It’s hot, and I’m in a black cardigan and a purple vest, but I’ve just remembered I forgot to put on sun cream. If I take it off, I’ll be burned in about half an hour. I’ll just have to bake.
‘Ready?’ He holds out his hand.
I pass Meg’s lead back to him, and we set off, side by side. He can’t seem to think of anything to say either. It’s silence, but not a companionable one. It feels more like we’ve forgotten how to have a conversation, and I can’t believe we are the same two people who sat by the canal chatting and laughing just the other day.
We walk up the high street, past the little coffee and book shop I love to browse in on the way home from swimming. Inside, the American tourist group has taken over three tables, and they’re all looking at a map and drinking Cokes.
‘Do you want a lolly?’ Ed says, surprising me. He sticks a hand in his pocket and pulls out a fiver, brandishing it in the air. ‘I’m boiling, aren’t you?’
‘Melting.’
I pretend to mop my brow and realize I look like a complete idiot. He heads inside, and Meg looks up at me.
‘I have no idea,’ I say to her.
She pants, not very helpfully.
‘I got one orange and one lemonade,’ says Ed. ‘I realize I should have asked which one you wanted. Sorry. You do like one of those, don’t you?’
And I realize that actually maybe he’s as nervous as me.
‘I like both.’
‘Which one d’you want?’
‘You choose.’
He shakes his head and laughs, and I notice again how straight his teeth are, and how white.
‘You.’
‘Orange, then, please.’
The path up to the country park is narrow and lined with stinging nettles, which don’t seem to bother Meg. Once we’ve clambered over the stile, and Meg’s ducked under the little dog-access slot, Ed lets her off the lead, and she lumbers on ahead of us, her head down and tail up. She’s so much slower and more considered than Rio’s dog Blue, who hurtles everywhere at top speed. Meg seems totally laid back. Thinking of Rio and Ed, I realize that there must be something in the dogs-being-like-their-owners thing.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Ed looks sideways at me.
We’ve been walking along eating our lollies, but they’re done now.
‘Just thinking about dogs and their owners.’
‘You think I’m like Meg?’
‘You’re both smiley,’ I say.
Ed gives a nod and looks pleased. ‘She’s a nice dog to be compared to, I reckon.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Two.’
‘That’s . . .’ I try to remember how old that makes her in dog years.
‘Eight,’ Ed says, apparently reading my mind. ‘I got her when she was ten weeks old. She was a present from my mum.’
‘I’ve always wanted a dog, but our house is too small.’
‘Ours is now, really.’ He takes the lollipop stick from my hand and throws it in a bin as we pass one. ‘But I used to –’
He stops, and a look I can’t recognize flashes across his face.
‘Used to what?’
‘Oh, just – we used to have a bigger house. Before we moved.’
‘From Edinburgh?’
We fork left, following the signpost that says ‘Stone Cairn’, and head up the hill into the forest.
‘Yep.’
I get the feeling he doesn’t want to talk about it. There’s a weird sort of silence that falls as we make our way up the steepest part of the path. The rocks are loose, and the track pitted by the mountain bikers who hurtle down the hill in all weathers. The thin soles of my sneakers aren’t exactly protective, and I can feel the rough edges of the flints against my feet.
‘Ow!’ I gasp, feeling the ground shifting slightly underneath me. I lose my footing and grab on to Ed’s arm without thinking.
‘Steady,’ he says.
He has swimmer’s arms – muscular and strong – and I pull myself upright.
‘Shall we stop for a bit?’
I let go of his arm, turning to look down the way we’ve just walked. My ankle twinges a bit, and for a second I have visions of returning home to Mum with mine in a matching cast, but I think I just twisted it slightly. I sit down on the grass edge of the path. Meg trots back to check on me, sniffing my leg before sitting down beside me. I put an arm round her neck. We’re both out of breath.
‘I don’t remember this path being so steep,’ Ed says with a look of concern.
I rub my ankle for a moment. ‘It’s just this bit. It levels out in a second.’
‘Are you OK to keep going? Is your ankle OK?’
I give my foot an experimental wiggle. Meg hefts herself upright as well, and echoes me by giving herself a shake.
‘I think she likes you.’
‘I like her too. And it’s fine. Once we get over the top bit there –’ I motion to a group of pine trees where the path appears to stop – ‘there’s a little picnic area.’
‘Shame we don’t have any Oreos.’ Ed catches my eye for a second.
‘Funnily enough . . .’ I pat the shoulder strap of my rucksack.
He laughs.
We’re sitting on the picnic bench, halfway up the hill to the stone cairn that was put there years ago by the Laird of Something to celebrate his success in the Battle of Something Else. If I’d paid more attention to the teachers every time we’d been dragged up here on a school trip, I’d know a lot more about it.
‘So.’ Ed looks at me.
I feel the strangest sensation in my knees. And my stomach. In fact, I feel quite strange all over. I am alone, with a boy (and a dog, but she’s digging a hole under an oak tree), and there’s nobody here but us.
I watch him as he leans forward, putting his chin in his hand, and looking at me intently.
‘Tell me something about you.’
It sounds like a cheesy line from a movie. I raise a sceptical eyebrow, and he lifts his in acknowledgement. Yes, it’s a line. But I guess, at the end of the day, everything’s a cliché, really.
‘Like what?’
I notice that his eyes aren’t quite brown or green. They’re a mixture of both, ringed with dark grey. And then I look down, because I realize I’ve been looking at his eyes and not saying anything and I feel weirdly nervous.
‘Tell me something nobody else knows.’
He’s surprisingly intense. His gaze doesn’t waver, and he looks at me steadily.
‘Nobody else in the whole world?’
It feels like time has stopped and there’s just us. There’s no sound anywhere but the whispering of the wind in the trees.
‘Nobody else.’
I think for a moment. And there’s a second when I think about the house, and Mum, and all the stuff at home. And I think about the fact that I don’t tell anyone any of that stuff. But now isn’t the time. I don’t want it to be about all of that.
‘OK,’ I say, and I look at him and echo his pose, leaning forward, my chin cupped in both hands. ‘One thing.’
Ed leans forward. ‘Go on.’ His eyebrows raise a fraction.
‘You promise you won’t tell a soul?’ I lower my voice.
‘Not a living soul.’ His eyes are dark.
I lean forward a bit closer. I feel not quite like myself. It’s the strangest, most dizzying feeling. I feel like . . . like someone is actually listening to me. And like it wouldn’t really matter what I said.
I lower my voice. ‘You know Lord of the Flies?’
He nods – well, he sort of nods with his eyebrows, his chin still in his hands, his eyes still on me.
‘I haven’t read it at all.’
And Ed gives a shout of laughter.
Emboldened, I carry on. ‘And I haven’t a clue what Castle Rock is.’
‘Oh God,’ he says, and he sits up, arching his back and stretching his arms upward, linking his hands together behind his head. He grins at me. ‘You were so bl
oody serious there. I thought you were going to tell me you were a secret serial killer.’
‘Oh, I’m that as well,’ I say, laughing. ‘I’ve lured you up here to your doom.’
I have no idea who this new version of me is. I like her, though.
‘Your turn.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Ed as Meg reappears, a strand of sticky willow hanging round her throat like a necklace. He pulls it from her and drops it on the ground at her feet.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘And then you can tell me what Castle Rock is and if I should read Lord of the Flies and what your favourite book is.’
‘Deal.’ Ed casts his eyes upward as he thinks. ‘OK . . . Something about me nobody else knows . . .’
But before he can carry on, there’s a crash as Meg leaps forward, her hackles raised, and she growls and snarls at a man who emerges from the gloom on the other side of the clearing. He’s in a pair of running shorts and a bright yellow vest. Ed stiffens as well, and for a second he doesn’t move, watching the man as he draws closer.
‘Meg,’ he says, clicking his fingers, and motioning her back to his side. ‘It’s fine.’
‘All right?’ says the runner.
He has close cropped dark hair and a triangle of sweat on the back of his vest, and we all three watch as he makes his way down the path we’ve just climbed up, fleet-footed, nimble and fast.
‘What was that about?’
Ed leans down and pats Meg. ‘Nothing,’ he says, and looks back at me. But I don’t feel convinced. I’ve spend too much of my life covering up not to recognize it in other people.
‘Shall we head up to the cairn?’ I say.
Ed swings his legs round from the picnic bench.
The cairn is surrounded by people who’ve approached it from the other side – the visitors’ side. People balance on the edge of the stones with selfie sticks, taking photographs, and up here all the picnic tables are taken. The food I’ve brought stays in my bag. Meg tries to investigate the contents of someone’s picnic basket, and Ed has to pull her away, apologizing.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he says, and the family, charmed by his lovely manners, shake their heads and tell him it’s fine, not a problem.
‘You’re so posh,’ I say as we start walking down the path away from the crowds.
‘I’m really not.’
‘Oh come on.’ I look at him sceptically. ‘I’ve never met anyone who says “I’m awfully sorry” before.’
‘I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t read Lord of the Flies before.’ He grins at me and nudges me with his elbow.
I shove him back. ‘I’ve never met anyone who has. And I’ve never met anyone who has a dog called Meg.’
‘I’ve never met anyone called Cressida.’
‘All right,’ I admit. ‘Now Cressi is posh.’
‘We can agree on that,’ says Ed, and he blows his floppy hair out of his eyes. It lifts up for a second, then lands back exactly where it was.
‘I am so hot,’ he says, and collapses down on the grassy bank by the path. He lies back, sitting up on his elbows, and looks up at me. ‘Aren’t you melting in that jumper?’
‘Cardigan.’
‘Whatever.’ He laughs. ‘It’s the hottest day Scotland has ever experienced, we’re melting thanks to global warming and you’re in a woolly jump – sorry, cardigan.’
I pull one shoulder free, showing the strap of my vest top. My pale skin is covered in freckles. ‘If I take it off, I’ll burn in about five minutes.’
‘Why don’t we walk down that way, then?’ Ed points down the hill, where there’s a little path that leads through the shade of the trees. ‘If you die of heatstroke, I’m going to have some explaining to do. Your parents will have to come and collect you, and I’ll be in for it.’
In for it. I smile to myself.
‘Parent.’ I say. ‘Singular.’
‘Oh,’ he says, scrambling back up. He brushes pine needles and grass off his knees, looking up at me all the while.
‘There’s just me and my mum.’ I’ve explained this so many times. People still find the idea that there’s no father in our equation almost impossible to understand.
‘Are your parents divorced?’
I shake my head. ‘Shall we go?’ I say, pointing towards the woods.
We head into the shade provided by the tree canopy, and the pine-smelling darkness is a relief. I’m not designed for baking-hot sunshine. I rub my forehead, realizing it’s damp with sweat. My hair is sticking to the back of my neck, and I lift it up in a handful, waving it up and down so a tiny breeze blows down the back of my T-shirt.
‘There’s just the two of us.’ I realize he’s still waiting for me to reply. ‘I don’t know my dad.’
We walk on a bit. I shrug off my cardigan and ball it up in my hand.
‘There’s just me and my mum too.’ He chews on the inside of his lip before he continues. ‘Well, and Meg. She counts, don’t you, Meggie?’
Hearing his voice, Meg spins round, tail wagging hopefully.
I smile. ‘She definitely counts.’
‘No brothers or sisters?’
I think of Lauren, and of the box room at home, all ready for her to stay in later this week. ‘It’s – complicated.’
Ed looks at me with a puzzled expression, his brows knitting together. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, then raises a hand palm up in a gesture of confusion. ‘Complicated?’
I screw up my face. ‘There used to be four of us. I have an ex-stepsister.’
Ed nods slowly. ‘Right.’
I echo his nod. ‘That’s what I mean by complicated.’
He smiles his big smile at me. ‘Families are really weird.’
We turn, together, and start walking again.
‘Oh yes,’ I say.
With my cardigan off, the sensation that I’ve had a layer of protection removed is even more intense. I feel like every crackle of twigs breaking underfoot and the muffled sounds of Meg galloping ahead of us have been turned up to full volume. We’re walking close enough that I’m aware the whole time of his physical presence, and of mine. I’ve never been so aware of my body. And I wonder as we’re walking if he feels the same way. Or is he thinking we’re out for a perfectly nice walk as friends, and I’m imagining all of this? What if we never actually – I mean, I don’t know how anyone ever actually –
His arm brushes against mine as the path narrows, and his skin against mine feels like it crackles with static.
‘Sorry,’ I say, even though all we did was touch slightly.
He says it too.
And then we walk on a bit in a silence that feels heavy and thick. My mind is racing. I imagine what it would be like to just turn round right there in the woods and the silence and kiss him.
There’s no sound, but my heart is thudding so hard because I keep thinking about what it would be like to be the sort of person to just kiss someone and wondering how people like that learn to do that sort of thing, or does it just sort of happen, or –
‘Hello again,’ says the jogging man from earlier, panting into view from behind a bush.
We both jump, and I stand there for a second as he runs off, my hand on my heart. Ed is doubled over laughing. It’s broken the weird silence.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’
It’s such an old-fashioned thing to say.
‘Mine are much more expensive than that,’ I say, thinking as I do that there’s no way I’m going to tell him what I was actually thinking.
‘I’ve got –’ he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of coins – ‘two pounds and forty-three pence.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, teasing. ‘I’m afraid my thoughts start at two fifty and go up from there.’
‘Half a thought?’
‘Nope.’
‘Mine are a lot cheaper.’
I raise my eyebrows and laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Oh God, yes – I’m easy. A chocolate biscuit, a
nd I’m all yours.’
I stop and pull my rucksack off my shoulder. ‘Funny you should mention that.’
There’s a fallen log by the side of the path, and I sit down on it for a moment. Ed stands in front of me, looking down. I notice the hole in the toe of his shoe again.
‘I just happen to have –’ I pull the packet of Oreos and two cans of Coke out of my bag – ‘several chocolate – well, chocolate-ish – biscuits right here.’
Ed sits down on the opposite end of the makeshift bench. I feel like I’m a million miles from my life, and yet home is just a few miles away. But the person I am here – is this the me I’d be all the time if things weren’t so difficult? It’s the strangest thought.
‘So –’ I tear open the top of the packet and hold a biscuit up in my hand – ‘one biscuit, one thought?’
Ed holds his hand out, palm up. His eyes are twinkling and he looks like he’s about to laugh.
‘Uh-uh.’ I shake my head, teasing. ‘Thought first.’ I pull it back towards my chest.
He rubs his chin thoughtfully. I feel a jolt of anticipation shoot through me, and the hairs on my bare arms stand up.
‘I was thinking,’ Ed begins, looking at me with a level gaze, ‘that you’re the first person I’ve met since I moved here that makes me laugh.’
I look directly into his green-brown eyes, and for a beat of silence neither of us says a word. It’s as if the world is holding its breath.
I place a biscuit on his outstretched hand and wait. He takes it, twists it in half and gives me one section. As he passes it to me, our hands touch again and I catch his eye and I wonder if it’s not my imagination after all. He looks away.
‘Look at Meg.’ She’s trotting back up the path towards us. ‘She can smell a biscuit from about five miles away.’
‘Can she have one?’ I’m still holding my half in my hand, because my stomach is turning over and over with a weird mixture of nerves and excitement.
‘One. Dogs aren’t meant to have chocolate. I don’t know if an Oreo counts.’
I give her my half, and she wolfs it down in a gulp.
‘She’s supposed to be on a strict diet, but she keeps escaping through the fence into next door’s garden. The other day she came back with half a packet of sausages hanging out of her mouth.’
My Box-Shaped Heart Page 9
