certified person in the country.

  Before meeting Janelle, Dylan and his father had tried everything – beta blockers, cortisol tablets, strict wheat- and lactose-free diets, painful vitamin B12 injections in the butt cheek – but nothing had worked. Someone online had suggested the three-day Firebolt Process course, which had apparently helped a lot of M.E. sufferers, but by then, Dylan was too ill to leave his bed. Janelle had gallantly come to them instead, teaching Dylan everything he needed to begin his recovery.

  Janelle also loved French films – just like Dylan. Well, that wasn’t completely true. Dylan was attempting to love French films, but liking them did not come as naturally as loving Janelle. Dylan had sat through five now, all recommended by Janelle, and it had been a challenge, to say the least. The first film, Boyfriends and Girlfriends, was shot in front of several white buildings, and because the subtitles were in white too, they’d completely disappear for long stretches until someone walked past the screen in a contrasting colour. Dylan had freeze-framed the movie, but even when he did catch the dialogue, he was none the wiser. He wasn’t sure if the film even had an actual plot – the characters only seemed to smoke cigarettes. Was he missing something? Probably, but he’d reported back to Janelle that he’d found the film ‘intriguing’.

  Dylan now remembers that Janelle had suggested a new movie to watch, so he logs into his email. As well as knowing her email address, they were friends on Facebook, but he was still building up the courage to ask for her phone number. Dylan wasn’t sure if that would be overstepping some kind of mark. There were lots of grey areas when you were in love with your health professional. He was of legal age now, which helped, but Dylan wasn’t sure what his dad might think about his feelings for Janelle, so he’d kept them under wraps, in case they got her into trouble. In many ways, it made Dylan’s feelings stronger – theirs was a forbidden love. It was like a Jean-Luc Godard movie (probably – he really hadn’t been paying attention).

  Scrolling through his inbox, he finds Janelle’s latest email, dated a day ago:

  Dylan!

  Her emails always started with an exclamation mark,

  Hope you’re feeling strong, and you’re committing to the visualisations and the meditation we set. So glad you’re enjoying our little film club. I was thinking you should suggest the next film to watch?

  Lots of love sweetie, Janelle

  Lots of love. He lingers on the words, resting the cursor over them as if to touch them, ignoring the tacked-on ‘sweetie’. Janelle sent him love. Dylan considers visiting another type of website on a private browser (a trick which has saved him many sleepless nights since his dad brought home a magazine from WH Smith called Getting to Know Your PC) but he tells himself to focus instead. Janelle deserved a gentleman. She’d once confided in Dylan that her previous boyfriend – a barber with an Instagram account full of his bulging biceps and tattoos – was violent during an argument, rolling up her sleeves to show the bruises on her wrists. Dylan would be different. Her knight in shining armour.

  Bringing up the search browser, Dylan feels the burden of having to choose a film that will impress Janelle. He wants to suggest something grown-up and sophisticated, so he types: ‘Adult French movie’ into the search box and clicks on the first result, which sounds suitably classy: Celestine, Maid at your Service. A French version of Downton Abbey perhaps? There’s a video embedded on the webpage, a trailer possibly, so Dylan clicks on it, but it’s the whole film – from the seventies, by the looks of it. He skips ahead. Whoa! – it was definitely not like Downton Abbey, unless Dylan had missed the scene where Maggie Smith played with her exposed nipples, as another woman watched, eating a lemon…?

  There’s a jingling of keys from the front door and Otis shoots out of the room, barking. Dylan jumps up t
oo, knocking his chair backwards, and as he bends down to right it, he can feel his eyesight starting to swim, his head spinning, the world turning into a familiar blur. The computer! he thinks, but he can already hear his father coming down the hallway, Otis’s barks turning into ecstatic yaps of pleasure, and Dylan has to steady himself against the doorway. He decides to turn the power off at the socket, it will be easier than shutting the computer down and, using the wall, slides beside the desk and fumbles at the nest of cables. There are deep blue spots in his vision now as well as the crescendo of hazy movement, and groping so blindly at the cables, he’s afraid he’ll electrocute himself. The socket is just out of reach behind the desk – he could give it a yank to try to unplug the extension lead, but it might bring the computer crashing down on him too. He eases himself back up to sitting – he’ll have to go under the desk instead – but flinches as something warm and wet starts lapping at his face. Dylan tries to push Otis away, but the dog retaliates by nipping at his chin. ‘That’s enough,’ Dylan commands the brown blur, and the assault stops, but he knows if he heads under the desk now, Otis will think it’s a game and attack again.

  ‘Dylan? You there?’ his dad calls, and there’s a clunk as something heavy hits a table top, probably leftover parts from a boiler he’s fixing.

  Just get out of the room, thinks Dylan, crawling towards the door now (Otis licks his ear). Don’t be found with the incriminating evidence. Using the chair and the door handle to lever himself upright again, Dylan stands swaying for a few seconds, willing the blurriness to go.

  This is his first attack for weeks. The dizziness and the blurred vision are a side effect, a reminder from his body, Janelle called it, that he needed to ‘sit down and take stock!’ He desperately doesn’t want to get ill again.

  ‘Don’t say desperate!’ he hears Janelle’s voice in his mind. ‘You’re programming, remember? Choose a more positive word.’

  Positive then, Dylan is positive he doesn’t want to get sick again.

  ‘Cheat!’ Janelle shouts good-naturedly in his head.

  Taking a few cautious steps forward – Dylan can see the doorway but its dimensions keep shifting – he staggers into the living room, where the sound of a running tap from the kitchen gives away his father’s location. Dylan holds onto the back of the couch, riding the waves of dizziness like a surfer. He tries to steer his body into the sensation, something else Janelle taught him. A surge from his core almost makes him fall backwards, but he grasps the couch in time and holds on as the feeling spirals through him. He doesn’t feel nauseous though, and at least he’s at home. School was always the worst: his teachers assuming he was faking the dizziness to get out of work. ‘Just put your head between your legs,’ one maths teacher had yelled at him, causing the room to erupt with laughter. From then on, Dylan’s nickname had been Auto, as in Autofellator, and not, as he’d mistakenly first thought, The Simpsons’ character Otto (this error was quickly cleared up by one of his classmates, who helpfully explained: ‘It’s because you suck your own dick, fag nuts.’ Nope, he really did not miss school one bit).

  The swaying subsides for a second and, in the hiatus, Dylan manages to manoeuvre around to the front of the couch, walking sideways like a crab, steadying himself with both hands. When he reaches the cushions, he sits. Otis jumps up too: he’s not allowed on the furniture usually, but Dylan hasn’t got time to enforce this rule. If he can just compose himself, if he can bring into practice what Janelle has taught him, maybe he can turn this around. He sees Janelle now, as if she’s being backlit by a very bright light, her beautiful round face, the immaculate makeup bringing out the rich tones of her skin while trying to hide the smattering of acne scars, her expertly pencilled-in eyebrows, the combination of false eyelashes and thick eyeliner giving her a doe-like appearance, her wide dazzling smile, lower teeth ever so slightly crooked, and a halo of curly hair, parted straight down the middle. Janelle winks at him roguishly, and everything goes bright…

  He opens his eyes. Dylan is lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. Next to him sits his father, eating a plate of fish fingers, chips and mushy peas, and watching the news. Otis is beside him too, lying in the gap between Dylan and the couch, spread out lengthways, making the most of the evening’s relaxed stance on animals and furniture.

  ‘Had a spell then?’ asks his dad, biting into a fish finger.

  Dylan nods groggily.

  ‘Want some dinner?’

  He nods again.

  Still chewing, his father gets up from the couch and heads into the kitchen. Dylan sits up quickly, pushing back the blanket, and cranes his neck towards the box room. The door is open and he can see the computer screen is in darkness, but he can’t tell if it’s turned off or just sleeping. He considers running over – he doesn’t feel dizzy at all now – but before he can make a move, his father returns, holding a plate with a tea towel in one hand, and a knife and fork in the other.

  ‘It’s hot,’ he warns. ‘Use a cushion.’

  The news has finished, so after his dad sits back down, he sets about flicking through the channels.

  ‘Any requests?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘How about something from the seventies?’

  Dylan shrugs, not really listening, and starts on his food.

  ‘Hungry, huh?’ his dad asks.

  Dylan grunts, mouth full.

  ‘There aren’t any fish fingers or French fries left, but there’s plenty of petit pois if you want some more.’

  Dylan freezes.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘If you’re still hungry. Plenty of peas.’

  And finding a repeat of Only Fools and Horses, Dylan’s father settles back to watch with barely a perceptible smile.

  The second date is over and it’s gone very well, they can both feel it. Something has changed in their alchemy tonight, and it’s significant and exciting.

  Chris walks Daisy down to Tottenham Court Road station (they have become shy at the prospect of sleeping together and deferred it to another night by mutual unspoken agreement), and here they kiss extravagantly, a ‘my train is leaving the station and perhaps I’ll never see you again’ kiss, arms wrapped around each other, Daisy standing on her tiptoes, oblivious to the occasional bump from a passer-by, and unconcerned that she’s still none the wiser about what Chris does for a living. When they can kiss no more, Daisy waves goodbye to him over her shoulder and heads down into the Underground. It’s busy in the station, but she barely notices and glides down the escalator. The train is crowded too, but she stands happily and is so caught up in her own thoughts, she almost misses her stop at Queensway.

  Once outside again, Daisy has a sudden impulse to text Chris, but she fights it until she’s nearly home. Only after she stops to buy milk for the morning does she cave and under the relative safety of the shop’s awning, takes out her phone. The screen is empty – no message from Chris – and she feels a wobble of uncertainty. But after placing the milk and the bunch of roses by her feet, she’s about to text when a very funny thing happens: she calls him instead. Daisy calls Chris. The phone is ringing before she fully realises what she’s done.

  Chris picks up almost immediately.

  ‘I was just texting you!’ he says, sounding genuinely pleased, and she feels a rush of relief.

  ‘Yes…’ her mind races, ‘I was actually ringing to tell you I’m psychic.’

  He laughs.

  ‘So, what am I thinking now?’ he asks mischievously and it’s her turn to laugh.

  ‘I had a great night.’

  ‘Me too.’

  There’s a pause, but it doesn’t feel awkward. If there’s such a thing as a comfortable silence, this is it, thinks Daisy. But he’s waiting, she realises, he’s waiting for me to say something.

  ‘Well, goodnight.’

  ‘That’s it?’ He chuckles.

  ‘Yes…’ she says meekly, knowing she must sound like an imbecile.

  ‘Then
this is the nicest phone call I’ve ever had.’

  Oh God, she thinks, I’m blushing.

  ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  And then another funny thing happens: Daisy starts to speak again.

  ‘Let’s not use the Internet or text messages unless we have to. I mean, I don’t think they’re very good for this, for getting to know someone. They dilute things and turn things around, and well, I know I sound like a crazy person, and I’ll completely understand if you hang up and never speak to me again, but I don’t want our…’ (She can’t bring herself to say ‘relationship’), ‘…whatever this becomes, to happen through status updates.’ There’s another pause. ‘Unless you want to and then I’m totally cool with it.’

  When Chris finally speaks, his voice sounds measured.

  ‘Yes, I can work with that, I think. It’ll be like 2002 again. That’s the year I got my first mobile phone by the way and not just a random year – my mother bought it in case my Swedish nanny decided to abduct me. I think I still have the phone somewhere, propping open a door…’

  He’s rambling now, but she appreciates it. (Also, a Swedish nanny, huh? Fancy. Daisy’s babysitter had been a girl called Tracey, who made seven-year-old Daisy light her cigarettes because ‘you can get cancer off them butane fumes’.) Chris’s ramble is a ramble to make her own ramble seem less crazy. She wants to kiss him all over.

  They say their goodbyes again and Daisy picks up her carton of semi-skimmed milk and the flowers, and walks the six minutes home, humming all the way.

  JoJo and Frank are drifting off to sleep in their matrimonial bed at the end of their second evening (she can’t bring herself to call it a ‘liaison’, or worse still, a ‘date’). The bed was a wedding present from Frank’s best friend Denny, as a punishment, JoJo always thought, for doing him the inconvenience of getting hitched. It’s a massive thing, solid oak with four hand-carved pillars. Denny did the detailing himself, stopping just short of carving a Grotesque on the headboard. JoJo hated it on sight. ‘How will we get in the front door?’ she’d cried, but Denny had thought of that and the bed frame came apart like a jigsaw. And so it had become part of their household and part of them. Frank and JoJo had literally grown into it: the older and fatter they became, the more it seemed that Denny hadn’t been spiteful at all, but somehow clairvoyant.