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

by Drew Davies

  Dylan has a thought – what if there’s something scary inside the box? An old-fashioned doll that says ‘Mama’ when he picks it up or a stuffed black cat with staring marble eyes? What if he finds a knotted ball of feathers and twigs? Or hair? Or teeth?

  Otis sniffs the box again, steps back a pace and licks his chops.

  ‘Can you wait till I’ve checked it – in case it’s broken?’

  ‘Got anyfing to cut the tape?’ asks the delivery man. ‘My van’s double-parked.’

  Dylan fetches a pair of scissors from the kitchen and tries to cut through the seal, but his hands are clumsy in front of an audience.

  ‘Careful, you’ll scratch what’s inside.’

  ‘Why don’t you try?’ Dylan says stroppily, passing over the scissors, but the delivery man seems nonplussed, slicing through the tape and opening up the cardboard flaps with ease.

  Both peer inside.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Dylan.

  The delivery man reaches into the box and with considerable effort, hoists out the contents, polychips raining onto the floor. Otis springs on these new curiosities and Dylan has to take two soggy packing chips out of the dog’s mouth before the animal can swallow them.

  ‘It’s a typewriter,’ announces the delivery man, plonking it next to the box with a thump. ‘No wonder it was so bloody heavy! Vintage too.’

  Dylan has never seen a real-life typewriter. It’s massive – almost as big as televisions before they went flat screen – and black, and shiny. Along the top is written ‘Imperial’ and underneath this, in smaller writing, ‘War Finish’. Why has Janelle sent him a typewriter? Is it some sort of coded message? She did like old-school things (the French films, for example), but the typewriter worried Dylan. It was so random – it felt like a bad omen.

  The delivery man whistles.

  ‘It’s in good nick. Must be worth a bob or two. How’d you get it?’

  For some reason, Dylan’s impulse is to lie and say he’s an antiques collector, but he shrugs instead.

  ‘Someone special has given it to me as a present.’

  ‘Worth a coupla hundred quid at least. You should take it on the Antiques Roadshow – get it valuated. Or I’ve a mate in Carshalton who’ll…’

  ‘I’m not going to sell it,’ Dylan says indignantly.

  ‘I’m not saying sell it, but you need to know these fings for insurance purposes.’ Dylan hasn’t thought about that – he’s never owned anything valuable. Where is he going to keep it? Somewhere up high, otherwise Otis will chew off the keys. ‘You got any paper? We should see if it works.’

  Bristling at the delivery man’s use of ‘we’, Dylan heads into the computer room to get some paper. He starts to feel dizzy – he must have stood up too quickly – so he takes a moment to compose himself. River of calm, he whispers to himself by the printer. River of calm. He tries to visualise the river – muddy banks, reeds in the water, the swift line of the current – but he sees his school uniform hanging up on a hanger, and his mind skips to school on Monday. Uniforms. Homework. River of calm. River of calm. GCSEs. Assemblies. The smell of old farts. Classrooms roasting from the central heating. The never-ending tide of boredom. River of calm. River of calm. How many humiliations await him, he wonders? What new combinations of old-fashioned bullying techniques and cutting-edge social media?

  Distractedly, Dylan reaches for the ‘Janelle phone’ and checks it for messages. Still nothing. He logs into his email. Nothing. His blog. Nada.

  Returning to the living room, he finds the delivery man squatting in front of the typewriter, his hand raised as if about to hit one of the keys.

  ‘Don’t!’ Dylan shouts, and the delivery man looks up, surprised. ‘I have to try it first.’ The delivery man shrugs and stands up to let Dylan take his place.

  Loading the sheet of paper into the typewriter gives Dylan a strange sense of déjà vu. He wonders what to write, so he starts with: J A N E L L E. The sound is amazing, the thwack of the keys as they hit the paper – the keys seem to spring from nowhere, yet always find their mark. Dylan starts to speed up: O W N E D T H I S T Y P E W R I T E R. At the end of the line, he’s unsure how to make the bar go back again. He experiments with a few of the levers and finally, one releases the bar, sending it whizzing back to the start again with a ‘ding!’, making both Dylan and the delivery man chortle out loud. T H A N K Y O U. G O O D B Y E, he types. Dylan rolls the sheet of paper out of the machine and stares at it. The words are really there, physically on the page. He doesn’t even have to press ‘print’.

  Dylan lets the delivery man have a go now – it seems only fair. On a clean sheet of paper, he in turn types: B O O B S A N D N I C K E R S – not hugely respectful, but Janelle would find it hilarious.

  While the delivery man taps away, Dylan searches the box, sifting his hand through the polychips. He finds a small card, on it is written:

  Dearest Dylan,

  Don’t forget there’s a real world out there too.

  Lots and lots of love, Janelle xxxxoooxxxx

  p.s. Now go get ’em!

  He slips the card in his pocket as the delivery man starts to wind down.

  ‘Want to have a race to see who can type the fastest?’ asks Dylan.

  ‘Can’t,’ says the delivery man, getting to his feet. ‘Got the van. Can you sign here?’ He hands over a tablet, and Dylan writes his name on the screen with a stylus thingummy – although it doesn’t really look like his signature, it’s more of an illegible scrawl. Technology, he tuts to himself, as he lets out the delivery man, returning to wrangle up the loose packing chips before Otis can choke himself to death, and pondering the meaning of the note for the entire rest of the day.

  Adam’s incarceration happens on an evening that, at first, appears like any other. He spends most of the morning and an uneventful afternoon in his sixth-floor shack, working on his master presentation – a huge PowerPoint doc (at last count three hundred and forty-four pages, with graphs, pie charts and at least four types of fancy slide transitions) which was so large the document constantly crashed – moving down into the corner office by half seven. If he notices anything unusual – the sound of drilling or the increase in security guards – it’s only peripherally. Perhaps he’s become too complacent, or the mystery of the cleaners is drawing him in too fully (the question is no longer what the cleaners are doing – Adam has managed to overhear snippets of their phone conversations and discovered the cleaners are making scripted telemarketing calls for a printer cartridge company – but how Mr Maintenance is involved and when he might retaliate).

  Later in the evening, after finishing for the night in the corner office, Adam turns off the desktop computer, washes his cup in the kitchenette and then rides the elevator down to the ground floor. As he approaches the foyer, he notices Cara the receptionist is sitting at her post behind the desk – lust and panic ripple through his body.

  ‘You’re still here?’ he manages to say as the spasm passes.

  Cara looks up wearily, but as soon as she makes eye contact with Adam, her face reactively warms with a smile (Does she remember our conversation on the first floor? he wonders).

  ‘We’re testing some new systems,’ Cara explains. ‘There’s been a few hiccups.’

  A walkie-talkie on the reception counter comes to life with a bird-like chirp and the crackly sound of a man’s voice.

  ‘What type of new systems?’ asks Adam, bouncing his rucksack higher onto his shoulder.

  ‘Security mostly. You probably haven’t noticed but we’ve been a bit lax so everything’s being upgraded – cameras, network protection – the works.’

  Adam’s stomach does a double backflip.

  ‘Have there b-been any… s-security issues?’ he asks, casually.

  ‘No – it’s only a precaution. And it shouldn’t affect you much.’

  ‘Good,’ Adam says, adding with forced joviality, ‘so no retina scans or strip searches?’

  Cara’s smile star
ts to fade.

  ‘Hope they’re p-paying you overtime for this,’ he adds quickly. ‘Have you been here all day?’

  ‘For my sins,’ she replies, picking up the walkie-talkie as it squawks again and holding it to her mouth. When she speaks into it, her accent is more clipped, with less of her usual Canadian twang. ‘Yes, over.’

  Sins. A pair of long black gloves. Cara pulling them off, finger by finger, and peeling them down her arms, revealing alabaster skin. The snap of latex. Good God, he was going to wet himself!

  As Cara finishes her conversation on the walkie-talkie, Adam realises he’s been staring at her the whole time.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ she asks.

  ‘No. I m-mean – er, yes,’ Adam stammers.

  Cara waits patiently.

  ‘I… I just wanted to say, I think you’re doing a really good job. I mean, in general. A lot of people in your p-position would phone it in, but you seem to really care about this place. And it’s appreciated.’ Cara stares at him with a strange expression on her face. ‘Like tonight, staying late, or yesterday, when you organised flowers for the g-guy on the third floor because he forgot his anniversary, or the way you put out a b-bowl of sweets on a Friday (And all while you’ve been going through a breakup, if your recent emails are anything to go by, Adam thinks, but doesn’t say). It’s the small things, but they add up, so… thank you.’

  They stare each other for what feels like a hundred years, and then a tiny voice in Adam’s head yells: go! and he walks towards the turnstiles. ‘Yes, well – good night, hope you don’t have to stay too…’ Adam pushes his weight against the rung of the turnstile, but it doesn’t budge.

  Cara snaps out of her trance and stands up.

  ‘I forgot to say, you have to swipe out with your card now too.’

  She waits encouragingly, as Adam – almost in slow motion, or so it feels – takes the security card out of his pocket and swipes it on the scanner. Red light. And again. Red light.

  Cara frowns. ‘That’s odd. Try it again, slower this time.’

  Red light.

  ‘Give me the card.’

  Helplessly, Adam hands Cara the card (piano-player fingers, slender wrists, cream coloured skin) and she scans it on her computer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cara says, still frowning, ‘there’s something strange here.’

  Should he run? He could easily clear the turnstile before she had a chance to raise the alarm. What if she locked the main doors… perhaps he should double back and find a fire exit instead?

  Cara studies her computer. Adam imagines his mug shot and a flashing red cross emblazoned on the screen. He’s surprised he can’t hear a siren.

  ‘It’s saying your card’s been cancelled,’ Cara says, sitting back in her chair.

  ‘How… odd,’ Adam manages to say.

  ‘Very odd.’

  Adam feels faint. Maybe he wouldn’t make it over the turnstiles after all.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Cara says, shaking her head. ‘It must be this switch-over. Leave it with me and I’ll get a new one sorted out for you tomorrow. Just ask at the desk in the morning.’

  The turnstile light turns green.

  The walkie-talkie screeches again. Cara picks it up: ‘Reception, over.’

  Adam considers the green light. If he steps through the turnstile now, he’ll never be able to return. Cara will check with the other receptionists and discover a replacement card has already been issued to the real owner, and in the morning, Adam will find a squad of policemen waiting to arrest him. They might even use plainclothes detectives to avoid making a scene: Come this way, sir. Could we have a moment of your time? Very discreet.

  If he leaves now, what will he have? No job, no prospects. He’ll be back where he started – worse now there’s a sizeable gap on his CV. At least here he has a routine, a function – perhaps even a future once he’s exposed the misdoings of the cleaners.

  For a second, the mask slips. Adam isn’t a hero – he’s something much worse – a parasite. It’s only a matter of time until he’s caught, and even if he doesn’t go to prison, he’ll still be forced to move back to Hereford with his mum and sleep on the fold-out sofa. Eventually, he’ll have to start taking antidepressants again, which will eradicate his sex drive and open him up to a whole host of possible side effects – dry mouth, dizziness, strange electric jolts that felt like being struck by pigmy lightning bolts – and he’ll get a job in a local agency that prides itself on being as good as a London one, although it won’t be. And his older brothers will have that look in their eye: you thought you were better than us. You thought you could leave.

  Adam stares at the green light. He should take this opportunity before it all goes horribly wrong.

  Then there’s Cara. Beautiful, efficient Cara. Deep down, he knows she’ll never be interested in him – she’s only friendly because that’s her job, she only ignores his stutter to be professionally polite. Not being able to see her every day though, to listen to her playlists or read her messages – to never again know what she was considering for lunch – it will crush him.

  Adam pushes his knee against the turnstile and it starts to move. Tick…

  ‘Actually,’ he says, stepping back, ‘I’ve just remembered, I have another report I need to p-print out.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Cara, still holding the walkie-talkie. ‘I’m leaving shortly, so one of the security guards can let you out.’

  And now something miraculous happens. Cara smiles at Adam, but this time it’s not her generic ‘Welcome to Mercer and Daggen’ robo-smile, or the tight-lipped grin he’s seen her use to resolve difficult situations, or even her putting on a brave face toothpaste commercial smile. Her eyes are engaged. Her eyes are engaged! There’s a spark, a light, a twinkle even.

  ‘Thanks, Cara,’ Adam says, as he starts towards the elevators, endorphins surging through his body.

  ‘No problem, Mark,’ she replies, giving him a quick farewell wave as he goes.

  JoJo is brushing her teeth, and contemplating a streak she must have missed while cleaning the bathroom mirror, when the top of the laundry basket starts to vibrate. She rinses her mouth and dries her hands, hoping it will stop of its own accord, but it’s nothing if not persistent. Reluctantly, she sources the mobile phone from her pile of folded clothes, and glances at the caller ID. JoJo hits the mute button immediately. She opens the door carefully – Frank, who purportedly was watching the news, is already sound asleep, one leg out of the duvet, one arm over his head – and hurriedly skulks through the bedroom, down the hallway and onto the stairs.

  ‘Yes?’ JoJo says in a hoarse whisper, answering the phone in the dark bookshelf-lined study at the bottom of the staircase.

  ‘Sorry to ring you so late.’

  JoJo checks the stairs to make sure Frank hasn’t followed her.

  ‘I was washing my face,’ JoJo says, and instantly regrets it. She doesn’t want Belinda to know the ins and outs of her private life, and washing her face sounds too pedestrian. She should have said she was reclining in a bath of camel’s milk and geranium oil while reading The London Review of Books. Not washing her ruddy face.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for your present – it arrived today.’

  ‘Oh that – it’s nothing.’ JoJo had actually forgotten all about posting the Mothercare gift. She’d finally decided on a ‘Baby Einstein Nautical Friends Play Gym’, which seemed to be some kind of garish interactive learning mat – the child on the packaging was smiling at least.

  ‘It was very thoughtful.’

  Belinda’s voice sounds different tonight – thinner somehow, as if it’s been stretched out and left to dry in the sun.

  ‘You can’t ring me in the evenings,’ JoJo says, tersely. ‘Frank might find out.’ There’s no response. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ says Belinda. ‘I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have called. I guess I wanted to hear a friendly voice.’

  ‘Why did you phone m
e then?’

  JoJo means this seriously, but Belinda only laughs.

  ‘I wanted someone to tell me to snap out of it, I suppose.’

  ‘Snap out of what?’

  ‘Whatever this is.’

  JoJo sighs. The girl was obviously maudlin. She changes the phone to her other ear.

  ‘It’s late. You’re pregnant. Your body is infested with hormones. You just need a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Maybe. I wish I could have a glass of red wine though.’

  ‘Why not? One won’t hurt. Two probably won’t hurt.’

  In a dark recess of her mind, JoJo realises the potential power she has over Belinda at this very second. She has an evil thought: what if she encouraged Belinda to drink a whole bottle of wine? Or two? What then? She admonishes herself instantly, feeling rightfully guilty.

  ‘Have one glass of wine and go to bed, you’ll be fine in the morning.’

  There’s another silence.

  ‘Hello?’ barks JoJo again.

  ‘Sorry, I’m still here,’ replies Belinda flatly.

  Good lord, what was this, the Samaritans hotline? What disappoints JoJo the most is she assumed she’d found one of her brethren: a woman with a bit of spunk and mettle to her. Yes, Belinda was boffing her husband, but even that gave her a certain amount of chutzpah. Now the girl was being so wet, it was embarrassing.

  ‘What’s really the matter?’ JoJo asks.

  ‘It’s nothing, I should…’

  ‘Don’t be a martyr.’

  There’s another long silence.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ Belinda says at last.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘All of this,’ Belinda starts to sob.

  ‘Come on,’ reprimands JoJo, ‘pull yourself together. You’re a big girl, no crying.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ sniffs Belinda.

  ‘Is it Frank?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This Duke business?’

  ‘No, although I do wish that would stop. The papers are all making out Teddy and I are bloody engaged now.’

  ‘Then what?’