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

by Drew Davies

  ‘You’re not…’

  ‘And if it was one of those emails from a sexy Russian model – believe me – they’re fakes.’

  Dylan lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

  ‘She’s real,’ he says emphatically.

  ‘Okay, what’s her name then?’ Chris asks.

  ‘I don’t want to say,’ says Dylan eventually, ‘because you’ll tell Dad.’

  ‘Why don’t you want him to know, huh?’

  Dylan scowls.

  ‘Do you tell your parents everything?’ he asks. ‘I’m allowed to have my privacy, aren’t I? When you’re sick, everyone knows your business – what you had for breakfast, how many white blood cells you have, when you went to the toilet last, they even try to get in your head. I deserve something of my own I don’t have to share with anyone else.’

  ‘Moon, that’s all fine in principle, and I don’t mean to cock block you, but this is not a good idea. She’s five years older than you. Does she know you’re still at school?’

  ‘I’m not a child – I’ve been sixteen for weeks now. I can get married and drive a moped and… other stuff.’

  ‘It’s the other stuff I’m worried about,’ says Chris. ‘You’re only just back on your feet. Does this mystery woman know about your condition?’

  ‘Of course she does. Anyway, I’m better now.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t want to go from zero to ninety overnight.’

  Chris rubs his forehead. The Barnardo’s training hadn’t prepared him for this. He looks at Dylan, who’s wearing an oversized grey hoodie and baggy track pants in an attempt to disguise his natural gangliness while accessorising the outfit with a rainbow striped scarf and fluorescent green bobble socks. He’s officially the least coolly dressed kid Chris has ever seen (and this coming from Chris, who spent his teens wearing oversized rugby tops – collar turned up – with his hair in severe bleached curtains). Dylan’s smooth face and oversized head gave him a baby-like quality – he didn’t look fourteen, let alone sixteen. Was it really possible that they lived in a world where skinny, bedridden virgins were picking up older girlfriends, and Chris had struck out again?

  ‘What does she do for a job?’

  ‘She’s a professional,’ Dylan says eventually.

  ‘That better not be a euphemism,’ Chris replies.

  ‘I don’t know what one of those is.’

  ‘What type of profession is she in?’

  ‘She’s a specialist… practitioner. She helped me and now I’m going to help her.’

  ‘And what exactly are you helping her with?’

  Dylan shrugs defiantly.

  ‘If you don’t spill,’ continues Chris, ‘I’ll have to tell your dad everything. Bros before hoes.’

  ‘Okay!’ huffs Dylan. ‘I think her ex-boyfriend is being violent again. Maybe he’s threatening her and she had to go into hiding. Or it could be something to do with her dad. He was never around when she needed him…’

  Dylan was speaking so fast, it was difficult for Chris to keep up.

  ‘Her dad – wait? What?’

  Chris runs both hands through his hair.

  ‘First, you need to slow down and start from the top,’ he says. ‘And secondly, why do you keep winking at me…?’

  Dylan makes a gagging sound – Chris raises both hands in the air.

  ‘Dude, are you alright?’

  ‘The train… and the oranges…’ Dylan manages to say, covering his mouth.

  ‘Do you want to swap seats so you’re facing the right direction?’

  Dylan nods and they both stand, but before they can change over, Dylan starts to dry-heave.

  Frantically, Chris searches for a container to catch the impending vomit. Like many trains, this one doesn’t seem have a rubbish bin – there aren’t even any old newspapers lying around. The only part of the window that slides open is too high. He could lift Dylan up to puke? No, impractical. And if Chris pulled the emergency alarm, it would only stop the train, which won’t help them either.

  ‘Does anyone have a bag or something they don’t need?’ he calls along the carriage to the other passengers. ‘Anything?’

  No one answers, but someone, somewhere, tuts.

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ Chris says, emptying his pockets. He finds a small plastic bag holding a packet of new razors he still hasn’t got around to using (the blades remind him of his pube shaving disaster, and then of Daisy, but he shoves the thought of her aside). It will have to do.

  ‘Here,’ he says, taking the razors and holding the bag open.

  Dylan sticks his face inside the bag and begins to puke noisily (the gushing sound almost makes Chris follow suit).

  When Dylan comes up for air, Chris nearly drops the bag. ‘Dude, I think we should get you to a hospital!’

  ‘Why?’ Dylan asks between spits.

  ‘Your vomit… It’s radioactive!’

  ‘It’s [spit] INsanity.’

  ‘You’re telling me. You should really see a doctor – it could be serious.’

  Dylan reaches beside him and picks up the empty can of energy drink.

  ‘Ah,’ Chris says, the penny dropping, ‘What the hell do they put in those things?’

  ‘L-theanine and ginkgo biloba,’ replies Dylan weakly, still spitting.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better,’ says Dylan, wiping his mouth. ‘I hope I didn’t get any on your face.’

  Chris grins: ‘Said the bishop to the actress.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just something Daisy and I used to say,’ says Chris. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ But he has an especially wistful look in his eye for someone balancing a bag full of blue sick.

  In the restaurant even the few remaining diners are beginning to thin out. JoJo raises her eyebrows as Belinda arrives back at the table.

  ‘You took your sweet time.’

  ‘My apologies,’ Belinda says as she approaches the table.

  ‘Your phone was ringing.’

  Taking her seat again, Belinda checks her messages.

  ‘Another journo wanting something juicy about the Duke. Honestly, if I’d known what I was signing up for…’

  ‘Why did you go along with his story?’

  Belinda shrugs, putting the phone away in her purse.

  ‘I’d just met Frank,’ she replies, ‘and I thought it might make him slightly jealous, but he couldn’t care less. Anyway, Teddy’s a sweetheart. Who doesn’t like putting on a lovely dress and being treated like a princess, especially when nothing’s expected in return at the end of the night? Doesn’t hurt my image either. Editors are always banging on about raising one’s profile.’

  JoJo nods grimly, her suspicions confirmed.

  ‘Your food’s probably gone cold too,’ JoJo says.

  ‘I’m sure they can…’ Belinda points to the glass sitting beside her plate. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s for you,’ JoJo says.

  ‘I didn’t order a drink.’

  ‘No, but I did.’

  The highball is filled with a brownish, yellowish liquid. JoJo has to admit it doesn’t appear very appetising – a bubbly scum has formed at the top of the glass and a few indiscriminate leaves are floating in the murky brine.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Belinda.

  ‘Try it. I asked them to make it especially.’

  Belinda glances around the restaurant as if checking there are one or two witnesses left.

  ‘I need to know what I’m drinking first.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ JoJo asks, enjoying herself. ‘I thought you wanted us to be friends?’

  Tentatively, Belinda picks up the tumbler and sniffs it.

  ‘My mother used to swear by it,’ JoJo says, ‘two parts ginger beer, one part lemon juice, fresh peppermint and a dash of bitters. Fixes up any dodgy tummy. Even morning sickness.’ JoJo thinks about her hysterectomy twenty years ago when she’d used this very drink to settle her own stomach, how Frank lay awake with
her all night after the operation, how hard he’d tried to mask his disappointment and neutralise hers.

  Belinda shoots her a look, before resignedly taking a sip.

  ‘It doesn’t taste too bad.’

  ‘Oh well, you can’t have everything.’ JoJo lifts her own glass, this one containing red wine. ‘Look at us, swapping old family recipes,’ she says, through gritted teeth. ‘Seems we’re going to be friends after all. Drink up!’

  Eight

  Not all of us can be Joy Ride Jessies or Ladies who Lunch – some of us must earn our crust.

  Work, that most taxing of occupations, has lured lovers into cities for generations. Since the Industrial Revolution, Londoners have sacrificed their lives (and often their limbs) to keep the cogs of industry turning, and all for pennies apiece.

  Money, in its abstract form, isn’t gold bars at the Bank of England or zeros and ones in a trading room server, it’s energy, pure and simple. At its most basic, money represents the power of the sun (used to grow crops or trapped underground as coal and oil). Further along the line it becomes human energy, the collective toil of all our fellow comrades (harvesting those crops and barrelling that oil), and each time we head down the proverbial coalmine, it’s only so we can collect enough of this stored human energy for ourselves, so we can make others do our bidding in turn.

  The British have always honoured this arrangement, creating a society based on divisions of labour, while inventing the ‘working class’ to boot.

  So, let’s raise a glass to the matchstick maker! The cocktail shaker! The amphetamine baker! Money might make the world go round, but it’s our sweat that mints the dosh in the first place – hoorah!

  A frazzled Samira appears in the doorway of the workshop. Her typically flyaway hair is launched in new and daring directions, her shoulders hunched, fingers splayed – as if a glass has smashed at her feet.

  Daisy stops sawing.

  ‘You’re not going to like this,’ says Samira, wide-eyed.

  Daisy pulls the dust mask off her mouth, sawdust swirling under the fluorescents, and puffs the air angrily.

  ‘What do they want now?’

  Samira, glancing at the hacksaw in Daisy’s hand, hesitates – so Daisy places the saw on the bench beside her.

  ‘You know I’m a big fan of yours.’

  ‘Samira…’

  ‘Only last week I told my therapist we’re like sisters.’

  ‘Just tell me what happened.’

  Samira completes a squirmy dance on the spot, transferring what little weight she has from one leg to the other as if struggling with a full bladder.

  ‘They wanted to try a few things…’

  ‘Who did?’

  Samira bites her lip.

  ‘You promise not to get angry?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Daisy replies, giving her most reassuring smile.

  Samira still doesn’t seem convinced, so Daisy delivers her coup de grâce.

  ‘Don’t sisters tell each other everything?’

  Samira beams sweetly and clasps her hands to her chest.

  ‘Flair was testing some new shots and he thought it would be a good idea to see what the birds would look like under the green lighting gels…’

  ‘That chimping rat-faced shit!’ shouts Daisy as she storms towards the doorway, a squealing Samira leaping out of the way and trailing behind as Daisy stomps through the catacomb of hallways and darkened spaces, erupting into the brightly lit main studio.

  Flair is chatting up a harem of interns by the fire exit, as his two assistants struggle with a massive bank of lights; the models, ever the opportunists when it comes to cigarette breaks, are outside the main doors smoking (but, tellingly, Paula the animal wrangler is nowhere to be seen).

  Scanning the set, Daisy sees the damage immediately. Those feathered bastards, she thinks. I’ll roast the buggers!

  ‘Ah, Daisy,’ says Flair, pulling himself away from the giggling interns, ‘you’ve seen our technical glitch? Animals and children, eh?’ He brushes sawdust off her shoulder. ‘What happened to you? Have a fight with a bag of flour?’ The interns titter obediently, but when Daisy doesn’t respond, Flair pulls the mask away from her throat mischievously and starts to sing: ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer…’

  ‘Don’t,’ she growls, snatching it back.

  Flair chuckles and crosses his arms.

  ‘So, what are we going to do?’

  ‘We?’ asks Daisy. ‘We were still cutting those branches you asked for twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Good, good. Are they ready yet?’

  Daisy shakes her head in disbelief.

  ‘The branches were supposed to stop this from happening.’ She gesticulates towards the set. In front of the backdrop sits a table laden with food – tropical fruit, loaves of bread, plates overflowing with meats – a gorgeous banquet now liberally splattered with bird crap.

  Flair smooths the sides of his quiff.

  ‘We must have backups, no?’

  The models saunter in from their smoke, sensing some new kind of drama unfolding.

  ‘Backups?’ asks Daisy, her eyes narrowing.

  Flair waves a hand in the air. ‘Extra pomegranates and things…’

  Samira whimpers.

  ‘I don’t know how many times you’ve woken up before dawn on a freezing winter morning to head to the markets,’ Daisy says through clenched teeth, ‘but having personally trawled every stall this morning, I can confidently tell you there are no extra pomegranates, Flair. There are no extra pomegranates north of the English Channel, because we have every last one here.’

  ‘So, let’s clean them up and get back to it.’

  Daisy lets out a frustrated cry, making the assistants glance up from their bulb work.

  ‘Couldn’t you have waited five minutes for me to prepare the branches you just asked for?’

  Flair, fiddling with the grubby string bracelet on his wrist, shrugs.

  ‘We had to get the shot.’

  ‘Which is exactly why I was hacking up a cypress tree in the first place!’

  ‘I don’t see what the problem is, Daisy. Let’s get a cloth and sort it out.’

  ‘Bird shit is acidic. It’ll mark everything, especially under the lights. Paula and I had a long conversation this morning…’

  ‘Paula thought if we sat the birds on the…’

  ‘I’ll tell you where she can stick her bloody birds!’

  There’s a gasp behind the backdrop – so Paula is still in the studio, notes Daisy with satisfaction.

  ‘Where does this leave us?’ asks Flair, checking his watch.

  ‘Everything’s ruined. We’ll have to start over.’

  ‘We can’t. That’s not an option – we have to push on.’

  ‘Not my problem. Talk to Paula and see if she can wrangle some birds that shit mineral water next time.’

  The models glide closer: they can smell fresh blood now.

  ‘The team’s waiting,’ Flair says, his brow creasing. ‘I don’t want to pull rank, but unless you want to pay everyone’s overtime…’

  ‘Unless you want a picnic dripping in faeces…’

  ‘It’s not a picnic,’ Flair says, his voice straining. ‘It’s an ancient Zoroastrian feast.’

  ‘But if it’s an ancient religion,’ replies Daisy, coyly, ‘why is Jesus having afternoon tea with Marie Antoinette?’

  ‘It’s not afternoon tea!’ shouts Flair. ‘It’s a modern representation of… It’s about…’ he pauses. ‘It’s about icons, they’re icons.’

  And there it is. By making him spell out the theme, Daisy has broken the photo shoot. Any artistic magic evaporates instantly.

  Flair seems to realise he’s made a fatal error.

  ‘Listen, Daisy, I’m sorry if you think you’re too good for this. If you’d rather be selling handmade pincushions on fucking Etsy. But we came to do a job today and when I asked for a feast, I meant a feast. It’s supposed to be Paradise, not a stocktake a
t the bloody Co-op, so why don’t you take this opportunity to reassess your designs, yeah? (Stick it up your Zoroastrian, thinks Daisy, but has the sense to stay silent.) Now, I’m going to have a cigarette and when I come back, this mess better be cleaned up, or I’ll really lose my rag!’

  Flair marches off towards the main doors, assistants and interns scrambling in his wake.

  When he’s gone, Samira taps Daisy on the shoulder.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she says in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Daisy smiles at her appreciatively.

  ‘What sort of a bullshit name is Flair anyway?’ Daisy says.

  Samira tucks a wisp of rebellious hair behind her ear.

  ‘It’s short for Flavio, I think. He’s named after a grandfather who was a war hero or something.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ sighs Daisy, rolling up her sleeves.

  Scratch the surface, and Mercer and Daggen was a veritable quagmire of vice and petty criminality. Adam had uncovered eBay addicts and secret novel writers, chronic timesheet fiddlers and an employee outsourcing all his highly sensitive work to Bangladesh. Almost every computer contained pornography, either stashed in amusingly inappropriate folders (‘Research’, ‘Summer Holiday’, ‘Family Pics’) or extensively logged in web browser histories. Schoolboy pranks were rife – especially in the week preceding a stag party; workstations wrapped in foil, tampered chairs and hacked spell check programmes autocorrecting the word ‘client’ into ‘wanker’.

  More covert were the office dalliances, but even these were laid bare by not-so-cryptic emails and the occasional Human Resources report. Team building away-days seemed to be the most lascivious (apart from one exceptionally debauched conference in Copenhagen), but as the ratio of men to woman was 15:1, the odds of an indiscretion skyrocketed whenever a female moved to a new department – or simply changed desks.

  Darkest of all were the retaliations. One suspected adulterer found his mobile phone at the bottom of a water cooler, a scathing text sent to all his contacts moments before it was drowned. And when a member of the Commodities team became violently sick one afternoon, gossipy emails suggested it was no accident, and strongly recommended against eating the Hobnobs doing the rounds on the second floor.