My Box-Shaped Heart

by Rachael Lucas

  After what feels like ages, Jack replies. It’s like he’s on a satellite delay.

  ‘No – mine are going up after this lot come down.’ He waves an arm at the stairs, where Rio and Allie are winding long pieces of metal cabling between some more scaffolding. ‘That’s why we’ve put them in the back room.’

  Of course it is. We carried them all in – carefully, one by one – and placed them with pieces of hessian sack over the top. Millicent, the gallery owner, had laughed at Jack for his insistence on sustainable materials for protection, when bubble wrap would do.

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ I make my way to the bottom of the stairs and stand there, not quite sure what to do with my limbs. It’s as if they’ve grown, and I’m Alice in Wonderland in here: huge and ungainly and sprouting, when everyone else seems small and neat and cool and thin – so, so thin. Millicent must be a size six – her waist is literally the size of one of my thighs.

  Allie throws a staple gun to Rio. He catches it with one hand as if he’s a cowboy gunslinger (which goes with his latest look, I can’t help thinking) and turns to look at me, holding it as if he’s planning to fire a round of staples in my direction. I step back.

  ‘We’re OK,’ he says airily. ‘We’ve got this.’

  Allie nods. She’s holding up a piece of wire with her arm and is sort of pinned to the wall. ‘We’ll be done in a bit.’

  I amble around the gallery for a bit longer, trying not to look at the clock, hoping ‘a bit’ will be done soon and we can go out and do something.

  Jack looks up from the huge Apple screen and clicks the mouse, closing down the page he was working on. I’ve admired every single thing on the walls, stood around trying to look casual, gazed out of the window humming a little tune to myself and I’m running out of ways to kill time before Allie and Rio are free. I wish I’d stayed at home. Mum was heading to the hospital with Cressi, and they were going to Pizza Hut afterwards. My stomach rumbles at the thought, so loudly that Jack raises his eyebrows and laughs. I pick up one of the gallery brochures and flick it open, trying to arrange my face in an interested shape. At this point, I’ve read the brief descriptions of every picture so many times that I probably know the words off by heart.

  ‘Those two have promised they’ll sort the hanging rails this morning – they’ve got quite a bit still to do. Why don’t you have a wander, come back for them in a couple of hours?’

  I slip out through the glass door of the gallery and pause for a second, looking up and down the road. I can hear the rush and squeal of the brakes on the trains below as they pull into Waverley Station, and the distant sound of bagpipes blowing on the wind. The piper who stands busking every weekend at the top of Waverley Road makes a fortune, raking in the cash of delighted new-to-the-city tourists, who think that everyone in Scotland wanders around permanently in a kilt playing bagpipes.

  The street is busy with tourists and locals and artists, bustling along – all with somewhere to go, except me. I step backwards as a long crocodile of schoolchildren, all dressed in jewel-bright T-shirts and chattering excitedly in a foreign language, swell and fill up the pavement. I press myself against the cool of the stone wall and watch them as they disappear off, marching in the direction of the Scottish Parliament building. Their tour guide holds a sign aloft, and their teacher, bringing up the rear, looks frazzled. She gives me a smile and says thanks as she passes.

  I’ve got money for once. I could go shopping, or walk into town. But I don’t – I head down the street to the old stone arches, which used to be used for storage and are now a line of expensive-looking cafes and arty shops and galleries.

  The first cafe I come to has a little wooden table with two old-fashioned school chairs tucked underneath it, looking out through bright glass on to the street. I duck inside and stand for a moment, my eyes adjusting to the gloom at the back of the room.

  ‘Take a seat,’ says a voice.

  I’m scrunching up my eyes, trying to work out where it’s coming from, when a tall twenty-something guy unfolds himself from behind the counter. He looks completely at home here – hair tied back in a ponytail, a dark scribble of beard, a rough cotton apron tied round his waist.

  ‘There’s a menu on the table.’

  I sit down and pull the chair in with a clatter of metal on concrete floor. The music in the background is soothing, sweet harmonizing voices with acoustic guitars. The whole place is so . . . together. It looks like someone took an Instagram-friendly cafe in Copenhagen and magically transported it here, to Edinburgh.

  I pick up the menu and decide that for now I’m cool and laid back, and my name’s not Holly but Mette, or something like that. I run a finger down the rough paper, trying to decide what to order. Even the menu is posh, typed with an old-fashioned typewriter, complete with mistakes, which are marked out with an X – but somehow it looks like that’s how it’s supposed to be.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ He takes a pen from behind his ear and pulls a little brown notepad out of his apron pocket.

  ‘Um . . .’ I scan the menu again, rushing. I’ve been so busy soaking up the atmosphere, I’ve forgotten to think about what I want. ‘A latte, please. And a – a cheese and ham panini. No, toast. Toast.’

  I have no idea why I say this. But coffee and toast seems like the sort of thing to have here, even if, after he walks away, I look at the words typed in front of me and wonder what exactly an ‘artisan loaf’ is. I hope it’s not something weird.

  I pick up the menu and study it again, marvelling at the prices. We’re right in the middle of the tourist trap, and it shows.

  I connect to the cafe Wi-Fi – the rest of the internet seems to be on holiday abroad. My social media feeds are just full of sunglasses and sunhats, hot-dog-leg selfies, and photos of palm trees taken by people who are my friends online but have barely spoken a word to me since primary school.

  ‘One latte,’ he announces, placing it on the table in front of me.

  It’s in a hand-crafted pottery mug, and I pick it up and cradle it in both hands, watching as a family walk in and settle themselves at the long bench that runs along the wall. The parents are both blond and healthy-looking, and they have an identikit boy child and girl child, both with tanned skin and the same mop of thick, luxuriant blond hair. The mother unhooks a tiny baby from the sling thing she has round her neck and curls it into her arm while placing an order. It’s dark pink and has a shock of spiky dark hair and looks crumpled and fresh and new. The father catches me looking and smiles, his whole face lighting up. I duck my head with a tiny smile, but turn away, embarrassed.

  I’ve always been fascinated by other people’s families. I find myself thinking about Ed’s mum as I wait for my toast to appear . . . It’s been ages. Maybe artisan bread takes longer to cook, or he’s gone to churn the butter by hand.

  I haven’t met Ed’s mum, and he hasn’t met mine. He hasn’t met my friends, and I haven’t met his. Our relationship exists in a weird sort of hinterland, in the woods and the trees and down by the canal, or walking round the castle loch talking and kissing for hours. My insides squirm slightly at that, thinking of standing in the shelter of the town hall doorway in the rain the other night, his hand pressed casually against the wall, me leaning back against the stone. We were talking, sharing stupid jokes, waiting for the bus to come, and not hurrying the kiss that we both knew was coming. As the bus rumbled into sight, he leaned forward, and I caught my hands round his neck and –

  ‘Sorry.’ There’s a clink as the knife slides off the tray and on to the wooden table in front of me. He picks it up and places it back on the plate, stepping back as if to give me a moment to admire his artistry. There are two huge doorsteps of toast on a flat wooden platter, with pale yellow butter and sharp orange marmalade in little metal bowls alongside it. My stomach gives another growl.

  I think about the booklet Mum brought home from counselling the other day and how it encouraged people to find mindful moments in the everyday. To st
op myself from feeling awkward at sitting here in a cafe alone, I decide to focus on every little thing I’m doing. I listen to the sounds of the blond-haired children squabbling over a board game they’ve found on the shelf, and the whooshing of the coffee machine. I feel the anticipation and my mouth watering as I scoop out the sweet-bitter marmalade and spread it on the creamy butter. This mindfulness stuff is easy, I think, as I cut the toast in half and lift one piece to my mouth. It’s like time slows down inside itself and every second lasts a minute.

  I crunch down, tasting the sharpness of the bread and the citrus of the marmalade and –

  My eyes, half focused, gazing out of the window, fix on a shape in the distance. It’s a tall shape, and as it comes closer I watch as he raises a hand to rake those familiar unruly dark curls from his forehead, and at the same time I push my chair back from the table with a clatter and return the smile that lights up his face. I lift my arm to wave and his name forms on my lips.

  ‘Ed –’

  I’m leaning forward and his hand raises in greeting and –

  My heart thuds so hard against my ribcage that I think it’s going to burst out and crash to the floor.

  I watch, silent, as a girl rushes into his arms, and he squeezes her tightly, so tightly that she lifts up – small and dainty, a handful of a person – into the air. And then a delivery van pulls up, obstructing my view.

  The sweet harmonies coming through the speaker sound nauseating, and the tiny baby begins to cry a desperate, rasping wail, and I push the plate of toast away from me, uneaten.

  The van pulls off, and they’re gone.

  I pay the bill, the server asking with a concerned expression if everything was OK with the food. I apologize and say I don’t feel well all of a sudden, and he steps back as if worried he might catch my non-existent ailment, and I grab my bag and leave.

  I crash through the door of the cafe and realize they’re at the end of the street. Ed and the girl are facing each other, talking. She’s gesticulating – an open-handed, helpless sort of motion – and I can feel my feet dragging me towards them even as my stomach feels like lead. I can’t not watch.

  As I get closer, I see Ed turn, letting out a shout of fury, and he punches the wooden gate beside them. The air is full of his anger.

  And then he sees me.

  His hand drops to one side, and his face turns a dark, awkward red.

  ‘Ed,’ says the girl. She looks at me for a second, her brow creasing, and then reaches out a hand to his arm. He shakes it off.

  He looks at me, and his face sort of crumples.

  ‘Holly.’ He says my name and looks at me, and I recognize the emotions written on his face – they’re desperation and fear. I wish I didn’t, but I know them both all too well.

  I take a breath, readying myself to speak.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ says the girl. ‘Just give us a second.’ She turns to look at Ed.

  A group of tourists pause on the pavement, looking at us.

  ‘I need to go,’ she says. ‘If they find out I’ve seen you, we’ll both be in trouble.’

  Ed looks from me to her. She gives me a helpless look, and lifts her hands in the air, as if to shrug, but apologetically.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats.

  ‘His life hasn’t changed.’ I watch as Ed’s hands ball into fists again and his face twists with fury. And he’s shouting now. ‘I was captain of the swimming team. I had friends. I went to a decent school. And now, because of him, we’re left living in a shitty little house in the arsehole of nowhere.’

  I feel like someone’s thrown a bucket of cold water over me. The tourists are all watching now. One of them has taken the cover off their camera and they’re taking photographs of my reaction. I take a step back, and he seems to remember I’m there.

  ‘Holly . . .’ he says again, but this time his voice is quiet.

  I don’t look at him. I stare at the pavement.

  ‘Ed . . .’ The girl reaches out again.

  I look up – but this time he shakes his head, not looking at either of us, and spins on his heel. And we both stand there and watch as he starts to run, his long legs swallowing up the ground beneath his feet.

  ‘He’ll be OK,’ she says.

  I don’t know what to say or who she is or what to do. I feel gangly and awkward, standing there, towering over her.

  ‘I’m Claudia.’

  I look at her blankly.

  ‘Ed’s cousin?’

  I try to disguise the relief I feel that he’s not furious at being caught cheating on me with someone else. That feels petty and trivial all of a sudden, now I realize there’s something else – something bigger – going on here. But I can’t believe what he just said. He seemed like he was totally down to earth, and all that time he’s been cursing his father for forcing them to slum it out in the sticks where we live. I feel small, and cheap, and pointless.

  Claudia quickly checks her phone, then stuffs it back into her jeans pocket. She pushes her long hair back over her shoulder. She looks . . . expensive. Like she wouldn’t flinch at the cost of the stuff on the menu in the cafe. She gives me an apologetic smile.

  ‘I’m Holly,’ I manage to say.

  She grins then, and I see the resemblance between them. I realize she looks like him, only small and female and blonde.

  ‘I know who you are.’

  Five minutes later, I walk back along the road to the gallery.

  ‘That was quick,’ Jack says, looking up at me over the top of his black-rimmed glasses. He’s sitting behind the desk, and rubs his chin thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. ‘You OK? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘Just feeling a bit funny,’ I say. ‘I might sit down for a bit if that’s OK?’

  I curl myself up in the corner of the gallery, tucking my legs underneath me and sitting in the nest of leather cushions covered with a fluffy blanket. It’s sunny outside, one of those bright blue Edinburgh days, but I feel my teeth chattering.

  ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’

  I nod gratefully and sit, gazing out of the window. Allie and Rio finish their work and escape in a clan of two to the shops, making sure I’m happy to be left there.

  Jack passes me the water. ‘Do you want me to call your mum?’ Then he remembers. ‘Oh, she can’t come and get you in any case.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Probably just something I ate.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ says Jack absently. He’s got a lot of work to do, and he’s returned his focus to the screen of the computer.

  I pick up my phone and look at it, as if it can give me the answers.

  I compose texts to Ed, then delete them. I can’t think what to say.

  Eventually the day ends, and with the Land Rover empty of art stuff, Jack suggests I sit up front with him, in case travelling makes me feel any worse. I tune out the excited babbling of Allie and Rio in the back, and gaze without seeing at the blur of the countryside as we make our way back to Kilmuir.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Sorry you’re feeling crappy,’ Allie shouts as I climb out of the front seat of the Land Rover. ‘Feel better.’

  I manage to pull a never mind sort of face as I slam the door.

  ‘Catch up on Sunday?’ Rio calls through the open window.

  I nod, and before I have a chance to say anything else, his dad has swung the car backwards and is heading back towards town. I lift my hand in a wave of farewell, but they’re already looking away.

  I have my keys in my hand, but the front door’s slightly ajar. There’s a pile of books on the side table in the hall that wasn’t there when I left this morning.

  ‘Mum?’

  I shove my keys in my rucksack and hang it on the end of the banister before heading for the sitting room. I can hear music playing, and there’s a smell of vanilla and spices in the air – almost as if she’s been baking, except –

  ‘Ta-dah,’ she says, emerging from the kitchen door. She is bea
ming with happiness, and she lifts a leg in the air and waves it around.

  I frown for a second, trying to work out what she’s doing, and then it hits me.

  ‘Your leg.’

  ‘I’ve been let out early for good behaviour,’ Mum says, beckoning me into the kitchen.

  I follow her and sit down at the table before looking around. My heart, which has been through more than enough already today, sinks.

  ‘I’m making cinnamon rolls,’ she says, and pulls her phone out of her back pocket. ‘I found the recipe on Pinterest – look.’

  I lean over and admire the picture.

  ‘I’ve always fancied it. And now I’m able to get about – well, I’m not supposed to push it, but –’

  She’s talking fast and I scan the room, taking in the surfaces covered in flour and supermarket carrier bags, mixing bowls and pots of spices with their lids discarded. I feel the most awful sense of inevitability falling over my shoulders like a heavy cloak.

  ‘You don’t think maybe you should give yourself a chance to recover before you start shopping and baking?’

  I think she hears the sour note in my voice. She cocks her head to one side and looks at me, her eyes thoughtful.

  ‘I’m not “shopping and baking”,’ she says, picking up a bottle of kitchen cleaner and attacking the flour-covered surface. ‘I’m making some cinnamon rolls for you and Lauren because I’m finally able to actually do something for myself for a change.’

  I bite back the words I want to say. I’ve heard this before. When she was going to make our fortune selling Avon cosmetics. When she ordered a load of crafting stuff and then it just sat gathering dust in bags in the hall until it was cleared away last month when her leg broke. All that ever happened was she got a burst of excitement about something, but then when it actually came to doing it she ran out like a clockwork toy that hadn’t been wound up.