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

by Drew Davies

  Ah, so he’s pumping me for the upsell, thinks JoJo, but secretly she’s pleased. She’s been deemed a worthy enough mark.

  ‘Food allergy?’ he says, holding up one of the brochures.

  ‘Don’t know if I’d have the stomach for it,’ JoJo replies.

  He ignores this too – the chap is a master of the polite ignore.

  ‘Diabetes and obesity?’

  JoJo struggles for a witty rejoinder. Gregory, who as well as being a bisexual and polyamorous, was also a holistic therapist, had raised the notion that JoJo used humour as a distancing defence mechanism, but she’d only laughed it off, thereby annoyingly proving his point. When she’d mentioned his observation to Frank, he’d raised his eyebrows as if to say: Gregory is a brave man.

  ‘He’s on his own,’ Frank had said with a smirk, ‘I’m not touching that one.’

  ‘Pass,’ JoJo says to the uni chap – a witticism eluding her. Maybe something about the course not having enough meat on the bone to interest her? Ah, it was too late, the moment had gone.

  ‘Now this one is excellent – medical ethics. And it begins in just a few weeks too.’

  JoJo opens the brochure. It’s several moments before she realises she’s been quietly reading, engrossed in its contents: the examination of the concepts, assumptions, beliefs, emotions and arguments that underpin decision making in medicine.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she says to herself.

  ‘Take it, have a think. I’m here until three o’clock, I can have you enrolled in a flash.’

  Mumbling her thanks, JoJo still has her nose in the brochure as she emerges outside, full of sunshine and anxious young people, all busily trying to get somewhere with their lives.

  ‘Dad!’ Dylan yells from his bedroom, still surprised at how deep his voice sounds now, ‘do we have any candles?’

  Dylan’s father appears at the doorway, eating a ham and cheese sandwich.

  ‘What do you want a candle for?’ he replies, between chews. ‘You nearly burnt down the place making those pancakes this morning.’

  ‘You said you liked them!’

  ‘I did, they were crispy. But the whole house still smells of smoke. And there’s batter on the kitchen ceiling.’

  ‘That was Otis’ fault. He gives me very judgemental looks when I’m cooking.’

  ‘He’s only hoping you drop something.’

  ‘Do we have any candles?’

  ‘What for?’

  Dylan looks sheepish.

  ‘Today is the six-month anniversary of Janelle’s…’ he trails off. ‘I wanted to light a candle. In remembrance.’

  Dylan’s dad has just taken a big bite of his sandwich, so he chews furiously until he’s able to speak again.

  ‘You should have said something – we could have taken flowers to the cemetery if you wanted…’

  ‘No!’ Dylan says quickly. No more graveyards. He’d had to summon all his courage to put aside his irrational fears during Janelle’s funeral: the ancient cobwebs on the ceiling of the church, the strange archaic language used by the vicar, the ghoulish crypt near Janelle’s final resting place, only momentarily distracting him from the knowledge her body was being lowered into the ground. Creepiness was no match for the real horror, though. Janelle was gone. Gone. The tears didn’t flow until he was in a toilet cubicle by himself, and then he’d cried so much he was afraid he was going to puke. And then he did vomit – normal coloured sick this time – but the purge somehow helped him to the truth. Yes, there was a corpse in a box in a hole, but the real Janelle was still with him. There was nothing he should be scared of, except forgetting this fact.

  ‘There’s a pack of tea candles under the sink – I’ll get you one.’ His dad hesitates. ‘Do you want some company while you light it?’

  ‘I think I’d like to be on my own, if that’s okay?’

  Dylan’s father nods.

  When his dad returns with the candle, Dylan locks Otis out of the bedroom (Otis claws at the door but will calm down eventually), sits on the rug by his bed and places the candle next to a box of matches in front of him. He’s found an old photo of Janelle from the Firebolt Process website and printed it out in black and white. The image is grainy, but you can still make out how beautiful she is. Was. He’s mounted the picture onto card – the back of an old Weetabix box – and propped it up in a bent paperclip so it stands by itself. Dylan strikes a match – it flames nosily and as he lights the candle, he breathes in the sulphurous smoke. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now. His impulse is to say a few words, but he feels silly speaking to himself in an empty room. Instead, he closes his eyes, and tries to think of Janelle. Maybe not the Janelle in those last few days – her face gaunt, eyes dull, the spark only returning when she managed to smile, which at the end, was rare but radiantly wonderful, like mid-winter sun – that image was still too raw. Even through all the pain, she radiated goodness. Not always – sometimes she was extremely fed up and grumpy. Fed up with the hospital food, her neighbour’s loud TV and especially with the cancer. After that fateful Saturday in Archway, their relationship had become much more intimate, but apart from holding hands, and sleeping in the same bed, it never became truly physical. He’d tried to explain the dynamic of his relationship to his mum in one of his fortnightly letters, but it never sounded right. Janelle helped me get better, he typed at last, she was my best friend. She died too soon.

  Dylan can hear Otis clawing at his bedroom door, so he brushes the stray tear out of his eye and goes to free the dog. As Dylan gives the black and white picture of Janelle a final kiss – he has writing to do, University applications to finish – Otis gives a panicked yelp. The idiot dog has discovered the candle and managed to get hot wax all over his nose.

  Adam rubs his neck. His body is sore from being forced to stare at his computer so long – it still felt so constricting to work like this, always sitting at the same desk, on a chair, facing the same way. He often longed to kick off his shoes and slide underneath the desk, but that would definitely result in funny looks, and he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. Adam was already the butt (groan) of many office jokes.

  ‘Have a good week,’ his line manager had said one team meeting recently. ‘And remember, you can always ask Adam if you have any questions about bottom lines.’ The requisite sniggers ensued.

  When Frank had fast-tracked him a job in Mercer and Daggen’s offsite marketing arm, Adam had secretly hoped that he might become his private mentor, or at least keep in contact, but that had not become a reality. Frank was too far up the food chain; he was an apex predator, Adam was practically a newt in comparison – their relationship had no grounds to be. Several of Adam’s colleagues had pressed him on what Frank was like, but he could never think of anything impressive to say. What they’d shared via Excel spreadsheet was ultimately too personal, and there had also been that final crippling handshake from Frank, along with the look: let’s never mention that stuff again, shall we? Adam’s job was perhaps a case of keeping, if not your enemies close, then ‘the people hiding under your desk who know a few of your inner secrets’ even closer.

  No, Adam was being ungrateful – he was gainfully employed, after all – but a big part of him missed those halcyon days on the top floor and his corner office (he now worked firmly at ground level), with all the time in the world, no deadlines, no meetings, no reports – when he truly believed in what he was doing. His work now was adequate, fine, but it was so hampered by corporate standards and protocols and branding guidelines, the result was stripped of any real chance to make change.

  ‘Your girlfriend’s here,’ one of his colleagues says, his voice dripping envy.

  Adam looks up, and seeing Cara standing in the reception, his palms start sweating immediately. When Adam had moved from the offices in Osterley, back into The City, he’d dropped Cara a message to see if she’d like to go for a coffee, and they started going to lunch together once a week. Initially, Adam very much wanted to su
ggest a proper date, but he also didn’t want to spook the horses. Cara had seemed (understandably) wary of him – he knew he needed to prove himself before she could be more intimate. But she was worth the wait, he’d decided. And as Adam had learned, it was best to enjoy the journey, because who knew where you’d end up…

  Cara smiles as he walks into the reception area – and Adam feels that topsy-turvy sensation in his stomach which he’s learnt is the result of getting something you desperately want, but still subconsciously believe not to be true.

  ‘Hey, Adam,’ she says, and hearing Cara speak his name dispels some of the anxiety. ‘Where shall we eat today?’ she asks, taking hold of his hand.

  ‘Hmmm… a place with soup?’ replies Adam.

  Cara’s forehead furrows.

  ‘Your stomach not feeling well again?’ she asks.

  He squeezes her hand. Lovely Cara. He’s never been able to adequately explain the real reason for all his nervy tummies, but moments like this – their fingers interlaced, her thumb stroking his – they were worth all the easily digestible lunches in the world.

  As he waited for the bus (which was scheduled to arrive in half an hour, but he knew from experience might be anywhere from one to six hours late), Chris considered his hands. They’d never been so tanned in his life. There were a radical amount of new sun spots and freckles on the backs, and a mole on his wrist – all joking aside – that he should really be keeping an eye on. The sun had bleached his arm hair white, and turned the hair on his head the same colour as photos of him as a toddler. Chris was less enamoured by the wrinkles which had appeared around his eyes and on his forehead, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to look your age… Would Daisy think he seemed older – weathered, as his mother would say – or worldly?

  Chris opens his backpack and takes out a tin flask of water and gulps some down. Inside the bag, there were presents for everyone back home – a carved wooden dog for Dylan, a woven blanket for his mother, a joke generic fertility statue (made in bulk for gullible tourists) to tickle his father, a beautiful Maasai necklace for Daisy. Chris again worried it was too early to go back after just a year, but he filed away this concern. The well project had been completed three weeks ago. He’d achieved what he’d come here to do. It was time.

  Surprisingly, Chris has been celibate the entire year. He hadn’t planned it exactly, and initially there was no one to be non-celibate with (unless he’d wanted a fling with the sweaty French male engineer who’d shared his hut), but then a bigger group of volunteers had arrived in the spring, with three attractive women in the mix. Chris had decided, however, not to act on any of his flirty impulses. It was strange, without the possibility of sex, he’d made some great female friendships. Stranger too, he couldn’t wait to tell Daisy all about this experience (Chris had only recently come back to social media – he’d noticed Daisy was spending more and more time in New York on shoots, but luckily there seemed to be no new boyfriend…). He was also looking forward to telling her about the wonderful people he’d met – especially the kids! Lemasolai, with the world’s cheekiest smile, and shy Neserian and her tiny sister Esiankiki, and all the boys who played football, Roinet, Leshan, Norlari – or the Flash, as he become known to Chris, because of the way he chased the ball, legs a blur.

  An old villager, who was sitting on a basket, grins at him and chuckles. Chris is used to this reaction by now. When he arrived, he’d been militant never to slip into white saviour thinking, but he hadn’t expected to be greeted by the locals as so… farcical. This tall, white weirdo walking around – Chris was basically the local birthday clown.

  ‘Where you go?’ the old man asks, toothlessly, the ‘wh’ sound whistling.

  ‘Home,’ replies Chris.

  ‘Where home?’

  ‘London,’ and what follows would have sounded corny to a native English speaker, but here in South Kenya (where the only universally known phrases were ‘fish and chips’ and ‘David Beckham’), none of that mattered. This was the great thing about being miles away from your own culture, the old clichés were washed anew. Chris sits up, the memory of Daisy playing on his face. He can’t wait to see her. To smell her. To be with her again.

  ‘There’s a girl I have to go see,’ he says, gazing towards the horizon, wistfully.

  And the old man laughs, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in his life.

  Daisy wipes the beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. Today has been a nightmare. First, the air conditioning on set broke (not her fault). Then the glue holding the synthetic icicles had come unstuck in the heat (not her fault either). Then, a few minutes ago, she’d dropped a glass sculpture, smashing tiny shards all over the floor, so everyone was scrambling to sweep them up, except the models (barefoot, of course), who were acting as if the ground was made of razor blades. So yes, that was very explicitly her fault.

  Daisy glances up. For the second time in her life, a wild gorilla is ambling towards her.

  ‘Careful,’ she says, holding up the hand, not clutching a broom handle, but the gorilla ignores her warning.

  ‘Ah buk!’ it says, as something crunches underfoot, and Daisy rushes over.

  ‘Sit here,’ she tells the beast, helping it onto a nearby stool. Seated, the animal lifts its right foot onto its left knee and starts to search for something on its sole – it reminds Daisy of the nature programmes, where apes groom themselves for fleas.

  ‘We’ve got to take those off,’ she says, but the ape is already one step ahead of her and shucks off the gorilla foot. Bare human feet are revealed. Men’s feet. And yes, she can see a puncture wound now, but it’s nothing. No glass, and barely any blood. Such tanned feet though, thinks Daisy. Odd, she feels she knows them. The long toes. That arch. She’s about to say something to this effect when the animal finally manages to take off its mask.

  ‘Oh,’ says Daisy, looking up in surprise.

  The day is no longer ruined. In fact, it’s one she’ll want to remember for ever.

  ‘It’s you,’ she says.

  If The Shape of Us had in you in tears of joy and tears of sadness, and you're desperate for more, sign up for Drew's mailing list for news about his next unforgettable novel.

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  A Letter from Drew

  Thank you for reading The Shape of Us, my quirky little love letter to London, and well, love. I had so much fun weaving together these characters and their stories, and I’m so excited they’re out there in the real world, so you can enjoy them too.

  Actually, that’s presumptuous – I hope you enjoyed them. But if you did, please consider leaving me a short review. Something along the lines of: Drew’s great. He has all his teeth. Or even a review of my book? Whatever suits, I’ll leave it up to you.

  You might have some outstanding questions (such as, what exactly is Pingbubbl?) or want to know when my next book is out (very soon, I promise!), so click on the link below to sign up to my newsletter. I’ll only contact you when I have a new book out and I’ll never share your email with anyone else.

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  So, thanks again. And remember, as of the date of this message – I still have all my own teeth.

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  Cheers,

  Drew

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my earliest readers: Lizzie Catt, Christopher Kinsey (also for your help on unfortunate injuries), Sam Harvey, Toby Futter, Sam Piper, Felicity Monk, Alexandra Silber and Peter Farmer. Nothing is more foreboding than a friend asking you to ‘take a look at this’, but you bravely did nonetheless and gave reassurance. Leo Richardson, of course – thank you. Wri
ter Sue Guiney for her sage advice to sit down and just finish the rest. In the later stages: Diana Seifert for being my patient, ultimate reader, Amelia Cranfield, not only for her friendship, but for giving me a place to write that one heartbroken Christmas, Joseph Marriott for his continual support and advice, and Joshua St Johnston for his generosity and encouragement. Thanks as well to readers Emma Leeper, Jenny Southan, Mernie Gilmore, Judy Heminsley, Stefan Kyriazis and my Uncle Dave, I really appreciate it. My brother, Alex Birmingham, for his fact-checking and vital feedback – thanks, kiddo. To my endlessly supportive grandmother, Mary Davies, for her constant grilling about when the book would be ready. Hopefully, you can order it from the library now, Nanna!

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  Of course, none of this might have happened if it wasn’t for my exceptional agent Hattie Grunewald, who so wonderfully plucked me from unsurety – and all the team at Blake Friedmann. And it definitely would not have happened if it wasn’t for my incredible editor Christina Demosthenous – and all the team at Bookouture. Thank you, thank you – it has been such a pleasure working with you all.

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  Thanks also to Maggie Wicks for her initial proofreading and encouragement, and The British Library Reading Rooms and the Barbican Library for being excellent (and free) places to write.

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  Special thanks to author Emma Jane Unsworth, who in the penultimate stage of this book, swooped in with some valuable words that really gave me a final boost. Mr Saunders, my primary school teacher, for encouraging me to keep writing (yes, we’re going there). My late grandfather, Tom Davies, for so effortlessly showing me how to blend humour with charm. My mother, Sarah Davies, for reading to my sisters and I as children, and afterwards, popping on the audiobooks, and to Marios, for his love and support, calmly putting up with me blocking out weeks at a time for writing and edits, a hysterical look in my eyes.