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

by Drew Davies

  Dylan has never been called ‘sir’. He’s rarely been called ‘mister’. One time, he’d received a letter addressed to ‘Dylan Moon Esquire’ which he’d liked so much he’d stored the envelope in his special memory box.

  There’s a jaunty knock on the door, sending Otis ballistic – he seems to know instinctively when it’s Chris. Dylan grabs his new black rucksack, quickly checks he has everything (for the umpteenth time), and heads to the front door.

  ‘Moon…!’

  Dylan gives Chris his sternest look – they don’t have time for any of his shenanigans.

  ‘Can you take Otis’ lead?’

  Giving Chris something to do was always a good tactic: keep him busy. Dylan hands over the lead and Otis pants happily.

  ‘There’s something different about you?’ Chris says, as Dylan locks the front door and starts down the front path. ‘Have you had a haircut?’

  ‘Come on,’ Dylan calls over his shoulder, and dog and man start to follow.

  ‘So, what’s the plan, kiddo? You sounded mysterious on the phone. Are we walking or…?’

  Just then, a man dressed in a smart navy suit steps out of the shiny town car, which is waiting on the side of the road, and walks around to meet them.

  ‘Mr Moon?’ he asks, opening the rear door expectantly.

  ‘Ah, thank you,’ Dylan turns to Chris. ‘I thought we’d take a car this time,’ he says, as nonchalantly as he can.

  ‘This is yours?’

  Dylan nods.

  ‘What about Otis?’ Chris stammers.

  ‘He can come too, it’s all arranged.’

  Chris seems very unsure, so Dylan dives into the dark interior of the car, and a few seconds later, Otis springs inside too, followed by a sheepish Chris. The door closes and the driver walks to the front of the car, getting into the driver’s seat. There’s a sound of static, and a raspy voice comes over an intercom:

  ‘Would you like to head straight to our destination, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Dylan says. ‘Thank you,’ he adds, into the air.

  With that, they begin to glide down the street. The inside of the car is like a quilted cocoon – it makes Dylan’s ears feel strange. Otis doesn’t seem to like it much: he cowers at Chris’s feet and whines plaintively. Sitting forward, Dylan feels for a panel under the glass divider. Sure enough, he finds one and slides it across, revealing a refrigerated hatch, which contains a row of small bottles.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asks Chris, fetching himself a can of Coke. ‘There’s water, beer, champagne? You can help yourself, it’s free.’

  ‘Moon, what’s going on?’

  ‘We’re just going for a ride,’ Dylan replies, innocently.

  ‘Going for a ride where? Who’s paying for all this? And why are you dressed up like someone from The Matrix?’

  ‘I haven’t watched that movie.’

  ‘You haven’t seen The Matrix?’ Chris shakes his head in utter disbelief. ‘Moon, I’m reeling here.’

  ‘I’ll watch it online then.’

  ‘Not about the film, about all this,’ he gesticulates around his head wildly. ‘The car, the champagne, the friggin’ chauffeur. Has your dad won the lottery or something?’

  For a moment, Dylan considers going along with this story, until Chris takes out his mobile.

  ‘I’m going to call him…’

  ‘Please don’t!’ yelps Dylan. He lets out a long sigh. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you. I’ve used the money I made from selling my Xbox. And remember the woman I told you about? We’re going to visit her.’

  ‘So, this is a date? Moon, I’m happy to chaperone, but I wish you’d told me first.’

  ‘I thought you might stop me from going.’

  ‘I won’t stand in the way of true love, Moon. Where does she live?’

  ‘North London. In Archway. Or Highgate.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it’s Archway. I’ll be able to work it out when we get there.’

  Chris sits back in his seat, and stares out of the window as if lost in thought. It’s disconcerting to have him so quiet. Dylan opens the can of Coke – the hiss as he pulls the tab seems to be absorbed by the car’s interior.

  ‘How’s Daisy?’ Dylan asks, and takes a long sip.

  ‘She’s good,’ replies Chris distractedly. ‘Today she’s on a shoot for Vivienne Westwood.’

  He falls silent again, and Dylan starts to feel about for any more secret compartments. Maybe there’s a TV somewhere?

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?’ he asks, about to close the hatch again.

  ‘Dylan,’ Chris starts in a small, serious voice that he’s never used before, ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but you’re not telling me the whole truth. And it’s my job to take care of you. I could get into some very serious trouble if anything happens to you. I know what it’s like, I was your age once. I got mixed up in things I shouldn’t have – it’s all part of growing up. But I try to treat you like an adult, and I don’t think you’re giving me the same respect. I want you to be straight with me, and tell me what’s going on. Everything.’

  Dylan stares at Chris for a moment.

  ‘Alright,’ he says, after an involuntarily burp from the fizzy Coke – and he starts the whole story, right from the top.

  Fourteen

  The intercom crackles.

  ‘We’re here,’ announces the deadpan voice of the driver. ‘Junction Road, Archway.’

  Dylan peers through the window. The warmth of his breath fogs the glass and he wipes it with the sleeve of his coat, forgetting it’s a nice leather jacket and probably shouldn’t be used for wiping things.

  Rifling through his bag, Dylan takes out a notebook stuffed with folded pieces of paper. As soon as he opens it, the sheets spill onto the floor unceremoniously.

  ‘Where would you like me to park up, sir?’

  ‘Can you keep driving, please?’ Dylan asks into the air, as he scrambles to pick up the fallen sheets. ‘As slowly as you can?’

  There’s no response, but the car continues at a crawl.

  ‘Moon, which one is it?’ says Chris.

  ‘I’m looking!’ snaps Dylan, winding down the window and letting in a blast of frosty air. He inspects one of his papers, which seems to be a printout of a Google Map screenshot, and, after carefully referencing it with some other of the sheets, shouts, ‘Stop!’ to the driver, and the car comes to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Can you bring Otis?’ Dylan asks Chris, as he swings his bag over his shoulder and opens his door.

  It’s a busy Saturday morning in the cafés and discount stores and Turkish minimarkets of Junction Road. The pavement bustles with December shoppers – their arms weighed down with grocery bags and early Christmas presents, the cold turning everyone’s exhalations into vapour. A ridgeback dog, much larger than Otis, stops to sniff his haunch, and Otis shrinks back, tail between his legs. Come on, boy, thinks Chris, as he smiles at the dog’s owner. Pull yourself together.

  Dylan is engrossed in his notebook again, mumbling to himself, and Chris, moving out of the way of a tandem pushchair, is about to suggest they head somewhere less hectic – a football stadium, or Heathrow Airport perhaps – when Dylan shuts the book, points to a bakery, and starts across the road. As he steps out, he blindsides a cyclist, who narrowly swerves to miss him, swearing colourfully over his shoulder as he rides off. Otis yaps anxiously, wrapping his lead around Chris’s leg, and the Number four bus thunders past, inches away.

  ‘That’s it!’ cries Chris, bending down to untangle Otis, and grasping the dog to his chest with one arm. ‘Take my hand.’ Dylan stares at him blankly. ‘I’m not joking, take my hand now.’

  Very reluctantly, Dylan obeys, and together they wait, hand in hand, for a break in the traffic. The moment they reach the other side of the road, Dylan wriggles free of Chris’s grip and sprints towards the bakery, but instead of heading inside, he darts into the doorway
beside it.

  ‘Which one does she live at?’ asks Chris, when he and Otis catch up.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Dylan replies, as he inspects the buzzers. None of them have names on.

  ‘Let’s ring all the buzzers and see if she answers,’ Chris suggests, pressing each of the buttons in turn before Dylan can argue.

  ‘Hello?’ comes a man’s voice through the speaker.

  ‘Sorry, wrong number,’ Dylan replies hurriedly.

  ‘What now?’ asks Chris. ‘Moon, I’m all for grand gestures, but this isn’t much of a plan, even if we have the right address. Maybe we cut our losses and head back?’

  Dylan chews his lip.

  ‘What if Janelle’s being held against her will or something?’ he says. ‘She hasn’t replied to any of my texts for days.’

  Chris is about to say something glib, but Dylan has such a sincere expression on his face, he falters.

  ‘Let’s go and buy a big slice of cake,’ he says instead. ‘We’ll sit down, have a regroup. With any luck, we might even see her walk by.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Dylan says, pulling out one of the Google Map printouts from his notebook and starting down the road.

  ‘What about the car?’ Chris shouts after him.

  ‘It’ll wait for us,’ Dylan yells back.

  Chris and Otis follow him into a side street, and down an access road behind the shops.

  ‘This is the back of the bakery,’ Dylan says, pointing to a vent, ‘so she must live in one of those flats. Can you give me a boost up? There’s a window open.’

  ‘Whoa! Stop right there,’ says Chris. ‘We’re not breaking into someone’s house, that was never part of the deal.’

  ‘It’s not her house, it’s the communal stairwell.’

  ‘There are laws against this sort of thing, Moon. What if someone thinks you’re a burglar? Or worse. You’re not a child anymore, this isn’t a game. There could be serious repercussions.’

  ‘What if Janelle’s fallen and broken her leg? Or her ex-boyfriend has hurt her?’

  ‘She could call an ambulance. Or the police.’

  ‘What if she can’t reach the telephone?’

  ‘She could bang on her door until her neighbours hear.’

  ‘What if she’s unconscious?’

  Chris gives a big sigh.

  ‘I’ll just see if she’s there,’ pleads Dylan. ‘If not, I’ll come straight back, I promise. You’d do the same if it were Daisy.’

  Chris shakes his head, defeated.

  ‘What am I supposed to do while I wait for you?’ he asks. ‘Stand here and look suspicious?’

  ‘If anyone asks, you’re walking your dog. That’s why I brought Otis. Now, give me a boost.’

  Resigned, Chris clasps his hands together so Dylan can get a foothold, and lifts him up.

  ‘What’s in your bag?’ asks Chris. ‘Bricks? You weigh a tonne!’

  Dylan pulls himself onto the roof of the extension building and gets to his feet. ‘Be careful!’ Chris calls after him.

  ‘I will.’

  Otis jumps up, his paws against the wall, and lets out a long whine.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ says Chris, as he watches Dylan open the window and disappear inside the building.

  It’s dingy in the hallway, and smells of damp and yeast from the bakery. Two doors stand in front of Dylan, both painted magnolia white, with identical chrome handles. A quick scout up and down the staircase reveals another flat on the second floor, and one on the ground. Dylan starts downstairs, pressing his ear against the door. He hears a loud revving sound and, peeking through the keyhole, sees a massive television broadcasting motor racing to a room of black leather couches. Dylan moves on: it’s too much of a man-cave to be Janelle’s place – it must be the home of the guy who answered the buzzer.

  Flat two appears empty and the keyhole in flat three reveals only a wall and either a small mechanical claw or an umbrella handle (but most likely an umbrella handle). Dylan heads up to the top flat, but the keyhole here is blocked.

  At a loss, he walks over to the second-floor window – in the lane below Chris is busy texting on his phone, Otis is sniffing the cobblestones. He takes out his phone and checks it. No messages, no emails. Nothing.

  Dylan walks back to the second-floor door. Getting to his knees, he inspects the keyhole. A key is blocking it, he realises now, which means someone must be home, and they didn’t answer their buzzer. He tries peering underneath the door, but he can’t see anything but floorboards. Remembering Otis on the cobblestones, he leans closer and gives the space under the door a tentative sniff. Immediately, he catches something – faintly – a smell he associates with Janelle, something sweet and feminine and safe. With his heart pounding, Dylan stands bolt upright and knocks on the door. He hears a creak – of furniture perhaps – and waits, but nothing happens. Even so, he has a sense that someone is on the other side of the door.

  ‘Hello?’ he ventures at last. There’s no reply. ‘My name’s Dylan Moon. I wondered if…’

  He hears a muffled voice through the door.

  ‘There’s no one here of that name.’

  ‘No,’ he clarifies, ‘my name’s Dylan.’

  ‘We’re fine, thank you very much,’ comes the muffled woman’s voice.

  ‘Please, I’m looking for someone. It’s important.’

  There’s a silence.

  ‘I’m Dylan,’ he says again, as clearly as he can. ‘I’m looking for Janelle Stevens…’

  He hears the sound of locks being drawn, and the door opens a fraction, a fastened chain swinging on its latch.

  ‘Dylan?’

  ‘Janelle, is that you?’

  There’s the rattle of a chain being unfastened and the door swings open…

  Chris is rewriting the text for what feels like the thousandth time:

  Hey you, I’m hanging out with the kid today. Hope it’s going well in fashion land. Can’t wait to see you tonight xxxx Chris

  The sign off was the easy part – they had settled on a standard four kisses, which seemed adequately demonstrative without being overdone – it’s the ‘Hey you’ that worries him. It feels too blasé. ‘Hey you’ could mean anyone – Hey you over there – but ‘Hey my love’ feels too old-fashioned, and ‘Hey’ by itself too informal. He tries ‘Hey my fashionista’ (this makes him sound too gay), ‘Hullo gorgeous’ (ditto), ‘Hey hey’ (‘we’re The Monkees,’ nope), and ‘Hey sweetcheeks’ (douchebaggy) with no success.

  It’s not only the text messages that have been off lately. Daisy hasn’t been herself ever since returning from his parents (Chris knew his mother must have had something to do with the change) – it was subtle, but to him it is a seismic shift, like a river starting to flow upstream.

  Looking at the screen again, he types ‘Hey Daisy’. Weirdly, this is the worst of the bunch so far.

  The phone starts to ring and Chris nearly drops it.

  ‘Hey you,’ he says, when he answers.

  ‘What do they say about never meeting your idols?’

  ‘Is it not going well?’

  ‘Vivienne Westwood is lovely, like some super-cool, dotty old aunt. Her assistants are a pain in the neck though. They keep calling me Debbie and getting fingerprints on the Perspex. Sorry, First World problems. It’s nice to have someone to rant to.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for. Rant away.’

  ‘Are you alright?’ asks Daisy. ‘Your voice sounds… odd?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘How’s Dylan?’

  Chris glances up at the window.

  ‘He’s good, he’s great.’

  ‘What are you guys up to?’

  ‘Not much. We’re on a bit of an expedition.’

  ‘Sounds like fun. Wish I didn’t have to work on a Saturday.’

  ‘Say the word, and I’ll come get you,’ says Chris.

  ‘Don’t tempt me. Where are you?’

  ‘What?’

>   ‘Where have you gone on this expedition of yours?’

  ‘Near Archway…’

  ‘That’s a long way for you two. I thought Dylan didn’t like to travel?’

  ‘I know, isn’t it great?’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was expecting to leave a voicemail. When you’re with Dylan, you usually don’t pick up your phone.’

  ‘He’s off meeting a… friend.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to stay with him in case he has another dizzy spell?’

  ‘Well, yeah… he’s not far. I’m giving him a bit of… because he’s… you know he’s…’

  Daisy doesn’t speak for a moment.

  ‘Are you sure everything’s fine?’ she says at last. ‘Because it feels like you’re not telling me something.’

  Chris sighs – he isn’t winning any battles today. And so, in the fastest and least incriminating way possible, he explains to Daisy all about Janelle and their journey to find her house.

  ‘So,’ Daisy says, when he’s done, ‘you’ve taken a teenager on a day trip to break into someone’s house?’

  ‘I better go and get him, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Daisy, I’m usually pretty good at this.’

  ‘I know you are,’ she replies gently. ‘And I shouldn’t judge. I’m probably about to be fired. I better get back to the madhouse – see you tonight.’

  ‘Love you.’

  There’s a muffled noise, the sound of another voice and the line goes dead.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Janelle is standing at the doorway in a mint green bathrobe, clutching the robe to her chest, a white towel wrapped around her head, her exposed hair damp, as if she’s recently taken a shower. Her face looks different – her skin doesn’t have its typical glow, her cheeks are less rosy, her eyes seem smaller – and Dylan realises it’s because she’s not wearing her usual makeup. But maybe that’s not it either, not completely – has Janelle lost weight? Dylan tries not to stare.

  ‘I… I came to see you,’ he manages eventually, nervousness outweighing his excitement.