My Box-Shaped Heart

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘Funny you should mention it.’ Allie pulls open her plaid shirt, revealing a black T-shirt with Hell Yes, I’m Gay written on the front in red.

  Clearly my gaydar is non-existent. I assume this means that, no, they’re not a couple. At least that puts paid to the worries I was having as we walked here that I was going to end up feeling like a third wheel.

  ‘Has your mother seen that?’ Rio grins.

  Allie nods her head.

  ‘It’s fine.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘She thinks it’s ironic.’

  ‘Still in her “it’s just a phase” phase, then?’

  ‘Deeply.’

  Rio shoves the bottle of Lynx in his back pocket and looks over at Allie.

  ‘You got anything to eat in that bag?’

  She pats it, and it scrunches promisingly. ‘Multipack of crisps.’

  Allie’s parents own the 7-Eleven shop on the edge of town. She explained on the way up that she’s perfected the art of pilfering bits and pieces when they think she’s helping out after school. So Rio, whose parents think that aerosol deodorant is an affront to mother nature, gets his Lynx fix once a fortnight when they get their delivery from the stockists.

  I follow them as we walk in single file along the narrow path. The grass is long, and the silence is huge and fills my ears. We go beyond the field and climb over a gate.

  Rio turns round. ‘We’re going to introduce you to The Clearing.’

  They’ve got expectant looks on their faces, and I’m pretty sure my expression is a mixture of confusion and mild terror. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and I don’t actually know these people at all.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ Allie says, laughing. ‘It’s a place, not some sort of satanic ritual.’

  ‘Phew.’

  ‘This way. It’s not far.’

  The branches are still wet from a rain shower earlier. As we scramble through the bushes, they slap us in the face – everything is green and lush. The sunlight shines through the leaves, dappling the still-damp earth.

  We walk through some woods and into a space where the grass is jewel-bright. There’s a makeshift tarpaulin canopy strung between two trees, some old pieces of cut logs, and a circle of biggish stones with a dark scar at its centre where a fire’s clearly burned out sometime in the recent past.

  With a yell, Allie takes a running jump at the tyre swing that hangs from the trees, throwing herself into the air. She startles a flock of birds from a nearby bush so they spiral upward, chattering in disapproval. She scuffs her feet on the ground, pushing herself up and up, flying above the dark green leaves of a rhododendron bush.

  Rio bends down and pulls a mobile battery pack out of his bag.

  There’s a crackle of white noise, and then Oasis blares out of the little Bluetooth speaker hung on a branch. When we were talking over lunch, it turned out that he’s the only person I’ve met that has actually heard of Mum’s old band, the Jade Stars.

  ‘You free tomorrow night after school?’

  Rio sits down on a log, fiddling with the cuffs on his shirt, and then brushing away an imaginary speck of dirt.

  I don’t know if he’s talking to me or just to Allie, so I clear my throat and try to look as if I’m just very interested in the patch of clover by my feet. I bend down and pick a couple of leaves up.

  ‘Dad’s got some installation thing he wants to deliver to the gallery for someone. Apparently they’re interested in buying a load of his stuff, so we can get a lift into town if you want?’

  ‘Anything to get out of this hellhole,’ says Allie, wriggling out of the tyre swing and tugging at the knot at the top of her rucksack to get the crisps. She rips the multipack open and throws us each a bag.

  ‘What about you, Holly?’

  ‘Oh – I –’ I sort of wish I was free. ‘I can’t. I’m working at the pool.’

  ‘Next time, maybe?’ Rio says, through a mouthful of crisps. And I’m relieved, because I feel like I haven’t missed my chance after all.

  We talk and listen to music, and I take my turn on the tyre swing, pushing myself backwards and forwards, the toe of my shoe scuffing in the circle of dirt we’d worn underneath it. It feels nice to be part of something.

  We walk home hours later, when the sky is streaked pale pink. I put in my headphones and listen to music as I make my way back up through town, and my stomach fizzes with nerves and excitement. I look at the faded number that’s still just about legible on my hand, and I can feel Ed’s hand holding mine as he scribbles it on there in his big, bold writing. I haven’t texted him yet – not because I’m playing it cool, but because the thought of it is half exciting and half terrifying. It makes a shiver go right down my spine.

  I get home and it takes the second between putting my hand on the door and it being opened from the inside just as I push it from the outside to make the connection: the shiny, incredibly posh-looking new car parked outside belongs to Neil.

  ‘Holly, darlin’,’ he says, coming towards me in the tiny hall with his arms outstretched. It’s so small and he’s so big that he basically takes up all the space, but that’s the sort of person he is. My ex-stepdad. My mum’s ex-boyfriend. The man who used to live here but doesn’t any more. I never quite know what I’m supposed to call him, so I tend to cycle between all of the above.

  ‘Putting on the beef a bit there, aren’t we?’ he says, and he pokes my stomach.

  There’s a brief moment where – in my imagination – I punch him square in the not-inconsiderable gut, and while he’s doubled over, I point out loudly that a) women come in sizes other than six to ten, and b) it’s none of his (insert some swear words here) business. But that’s only in my imagination. In reality, I find myself sucking my stomach in, catching a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, realizing that it doesn’t matter what I do, I’m never going to fit into his category of Acceptable Female Shapes, and, actually, I don’t care.

  ‘Lovely to see you too,’ I say, realizing he won’t even notice the sarcasm in my tone.

  ‘I hear you’ve got yourself a little job at the pool?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’ll get the weight off, anyway. No need to be worrying about it.’

  Lauren emerges from the kitchen with a pot of tea and four mugs on a tray and has the decency to look embarrassed – whether it’s at his complete lack of tact or just the awkwardness of the situation, I don’t know. I always wonder what it’d be like to be in a Disney-style family of two point four children and a dog, instead of this weird mismatched collection of people who float in and out of my life.

  ‘I was just saying.’ Neil’s tone is injured.

  ‘Dad,’ she says, and gives him The Look.

  ‘What?’ he says, and winks at me. ‘Holls knows I’m only kidding, don’t you, darlin’?’

  I give him a very fleeting thin-lipped smile. He puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes. I stand completely still with my teeth gritted.

  Seriously, Neil, stop talking.

  I have literally no idea what my mother saw in him, and I have literally no idea why he and Lauren are somehow in my house, taking up my space, drinking our tea.

  ‘Everything OK out there?’

  Thank God Mum’s on my side, even if she is pinned to the sofa.

  ‘Coming,’ I say, and I head into the sitting room where she’s parked, her broken leg balanced on a cushion on the coffee table (still tidy, but then I suppose she’s not in a state to make a mess when she can’t move).

  ‘You’re late back,’ she says, patting the space next to her. I sit down and she bobs her shoulder against mine like always.

  ‘Yeah, I was hanging out with some friends . . .’ I pause for a second, realizing that Lauren is sitting very still and listening to our conversation from the armchair by the television. ‘Just some people from school.’

  ‘Oh! That’s lovely to hear, darling.’

  I cringe at the very clear implication that I have no life, and try to give her a look that says How lo
ng are they staying? but it’s not very easy to convey that many words in a glare. I’m aware that I’m flaring my nostrils and my eyes are popping, and Neil’s giving me an odd look.

  ‘You feeling OK, Holls?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  There’s a silence while Lauren pours out the tea and fetches a carton of milk from the kitchen. She doesn’t bother with a jug.

  Everyone has a drink and we all sit there, the clock on the wall ticking loudly.

  ‘Anything good on the telly tonight?’ asks Neil, and I can’t help it – I glance over at him and back at Mum. Have I missed something crucial? Have he and Lauren moved back in this afternoon?

  ‘There’s that David Attenborough thing,’ says Mum, picking up the remote control.

  ‘Oh God, they bore the arse off me.’ Neil laughs slightly too loudly and stops when nobody else joins in. ‘Still, Clare loves them. I reckon that’ll be us this evening: bottle of red and a takeaway.’

  Lauren looks pissed off. I know she doesn’t really get on with Clare, and I suspect she’s got better things to do at half eight on a Friday night than sit here making polite conversation with her sort-of-ex-family.

  ‘We were waiting for you to get back, Holly,’ Mum says, shifting herself in the chair so she can see me. Her leg scoots along the newly polished coffee table on its cushion, looking like one of the Queen’s Crown Jewels on display.

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Neil’s got a favour to ask. It’s OK with me, but I thought I’d better run it past you.’

  I look over at Lauren, who is picking at the pale pink varnish on her thumbnail. She doesn’t look up at me.

  ‘What is it?’ I cup my mug of tea with both hands, holding it like a little beacon of warmth in front of me. Outside the sky is still the brightest blue and the barley field is turning from greenish to pale gold.

  ‘Turns out Clare’s sister Emma’s not around the fortnight we’re off to Barbados.’

  ‘Nice,’ I say in Lauren’s direction, and I can hear a tiny hint of bitterness sneaking into my voice, and I don’t like myself for it. ‘Looks like you just scored a holiday after all.’

  Lauren looks up at me for a moment, but she doesn’t look triumphant. She looks uncomfortable, and a bit awkward.

  ‘I said I’d have to check with you, but, if it was OK, Lauren could stay here.’

  I look at Mum again. I can’t convey anything to her via the silent staring method because Lauren is right in my eyeline. If I could, it would be along the lines of Oh my God is this a joke you realize all her friends hate me and I’m going to feel uncomfortable the whole time she’s here . . . but then I see Lauren’s mouth twisting sideways in that way it does when she’s thinking about things or feeling uncomfortable, and I realize I can’t say no. Which is, of course, exactly what Neil was banking on.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say airily. I don’t add, It’s lucky the house has been completely blitzed from top to bottom by Cressi, but I don’t have to, because Neil does it for me.

  ‘Course, I wouldn’t have been asking if you hadn’t got this place sorted . . . Between us, I was beginning to think you’d lost the plot completely.’

  Lauren’s eyes are circles of horror, and she looks at me for a second before turning to her father.

  ‘Dad, you can’t say something like that.’

  Neil slurps down the last of his tea in a gulp. ‘I speak as I find,’ he says, giving a resonant belch.

  Mum winces.

  ‘Well, if that’s sorted, I’d better hit the road,’ he says, picking up his keys and jingling them loudly. He does everything loudly.

  Lauren gets up. She goes to put the mugs back on the tray – her tea is only half finished, as is mine and Mum’s.

  ‘Hang on, Neil – Lauren’s not even finished.’ Mum reaches out a hand.

  ‘Time’s money, darlin’.’

  I catch Lauren’s eye again, and she raises hers to the heavens for a brief moment. At least I only had to tolerate him for a few years. She’s got him for life.

  ‘Will you see them out?’

  ‘Course.’ I get up, leaving Mum on the sofa.

  ‘See you soon,’ says Neil, pinching my cheek like he used to when I was little.

  Lauren hangs back for a moment as he’s heading over to his Land Rover. She flicks a glance at me and pulls her long blonde hair into a ponytail in one hand, so she looks like she used to when we were at primary school, back when we were sisters.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I shrug. ‘S’alright.’

  I watch Neil inspecting the car for damage. He’s parked it out of reach of the other cars, not realizing that the far end of the car park is where the kids from the estate all gather to play complicated games of tennis with made-up rules and nets made from strung-out cardigans. It’s slap bang in the middle of a gaggle of children who are flailing rackets around and chucking balls in the air. He reverses out, narrowly missing a couple, and screeches off, Lauren in the passenger seat, her face blank.

  With a sigh, I gather up the cups and wash them in the sink while Cressi’s lasagne heats up in the microwave. The thing is, Neil can’t be all bad, despite being a boorish, sexist, loud-mouthed, materialistic, thoughtless pig.

  ‘Why?’ I say, as I walk into the sitting room and flop down on the chair Lauren had been sitting in.

  ‘Why are we having Lauren to stay while Neil and whatshername go on holiday?’ (Mum always calls Clare ‘whatshername’. I’ve given up correcting her.)

  ‘No.’ I swallow a mouthful of lasagne. ‘Why on earth did you ever put up with him?’

  Mum bursts out laughing. We’ve had this conversation before, approximately every single time he comes anywhere near us.

  ‘Because I was young, and stupid – and because he looked like the sort of man who’d look after us.’

  ‘Because he has a posh car?’

  ‘He didn’t then. He just seemed charming and nice, and he took me out for dinner, and I didn’t have to think about everything.’

  ‘But he’s an arsehole.’ I’m treading on dangerous ground here, because this might lead to a warning look and end of conversation . . . Not tonight.

  ‘I know. He’s stuck in some sort of 1970s time warp from the era that feminism forgot.’

  ‘I feel sorry for Lauren.’

  ‘I feel sorry for whatshername.’

  I look at her sharply. ‘You do?’

  ‘God, yes.’ Mum laughs. ‘If he hadn’t had an affair with her and waltzed off to live in her posh house, I might still be stuck with him.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, though,’ I say, picking out pieces of onion and putting them to one side. ‘You couldn’t live with him.’

  ‘I’ve lived with worse.’ She looks at me for a moment.

  I can’t remember when she first told me the whole story.

  When Mum was a teenager, her mum had a breakdown and was put into care. The place she lived in was so awful that she ran away as soon as she could, and found a crappy little bedsit above a sex shop in Camden. That’s how she met the friends who became her first band, and that’s why when she got pregnant and ended up back in Scotland, reunited with her mum, she was determined to make sure I never ended up in the same place. So she met Neil and tried to make it work. The longer she tried, the more affairs he had, and the more miserable she got. Eventually the affair with whatshername was the one that changed everything – because she was willing to provide him with what he wanted, which was basically a posh house, no mortgage and the chance to swan around on expensive holidays. Unfortunately with Lauren’s mum dead, there was nowhere for her to go but along with him. That’s why I can’t really feel bad about her coming here.

  I’d hate to be dumped like an unwanted pet every time something better appeared on the horizon, and that’s exactly what Lauren’s life seems to be. No amount of expensive designer stuff could make that OK. And, believe me, she has expensive designer stuff. Clare, aka whatshername, treats Lauren like a sort of l
iving doll. She is the only person I know who has regular facials and manicures . . . admittedly my survey size is fairly small and consists of a) Cressi, who wouldn’t have time for such nonsense, b) my mother, who still basically dresses like the 90s never ended, and whose idea of a hair treatment is a pot of gritty henna hair colouring from the health food shop and c) Allie, who, from what I know of her so far, is fiercely opposed to any kind of physical adornment, which she says is a tool of the patriarchy used to oppress us. In fact, the most high-maintenance person I know is Rio, but that’s another story altogether.

  I suppose there were times when we had fun with Neil. It’s just you had to filter out the arsehole bits, and I can’t work out if they’re getting more frequent, or I’m just noticing them more.

  ‘What’s that on your hand?’ Mum points to my left hand, where Ed’s number is still scrawled in Sharpie.

  ‘Just a number I needed to remember.’

  She looks at me with her head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. There’s a pause. ‘On your left hand?’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ I say, casually, picking up the TV remote and switching over to the David Attenborough thing, which has already started. There’s a zebra darting across the edge of a long stream, with a lion in pursuit. The water splashes up, slowing her down, and she stumbles for a second. I can’t bear to watch.

  ‘You’re left-handed.’

  I hit pause on the television and turn my eyes from the screen to look at Mum.

  ‘I am. Ten out of ten for observation, Mother.’

  ‘And you wrote this number you had to remember on your left hand?’ She’s laughing now. ‘Anything you want to tell me about your after-swimming “chat with Cressida”?’

  I half expect her to do bunny-ear air quotes round that bit.

  ‘It was very nice,’ I say, and turn back towards the television, picking up a cushion and hugging it in front of me, curling my legs up on the chair.

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ she says, and there’s a tease in her tone. But she leaves it at that. She’s always been the same – I think it’s to do with having left home herself when she was so young, so she’s never been as suffocating as some parents seem to be. She gives me more space to make my own mistakes than other parents do . . . but I’ve been so busy worrying about her for the last few years that I don’t make any. It’s as if the roles have been reversed, really. I check the post and give her the bills that need to be paid, remind her about school-trip letters, and make sure the washing’s done, and that there’s rabbit food, and bleach down the loo . . .