My Box-Shaped Heart

by Rachael Lucas

  There’s a space under the stairs. It takes a second for me to register this fact.

  Lauren follows me into the sitting room. It’s – tidy. There’s a bunch of bright pink carnations in a vase on the coffee table and the carpet’s been hoovered. The television is on mute, and behind a newly shining screen a newsreader mouths silently. All the books on the shelves have been lined up neatly, and the windowsill is clear and sparkling clean. The whole room smells of furniture polish. And Mum is sitting there on the chair, crutches crossed on the floor in front of her (that’s what the crash was a moment ago) and a heap of cushions behind her back. Her leg is propped up on two pillows.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Lauren says, looking down at Mum. ‘Are you OK? What’s happened?’ She turns to me and frowns. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I tried,’ I mutter, but I think back. I don’t know how to say I wanted to tell her, but her friends are terrifying.

  ‘Do you like my new cast?’ Mum leans forward and pats it. It’s red and made of rough, hard, plastic stuff.

  She reaches across, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.

  Lauren squats down on the other side of the sofa beside Mum, who puts an arm round her waist and pulls her close for a kiss.

  ‘Hello, darling – how are you?’

  Lauren pulls a face. ‘Surviving.’

  She steps back and sits down on the edge of the no-longer-crap-strewn coffee table. For once I don’t feel ashamed of the state of the place. And Mum, despite her broken ankle, looks quite happy sitting there.

  ‘Tea?’ I stand up, thinking maybe I’ll give them time to talk.

  ‘Can I have juice, please?’ Lauren asks.

  ‘Course.’ I assume there is some, now the fridge has been filled by Cressi.

  ‘So what’s happening?’ I take the milk out of the fridge and pass it to Cressi, who is shaking the teapot from side to side.

  ‘Well, we’ve got the fibreglass cast on, so it’s safe for her to be up and about – so that’s a start. And I’ve had a go at the downstairs of the house.’ Cressi indicates her car, and I realize it’s stuffed full of black bin bags.

  ‘Thank you.’ My voice is gruff. It’s a bit awkward.

  ‘It’s fine.’ She plonks the tea in mugs on a tray and tips a packet of ginger snaps on to a plate, and we head back through.

  I remember the juice for Lauren and turn back, hoping there is some in the fridge.

  There’s more than that. It looks like an advert. The shelves are packed with cheese and ham and big packs of ready-to-cook meals. There’s milk and orange juice in the door, and the salad drawer’s full of brightly coloured fruit and veg. And the dried-out old lemon is nowhere to be seen. I realize it must have cost a fortune, and I need to tell Cressi we’ll pay her back. I’m not sure how, mind you.

  I pour a glass of orange juice for Lauren and take it through to the next room.

  It’s so weird. I’d forgotten that there was so much light and space in the house. I mean, it’s always going to be tiny – but we’ve been living under a mountain of Stuff for so long that now, with the downstairs cleared, it feels like a massive weight has been lifted. And the weird feeling I’ve got takes a moment to make sense. The whole place feels bright and clear and – I realize as I walk into the sitting room and hear Mum actually laughing with Lauren – happy. Like someone’s shifted something besides bags and boxes. I feel like it’s a home, not just a place I live. Somewhere I could imagine people coming inside.

  ‘How was school?’ Mum reaches out to me again, lacing her fingers through mine.

  ‘Fine,’ I say.

  ‘Cressi’s taken over.’ She raises an eyebrow, the one with the hoop through it.

  ‘I can see that.’ I smile back at her.

  ‘I’ll have a go at the upstairs tomorrow,’ Cressi says, taking a sip of tea.

  Mum stiffens slightly in her chair. ‘It’s fine, honestly. I really appreciate it, Cressi, but we can sort it out.’

  I dart a look at Lauren.

  ‘Don’t argue.’ Cressi’s tone is firm. ‘I won’t sell or recycle or chuck anything without your express permission.’

  And I hold my breath for a second. I’ve seen the way Mum reacts when Neil turns up here and makes a comment about the state of the house. I know how proud she is – too proud to accept help until now – and how ashamed. And I half expect her to fight back.

  But she doesn’t.

  ‘Fine.’ She sits back against the cushions and shifts her new red cast slightly.

  I take a breath and look around the room. Lauren sips her juice.

  ‘It just needed a bit of a sort-out.’

  ‘Well,’ says Mum, shuffling on the seat and pushing a cushion down behind her back, ‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘You’d do the same for me.’

  Mum pulls a face. ‘I’m not sure you’d thank me for it. I’d disorganize all your neatly ironed tea towels, for one thing.’

  Lauren looks at me over the top of her glass. She doesn’t know Cressi or how gorgeous and magazine-perfect her house is.

  Even before our house spiralled downwards into the chaos we’ve been living in, Mum wasn’t ever exactly tidy. It was a sort of happy jumble of books and pets and baking. Before she had me, she was in a band, so the house was hung with posters and black-and-white photos of her with friends she knew when she used to have a life. My words, not hers.

  ‘How’s your dad?’

  Mum’s voice breaks through my thoughts. Her tone is careful, the way it always is when she asks Lauren that question.

  Lauren rolls her eyes. ‘He’s going on holiday to Barbados with Clare next month, so he’s fine.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not invited.’

  I watch Mum’s nostrils flaring. Her lips are pressed together. She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

  ‘You’re not staying at home alone?’

  Lauren shakes her head. ‘Clare’s sister is coming to stay, apparently.’

  ‘And who’s Clare’s sister when she’s at home?’

  ‘Emma.’ Lauren’s voice is flat.

  There’s an awkward silence. I know Mum is trying to think of the right thing to say, and I feel bad that even though my life here isn’t full of expensive leather bags and designer trainers like Lauren wears, I don’t feel like a spare part.

  I run my hands along the pink frilly stuff that edges the sofa. The chairs were my granny’s, and the velvet material has faded to a pale dusky pink. But if you lift up the material where it gathers around the buttons, you can see the original dark pink it used to be years ago. Lauren and I used to make dens out of the cushions, stacking them up along the top and pushing the sofa out from the wall. We’d put a blanket on the floor, and Mum would make us a picnic lunch, and we’d pretend we were camping. I look at her, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, her hands wrapped round the glass, and I wonder if she remembers.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Lauren says, putting down the glass and standing up.

  It’s funny, but you can actually watch the veneer covering over the cracks as she stands there. She pulls her hair over one shoulder, smoothing it with a hand and checking her reflection in the mirror. With a finger, she dabs at the pale pink lipstick she’s applied on the way out of the school gates – which is still perfect, and doesn’t need fixing – and pushes her shoulders back.

  ‘I’d better be going, anyway. Just thought I’d come and say hello and see how you were doing.’

  ‘You don’t need a reason,’ says Mum, smiling again. ‘You’re welcome any time, darling. You know that.’

  Lauren gives a nod, but her lips are set in a tight little smile. I know – because no matter how much she wishes I couldn’t, I can tell what she’s thinking – that she’s upset. And I also know that an upset Lauren is most likely to lash out with vicious words, and I feel myself bracing, instinctively.

  But she doesn’t.

  She hooks her bag
over her shoulder and heads out of the room.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ she says, and doesn’t turn back as she walks out, so she misses the kiss that Mum blows at her, and then the little sad smile that lifts her face for a moment, then passes.

  ‘Right, then.’ Cressi stands up. ‘I’d better be off too. No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘Are you working tonight?’ Mum asks.

  It’s already quarter to five.

  She shakes her head. ‘No, but the dogs have been in all afternoon, and Phil’s back from work later.’

  She picks up my cup and Mum’s from the coffee table, and goes through to the kitchen. A couple of moments later, there’s the sound of running water as she fills the washing-up bowl.

  ‘We’ve been organized,’ says Mum, and she gives me a smile.

  I look down at the red stuff on her leg and place my hand on it – carefully, because I don’t know if it’s sore.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like I expected.’

  ‘It’s a lot lighter than the plaster one they put on. Apparently that’s called a back slab, and it was just to hold it in place until this one.’

  ‘Can you walk with it?’

  ‘Only on crutches. Apparently it’ll be five weeks before they take this off – and only then if the X-ray is satisfactory.’ The word has invisible quote marks around it.

  ‘And –’

  ‘So –’

  We both laugh.

  Mum gives a nod of her head. ‘You first.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  It’s strange, but I feel like everything’s shifted slightly – with the new clean space all around us, there’s a weird feeling, like Mum doesn’t quite know what to do with herself.

  ‘Well, Cressi’s doing the dishes, then I assume you’re going to the pool, and then apparently we’re having macaroni cheese for dinner.’

  ‘The pool’s tomorrow.’

  I feel my stomach do a cartwheel as I say the words. And I swear my cheeks have just gone pink, and I really, really do not want to have That Conversation right now. But the promise of tomorrow fizzes inside me, like the best kind of secret.

  ‘OK – well, in that case, you’ve probably got homework?’

  ‘Not really.’ I find myself thinking about the pool, and my stomach gives a whirl of excitement when I think of the boy at the bus stop. That all seems like a million years ago.

  ‘So what are you doing now?’

  I look at Mum sideways. It’s as if she’s had a bump to the head when she fell and broke her ankle. For the last few years, she’s been in some sort of daze, apparently oblivious to stuff like parents’ evenings and homework assignments. I’ve had to chase myself to get them done, knowing that they weren’t going to do themselves and also that I didn’t want to completely screw everything up. I realize that she’s become so inward-looking that she hasn’t a clue what I do with my time.

  ‘Maybe you could get started on tomorrow’s homework?’

  I’ve been the grown-up in this house from the moment I became a teenager. And now, somehow, with a broken ankle, my mother has decided to take over again.

  It feels weird.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  So I’m on my way to the pool. Cressi offered me a lift, but I made an excuse because I wanted to land at the bus stop and not straight at the leisure centre, just in case. I know it’s ridiculous to think that he might be there, but I can’t help imagining it anyway.

  And I’m telling myself that he won’t be there, because that way I don’t have to feel disappointed . . . but I’m also thinking if he isn’t, I don’t have to worry about the fact that I’m still wearing my slightly-too-small swimsuit under my clothes and that, despite the fact that we’ve got a box with twenty-four pairs of goggles (late-night QVC order last March), we’ve got no money to buy me a new one. And I used my last money on the taxi to and from the hospital, so I now have no data left on my phone.

  ‘Hey.’

  I scramble off the bus and WHAM, just like that, he’s there. That wasn’t even on my list of potential things that might just happen. And it’s the weirdest thing because my knees just go ZING and my stomach does this flipping-over thing and I feel like there is no escaping the fact that I really fancy this boy. He’s not like the boys at school who are either geeky or cocky and smart-arsed and think they’re all that. He’s different. He’s got a sort of aura around him. And I know. I know, I sound like a complete loser. But you know what? I kind of feel like I’m owed something nice like this. And I let myself smile at him, not looking down and feeling like I have to stoop like I do at school where everyone is about a foot smaller than me and I feel like a giant.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He gives a sort of half smile. ‘What’s a nice boy like me doing in a bus stop like this?’

  ‘Something like that.’ I don’t even know who I am. Am I flirting?

  ‘Well, I’ve been sitting here since the other day waiting for you to come back. I’m bloody glad I only had to wait three days. I thought you might only come once a week.’

  And he laughs.

  This is not my life.

  I like his big mouth and his strong eyebrows and the fact that he is possibly the most comfortable-in-his-own-skin person I’ve ever met.

  ‘Well, you’re lucky I happen to be working this evening,’ I say, and I start walking.

  He falls into step beside me, and we walk up towards the pool.

  ‘So we have yet to be formally introduced.’

  ‘This is true,’ I say.

  He swings round, holding out his hand.

  I shake it, laughing – and I feel a fizzing of electricity that shoots down my arm and all the way through my body and to the very end of my toes – and we stand for a second.

  ‘Edward Jarvis.’

  Edward. Not only does he sound posh, he has a posh name.

  ‘Ed for short. Unless you’re my mother, in which case . . .’ He shakes his head and pulls a face, his mouth turning down at the corners.

  ‘Holly Gilmour.’

  He shakes my hand (which he is still holding, for which I have no words that would make sense) once more, and then releases it and bobs his head. ‘How d’you do.’

  He really is posh. I’ve never heard anyone say that in real life before.

  ‘We’d better get a move on. Don’t want you to be late for work.’

  ‘So – you going swimming too?’

  ‘I thought I might, yes.’

  I hadn’t noticed until now, but he’s got a sports bag slung over one shoulder and the same hoody that’s a bit short on the sleeves. And the little hole in the toe of his trainers is a bigger hole now. It makes me feel better about my crappy clothes.

  We walk up the steps towards the pool, and I notice there’s a gang of kids – presumably from the high school – hovering outside the door.

  I brace myself. In Kilmuir, this would mean a load of hassle, some sarcastic comments about my hair or my height or my clothes . . . but, here, I just walk in, and it’s not until we’re standing in the reception area and the air is heavy with the smell of chlorine that I notice they’re peering through the glass and looking at us.

  ‘Do you know them?’

  I look at Ed, who has pulled out his phone. He’s not actually doing anything on it – he just opens it, swipes at the screen and then clicks the home button so it closes again. He shoots a quick glance outside at the window.

  ‘Nah.’

  But I recognize that look. I sense the feeling that he’s glad he’s made it through there without getting a mouthful of abuse about something. But I don’t say anything – I don’t want to spoil things. Years of being at the bottom of the heap has meant I’ve learned self-preservation methods – the tactical road-crossing and phone-checking, shoelace-tying and sudden mime performance of oops, I forgot something really important for a non-existent audience. Ed’s doing the same thing here. I wonder if he’s in the same social strata as me, but I can
’t see how he can be when he’s so casually posh and sort of comfortable with himself.

  ‘What time do you call this?’

  Cressi’s sergeant-major bark echoes across the foyer. I look across and see her striding back from the office, a pair of terrifying turquoise Crocs on her feet.

  I look up instinctively at the clock on the wall. I didn’t think we were late and –

  ‘Joking.’ Cressi laughs. ‘Aha – I see you’ve brought your plus one. Are you a new recruit?’

  Ed points a finger to his chest in a Who – me? gesture.

  ‘Yep – you.’ She marches across to us, pulling out the band from her frizzy bun as she does so and yanking it back into submission. A few rebellious strands fuzz out immediately, so her head retains its halo of curls.

  ‘This is my –’ I stumble over the word ‘friend’ because I realize it sounds a bit presumptuous when we’ve only had two short conversations. ‘Edward.’

  As I’m cringing at the fact I’ve just implied he’s ‘my Edward’, Cressi has already taken charge.

  ‘How d’you do, Edward.’

  Second time I’ve heard that in the space of an hour. I feel like I’ve moved to another planet. She gives him a sergeant-major handshake.

  ‘Sorry to steal Holly away from you, but we’ve got a full class today, and the twins from hell are back from their trip to Malaga, so I’m going to need all hands on deck ASAP.’

  ‘I’ll see you—’ I begin, but Cressi has taken me by the arm and is propelling me in the direction of the changing room. I can already hear the blood-curdling shrieks of the terror twins and their harassed mother, Jennifer. This is going to be the longest half hour of my week.

  I roll my clothes in a ball and shove them into the top of my bag, clicking the locker shut. This is the first time I’ve worn the official swim-instructor volunteer kit – shorts and a black polo shirt over my swimsuit, my hair tied back in a ponytail. The logo looks very official.

  ‘Now, boys,’ I hear the twins’ mother saying, one held firmly by the hand, the other trying to soak his head under the drinking fountain. ‘You’ve got a new teacher today. Look – there she is.’