The Switch

by Beth O'Leary

  Well, maybe I made myself a cup of tea and went back to …

  “Leena? Hello? I saw you come back from your run! Hello?”

  Christ, why isn’t this man in the Neighborhood Watch? He’s made for it. I grit my teeth and head for the kitchen. “Hello, Arnold,” I say, as pleasantly as I can manage. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Your car,” Arnold says. “It’s in the hedge.”

  I blink. “My … Sorry, what?”

  “Your car,” Arnold says patiently. “The hedge. It’s in it. Do you want a hand getting it out?”

  “Oh, God,” I say, leaning forward to look past Arnold and craning to see the driveway. “How did it get into the hedge? Which hedge?”

  “Did you put the handbrake on?” Arnold asks.

  “Of course!” I say, trying to remember whether I put the handbrake on. Until this week it’s been a while since I’ve driven—obviously I don’t have a car in London, because you only have a car in London if you are looking for an opportunity to induce road rage or practice some really high-stress parallel parking. “Oh, God, have I wrecked Penelope’s car?”

  Arnold rubs his chin, looking off toward the driveway. “Let’s dig it out of the leylandii and find out, shall we?”

  * * *

  I did not, it transpires, put the handbrake on firmly enough.

  Arnold, who is a lot stronger than he looks, has helped me to push the Ford Ka far enough out of the hedge that I can get in the driving seat. I inch the car backward, wheels squealing, and receive a double thumbs-up from Arnold when I make it over the verge and onto the gravel. I hope Grandma doesn’t mind that her right-hand hedge now has a large car-shaped dent in it, and two long, dark lines running through the grass where the wheels had been.

  “She’s a good girl, that car,” Arnold says, as I climb out and slam the door behind me. “What’s her name?”

  “Her name?”

  “You’ve not named her?” Arnold asks, wiping his hands on his trousers. He looks energized. With a loose T-shirt and wool cardigan instead of his usual moth-eaten sweater, and a cap covering his combover, he’s taken a decade off himself. I watch him as he rubs at the car window with a tissue from his pocket.

  “I haven’t,” I say. “Any ideas?”

  “Mine’s called Wilkie,” he says.

  “What, like Wilkie Collins?”

  Arnold straightens, looking delighted. “You like him?”

  “Grandma got me The Moonstone one Christmas. I loved it. She was always giving me books.”

  Arnold looks interested. “I never knew she was a reader.”

  “Oh, sure. Agatha Christie’s her favorite. She loves detective stories.”

  “Most nosy people do,” Arnold says dryly. “It’s good validation.”

  I laugh, surprised. That was actually quite funny. Who knew Arnold could be funny?

  “Let’s call the car Agatha, then, in Grandma’s honor,” I say, giving it a pat on the bonnet. Then, on a whim: “I don’t suppose you fancy coming in for a morning coffee?”

  Arnold’s glances toward Grandma’s house. “In?”

  “Yeah, for a coffee? Or a tea, if you prefer?”

  “Eileen’s never invited me in,” Arnold says.

  I wrinkle up my nose. “Never?” That’s not like my grandma at all. She’s always inviting everybody in, and if they come under the category of “neighbor” they pretty much get their own key.

  “Your grandma and I don’t really see eye to eye,” Arnold says. “We got off on the wrong foot a long time ago and she’s loathed me ever since.” He shrugs. “No skin off my nose. The way I see it, if you don’t like me, you can sling your hook.”

  “That’s often a very admirable sentiment,” I say, “but sometimes also an excuse for being grumpy and unreasonable.”

  “Ey?” Arnold says.

  “I’ve seen you, in the mornings, out looking after Grandma’s plants.”

  Arnold looks embarrassed. “Oh, well, that’s just…”

  “And here you are, helping me fish my car out of a hedge.”

  “Well, I just thought…” He scowls. “What’s your point?”

  “Just not sure I believe the grumpy act, that’s all.” I lock the car and head over to the bench under Grandma’s apple tree; after a moment, Arnold follows. “Besides, it’s never too late to change—just look at my grandma. Grandpa’s gone, and what’s she done? Set off on an adventure in London and started online dating.”

  Arnold’s eyebrows shoot up above his glasses. “Online dating? Your grandma?”

  “Yup. I think it’s great. She so deserves a story of her own, you know, and a break from looking after us all.”

  Arnold looks a little disturbed at the thought. “Online dating,” he says eventually. “Fancy that. She’s a force to be reckoned with, that woman.” He shoots me a look. “Seems it runs in the family.”

  I snort. “I don’t know where you’ve got that impression. Ever since I got here all I’ve done is screw up. Actually, scratch that: all I’ve done for the last year is screw up.”

  Arnold narrows his eyes at me. “From what I hear, while you’ve been coping with your sister’s death, you’ve held down an all-hours city job, supported your partner, put Betsy in her place, and got Penelope to stop driving.”

  I pause, startled into silence. Everyone here talks about Carla’s death so openly, as if it happened to all of us—I’d have thought I’d mind it, but somehow it’s better.

  “I didn’t mean to put Betsy in her place,” I say. “Is that what people are saying?”

  Arnold chuckles. “Ah, anyone can see you’ve got her goat. But don’t worry, she needs pulling in line sometimes. Look up busybody in the dictionary and there Betsy’ll be.”

  I actually think there’s more to Betsy than that. There’s something defensive about her bossiness, like she’s getting in there first, telling you how to live your life before you can tell her how to live hers.

  “What’s the story with Cliff, her husband?” I ask.

  Arnold looks down at the ground, scuffing one foot. “Mmm,” he says. “Nasty piece of work, that one. Wouldn’t wish a man like that on any woman.”

  “What do you mean?” I frown, remembering how quickly Betsy had got up when Cliff had summoned her home from Clearwater Cottage. “Does he—does he treat Betsy badly?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Arnold says hastily. “People’s marriages are their own business.”

  “Sure, but … only to a point, right? Have you ever seen anything that’s got you worried?”

  “I ought not to…” Arnold glances sideways at me. “It’s not my business.”

  “I’m not trying to gossip,” I say. “I’m trying to make sure Betsy’s all right.”

  Arnold rubs his chin. “There’s been the odd thing. Cliff is a stickler for how things are done. He gets angry if Betsy gets it wrong. These days he doesn’t get out much—she’s at his beck and call, from what I can gather, but if you walk past their house with the windows open at the wrong moment you’ll hear how he talks to her, and it’s not…” Arnold shakes his head. “It’s not how you ought to talk to a woman is all I’m saying. It wears away at her. She’s not who she used to be. But we all do what we can for her. There’s nobody in this village who wouldn’t take her in if she needed it.”

  Does she know that, I wonder? Is anyone saying it out loud, or are they all doing what my grandma does—keeping quiet, not interfering? I make a mental note to try harder with Betsy. I’m not exactly someone she’d trust to confide in, but maybe I could be.

  Arnold suddenly slaps his forehead. “Bugger. I was meant to ask you something. That’s why I dropped by in the first place. You’re not busy this morning, are you? We need a favor.”

  “Oh?” I say warily, wondering who “we” might be.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Err.” In all honesty, I have slightly lost track of the days. “Sunday?”

  “I
t’s Easter Sunday,” Arnold says, getting up from the bench. “And we need an Easter bunny.”

  * * *

  “Jackson. I should have known you’d be at the bottom of this.”

  Jackson looks perplexed. The shoulders of his jumper are splattered with raindrops, and he’s holding a wicker basket full of foiled chocolate eggs. We’re at the village hall, which has been decorated with special Easter bunting and large signs declaring that this is the starting point for the annual Hamleigh-in-Harksdale Easter egg hunt, kicking off in exactly half an hour.

  “At the bottom of this … free event for children?” he says.

  “Yes,” I say, eyes narrowed. “Yes, exactly.”

  He blinks innocently at me, but I am not fooled. He is one hundred percent trying to mess with me. I made some real headway with Dr. Piotr the other day, in the queue at the village shop—he all but promised me he’d vote for my May Day theme. Then I caught sight of Jackson browsing the newspapers behind us, clearly eavesdropping.

  This, surely, is his revenge.

  “Doesn’t Leena look the bee’s knees?” Arnold asks from behind me.

  I am wearing white fleece trousers with a bunny tail sewn on; they’re about six sizes too big for me and held on with a leather belt borrowed from Arnold. I am also sporting a patterned waistcoat with (in case things weren’t clear) bunnies all over it. Also, bunny ears. Aren’t bunny ears meant to be sexy? I feel like an actual clown.

  “Shut up, Arnold,” I say.

  A smile tugs at Jackson’s lips. “Even better than I expected. It suits you.”

  There is a loud, dramatic gasp behind me. I spin and am faced with the sight of an outrageously cute little girl. Her blonde hair is in lopsided pigtails, there is a long streak of what looks like permanent marker on her cheek, and one of her trouser legs is rolled up to reveal a long, stripy sock. She has both hands on her cheeks, like the shocked-face emoji, and her blue eyes are wide—and very familiar.

  “The Easter bunny,” she breathes, gazing up at me. “WOW.”

  “Samantha, my daughter,” Jackson says from behind me. “She’s a very firm believer in the Easter bunny.”

  This is a clear warning. What does he think I am, a monster? I may despise being dressed as a ridiculous rabbit, but there is clearly only one appropriate way to respond to this situation.

  “Well, hello there, Samantha,” I say, crouching down. “I’m so glad I’ve found you!”

  “Found me?” she says, eyes like saucers.

  “I left my burrow early this morning and I’ve been hopping all over the Yorkshire Dales looking for somebody who might be able to help me, and I think you could well be just the person, Samantha.”

  “Me?” Samantha breathes.

  “Well, let’s see, shall we? Do you like chocolate eggs?”

  “Yes!” Samantha says, with a little jump.

  “Are you good at hiding things?”

  “Yes!” Samantha says.

  “Like my left shoe,” Jackson says dryly from behind me, though I can hear he’s smiling. “Which you did a very good job of hiding this morning.”

  “A very good job,” Samantha says earnestly, gaze fixed on my face.

  “And—now, this one is very important, Samantha—can you keep secrets? Because if you’re going to be the Easter bunny’s helper, you’re going to know where all the chocolate eggs are hidden. And all the other children will be asking you for clues.”

  “I won’t tell!” Samantha says. “I won’t!”

  “Well then,” I say, straightening up and turning back to Jackson. “I do believe I’ve found my special helper.”

  Jackson grins at me. It’s the first full smile I’ve ever seen him do—he’s got dimples, proper ones, one in each cheek. He swoops in and grabs Samantha by the armpits, swinging her up onto his hip.

  “What a lucky young lady,” he says, burying his face in her neck until she’s almost choking with giggles.

  Something flips in my tummy at the sight of Samantha in his arms—it’s a sort of sudden-onset fuzziness, as though my brain’s gone as fleecy as my trousers.

  “Thank you,” Jackson mouths at me. He bends and picks up the basket of eggs, handing it to Samantha. She leans her head against his shoulder with the perfect trust of a child. “Ready?”

  Samantha wriggles out of his arms and runs toward me, stretching her free hand up to take mine. As Jackson lets her go his face softens into an expression of such vulnerability, as if he loves her so much it hurts, and it’s so raw and personal I turn my eyes away—it doesn’t feel like something I’m meant to see. That fuzziness in my belly intensifies as Samantha’s little fingers grip my hand.

  Jackson bends to give her a quick kiss on the forehead, then opens the door to the village hall.

  “Better get going, you two,” he says. “Oh, and Leena?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The Easter bunny skips. Everywhere she goes. Swinging the basket. Just a reminder.”

  “Does she now?” I say, through gritted teeth.

  He flashes me another grin, but before I can say anything else, a skipping Samantha is dragging me down the steps and out into the rain.

  16

  Eileen

  I feel like the woman in one of those perfume adverts on the television. You know the sort: the one who swans along with her feet a few inches off the ground, draped in chiffon, beaming ecstatically, perhaps while passers-by burst spontaneously into song.

  I spent the night in Tod’s bed. He really is an extraordinary man. I haven’t had sex—by any definition—in about twenty years, and it’s certainly changed somewhat, now that I’m seventy-nine, but it’s still bloody wonderful. It did take me a little while to get back in the swing, and I’m rather achy in some peculiar places, but lord, it’s worth it.

  Tod is clearly a very experienced gentleman. I don’t mind if the lines he spun about my beautiful body and my glowing skin were just that, lines—they did the trick. I haven’t felt this good in years.

  I’m meeting Bee this morning for a cup of coffee. She wants to hear all the gossip on Tod, she says. I think she’s rather missing Jaime, who’s with her father’s family for Easter, but still, I was rather touched to receive her message.

  The coffee shop where we’re meeting is called Watson’s Coffee, and it’s very trendy. Two of the walls are painted green and the other two are painted pink. There are fake stag horns above the coffee bar and a collection of neon candles half melted at the center of each steel-gray table. The overall effect is vaguely ridiculous, and it’s horribly busy—it’s Easter Monday, so of course nobody is at work, and around here if you’re not in an office it seems you’ve got to be in a coffee shop.

  Bee has managed to get us a table. She smiles up at me as I approach, that warm, open smile I glimpsed when she showed me the pictures of her daughter. It has an astonishing effect, that smile, like a warm spotlight pointing your way. Her hair is pinned back behind her ears, showing off a striking silver necklace sitting at her collarbone; she’s dressed in a beautiful turquoise dress that’s somehow more provocative for covering almost everything up.

  “Good morning!” she says. “Let me get you a coffee—what do you fancy?”

  “A flat white, please,” I say, feeling very pleased with myself.

  Bee raises her eyebrows and grins. “Very good!” she says. “Back in a tick.”

  I pull my phone out of my handbag as she gets up to give our order. It’s taken me a while—and several lessons from Fitz—to get used to Leena’s phone, but now I’m starting to get the hang of it. I know enough to tell I’ve got a new message from Tod, for instance. And there are those butterflies again …

  Dear Eileen, What a splendid evening. Let’s repeat soon, shall we? Yours sincerely, Tod x

  “OK, I know it’s wrong to snoop, so I’m just going to come out and say right away that I totally read that message,” Bee says, sitting down again and placing a tray on the table. She’s got us both muffins too. “
Lemon or chocolate?” she says.

  Bee isn’t at all as I expected. She’s very thoughtful, actually. I’m not sure why I assumed she wouldn’t be—perhaps because she’s so beautiful, which is a little uncharitable of me.

  “Chocolate,” I hazard, guessing she wants the lemon. She looks pleased and pulls the plate her way. “And I forgive you for snooping. I’m always doing it to other people on the underground. That’s the one advantage of being squashed so close together.”

  Bee giggles. “So? Is Tod the one?”

  “Oh, no,” I say firmly. “We’re just casual. Non-exclusive.”

  Bee gawps at me. “Seriously?”

  “Is that such a surprise?”

  “Well, I…” She pauses to think, chewing a mouthful of muffin. “I guess I just assumed you’d be looking for something serious. A life partner.”

  I attempt a nonchalant shrug, then wince as the movement pulls on a newly stiff muscle in my back. “Maybe. Really, I’m just in it for the adventure.”

  Bee sighs. “I wish I was. Looking for a future father to your child really takes the fun out of a first date.”

  “Still no luck?”

  Bee makes a face. “I knew the over-seventies’ market would be better. Maybe I should be going for an older man.”

  “Don’t you be straying into my dating pool, young lady,” I say. “Leave the old men for the old ladies or we’ll never stand a chance.”

  Bee laughs. “No, no, they’re all yours. But I do wonder if I might be a bit too picky.”

  I busy myself with my muffin. I ought not to interfere, really—Bee knows herself, she knows what’s good for her.

  But I have been around a lot longer than Bee has. And she’s been so open with me. Perhaps there’s no harm in speaking my mind.

  “May I say what I think when I hear your list of rules?” I say.

  “Absolutely,” Bee says. “Please do.”

  “I think it sounds like a recipe for spinsterhood.”

  She bursts out laughing. “Oh, please,” she says. “My list is totally achievable. As a society we have painfully low standards of men, do you know that?”