The Switch

by Beth O'Leary

  I think of Wade. I so rarely asked anything of him, especially once Marian was grown. All I expected was fidelity, though even that was giving him too much credit, as it turns out. And Carla and Leena’s father, what did Marian ask of him? He used to sit around all day in jogging bottoms, watching obscure sports on strange channels, and even then she bent over backward to keep him. When he finally left, he never looked back—he saw the girls once a year at best, and now he and Leena aren’t even in touch.

  Perhaps Bee has a point. But …

  “While I’m all for a good list, I think you might be going about this the wrong way. You need to stop thinking and start doing.”

  I finish off my coffee and stand up, chair rasping on the bare concrete floor. This café feels like a neon-painted war bunker. It’s making me uncomfortable.

  “Start doing what? Where are we going?” Bee asks as I get my bags together.

  “To find you a different sort of man,” I say grandly, leading her out of the coffee shop.

  * * *

  “The library?” Bee looks around, bemused. “I didn’t even know there was a library in Shoreditch.”

  “You ought to become a member,” I say sternly. “Libraries are dying out and it’s a travesty.”

  Bee looks rather chastened. “Right,” she says, peering at the nearest shelf, which happens to be paperback romance novels. She perks up. “Ooh, I’ll take that man,” she says, pointing to a shirtless gentleman on a Mills & Boon cover.

  I take her by the arms and steer her toward the crime and thriller section. She’s unlikely to find a man if she’s dawdling next to the romances; the only other person in sight is a shifty-looking lady who has clearly given her husband the slip for a couple of minutes and plans to make the most of it. Ah yes: there’s a blond-haired gent in jeans and a shirt browsing the John Grishams. Well, he’s certainly a contender to look at him.

  “What do you think?” I whisper, retreating behind some cookery books and gesturing for Bee to take a look.

  She leans past to look at the blond gentleman. “Ooh,” she says, cocking her head in thought. “Yeah, maybe! Oh, no, wait, those shoes … Boat shoes are a shorthand for preppy Oxbridge boy,” she tells me in a regretful whisper. “I predict a six-figure salary and a toxic inferiority complex instilled by helicopter parents.”

  “Be open-minded,” I remind her. “Do you trust me, Bee?”

  “Oh, I … Yeah, I do, actually.”

  I straighten my sleeves. “In that case,” I say, “I’m going in.”

  * * *

  “Do you believe a woman should take a man’s name when she marries?”

  “Oh, err, well actually I think that’s a very personal choice, so—”

  “What about helping out around the house? Good at Hoovering, are you?”

  “I’m … proficient, I’d say? Sorry, can I ask what it is you’re—”

  “Would you say you’re a romantic?”

  “Yeah, I reckon so, if you—”

  “And your last relationship, dear. How did it end?”

  The young man stares at me with his mouth slightly open. I look back at him expectantly.

  You can get away with an awful lot when you’re an old lady.

  “She just … fell out of love with me, really.”

  “Oh, gosh, how sad,” I say, patting him on the arm.

  “Sorry, how did we…” He looks baffled. “We were talking about John Grisham novels, and then you were … asking questions … and now … those questions have become … extremely personal…”

  I hesitate as I try to remember the word. Fitz mentioned it at dinner the other night. “I’m wingmanning,” I say.

  “You’re…”

  “For my friend, Bee. Bee!”

  She appears around the shelves, shushing me. “Eileen! Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, this is so embarrassing,” she tells the gentleman. “Come on, Eileen, let’s just go, we’ve taken enough of this man’s time…”

  She flashes him a muted version of her disarming smile. The blond man’s eyes widen and the book he’s holding drops a few inches, as though he’s forgotten he’s meant to be holding it up.

  “No worries,” he says. “Umm.”

  “Bee, this young man would like to take you for coffee in that lovely café over the road,” I say. “Wouldn’t you, dear?”

  “Actually,” the blond man says, beginning to blush rather fetchingly, “I would, quite.”

  * * *

  When I return home, Fitz gets up from the sofa, somber-faced. “Eileen, I have some rubbish news.”

  I clutch my chest. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “No, no, not that bad! Just about our Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club.”

  Martha, Fitz, and I chose this name for our club last night after a large glass of wine. I think it’s fabulous. We also all decided we were going to try going for a jog the next day, which was not a fabulous idea, and which was swiftly abandoned because of my knees, Martha’s late-stage pregnancy, and Fitz’s “general morning malaise,” whatever that is.

  “Almost everyone loves the idea, and we’ve got sign-off from the landlord too, as long as numbers don’t exceed twenty-five and nothing gets broken. But there’s a lady in Flat 6 who isn’t happy about it,” Fitz says, helping me out of my jacket. “She says she doesn’t agree with giving so many strangers access to the building.”

  I scowl. “And I suppose she moderates everybody’s birthday parties on the same grounds, does she?”

  Fitz snorts. “Good point. I’m going to send her an email and explain why…”

  I wave him away. “None of this emailing nonsense. I’ll go and speak to her.”

  Fitz blinks, holding my jacket limp in both hands. “Oh,” he says. “OK.”

  But she’s not home. I think about pushing a note under the door, but no, that’s hardly better than an email. I want this lady to look me in the eye and explain exactly why she doesn’t want a few old ladies and gents to have a nice art class and lunch in a space that’s ever so slightly near her flat.

  I’m cross. I huff my way back along the corridor to Leena’s flat again. Fitz pushes Leena’s laptop toward me across the breakfast counter as I settle down in my seat.

  “This’ll cheer you up,” he says. “It’s been beeping away with new messages.”

  The dating website is already on the screen. I’ve been visiting it quite often, lately, mainly writing to Old Country Boy, who’s really called Howard, and who seems very sweet. The other day I was going back through our conversation and I was surprised to see that we’ve already exchanged reams of messages.

  OldCountryBoy says: How are you today, Eileen? It’s been a quiet day here. Not a lot going on, you know.

  OldCountryBoy says: I keep reading back through our messages and thinking about you. We’ve known each other such a short time, but it feels like we’re old friends!

  OldCountryBoy says: I hope that’s not too forward for me to say! I just feel very lucky to have met you on here. On a quiet day like today, it’s wonderful to be able to go back to our chat.

  I sigh. Howard is a bit over the top, bless him. I’m not used to men talking about their feelings quite so much. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

  Then I think of Letitia, hunched at her table among her windchimes, waiting for her Iceland delivery, and I wonder if he’s perhaps just very lonely. And it is lovely, the way he values the time we spend talking.

  EileenCotton79 says: Hello, Howard. I’m sorry you’re not having a good day. Do you have neighbors you can talk to?

  OldCountryBoy says: They’re all young and trendy! They wouldn’t be interested in talking to me.

  I hesitate. Would it be too forward to mention the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club?

  Oh, bother it. Why not?

  EileenCotton79 says: I’m trying to set up a social club that you might like. It’s for over seventies in my area. We’re having some trouble getting it off the ground at the moment, but o
nce it’s up and running, would you be interested in coming along? I know you’re in West London, aren’t you, but you’d be more than welcome all the same!

  There’s an unusually long delay before Howard replies, and I start to feel a little silly. Perhaps more than welcome was a bit much. But then, at last …

  OldCountryBoy says: I would love to come along! Will you be there?

  EileenCotton79 says: Of course!

  OldCountryBoy says: Then I can’t wait for us to meet in person

  I smile, but before I can reply, another dot dot dot lights up the screen.

  OldCountryBoy says: Maybe I could even help out somehow. I’m good at making websites—I used to do it as part of my job. Would you be interested in me creating one for your social club?

  EileenCotton79 says: How exciting! Yes, that sounds wonderful. At the moment we need to get permission from one other person in the building, but we should have that soon.

  OldCountryBoy says: I can’t wait to be involved!

  I beam. An alert pings, making me jump.

  One new user has viewed your profile.

  I hover over the notification, distracted, then remember what Bee showed me about how you can keep the conversation open in another box. I click.

  Arnold1234. No profile picture, no description, nothing. That’s quite unusual on this website. My profile tells you all sorts of things, from my favorite holiday locations to my favorite books.

  I narrow my eyes suspiciously. Of course, there are lots of Arnolds in the world. It’s not an uncommon name.

  But I can’t help thinking …

  I press the message button on the screen.

  EileenCotton79 says: Hello, Arnold! I notice you were looking at my page and I thought I would say hello.

  I go back to my conversation with Old Country Boy. It would be very easy to get confused here and message the wrong man. Not that I’m complaining about juggling men, mind.

  OldCountryBoy says: I’m going to spend my evening with a good book, I think! What are you reading at the moment?

  EileenCotton79 says: I’m working my way through Agatha Christie’s plays again. I never get tired of her!

  Meanwhile, in the other window:

  Arnold1234: Eileen? It’s Arnold Macintyre from next door.

  I knew it! What’s that old sod doing on my dating page? I press “my profile” and read it again as if through Arnold’s eyes. I cringe. It sounds awfully boastful all of a sudden, and very silly. How could I say that I was full of life and looking for a new adventure?

  EileenCotton79 says: What are you doing on here, Arnold???

  I regret the triple question mark as soon as I’ve pressed send. It doesn’t convey the haughty higher-ground attitude I usually try to take when it comes to dealing with Arnold.

  Arnold1234 says: Same as you.

  I huff.

  EileenCotton79 says: Well, good for you, but you can stay off my page!

  Arnold1234 says: Sorry, Eileen. I was just looking for some ideas of what to say on mine. I’m not very good at this sort of thing.

  I soften slightly. I hadn’t thought of that.

  EileenCotton79 says: I had Leena’s friend help me with mine. Why not ask Jackson for help?

  Arnold1234 says: Ask Jackson for advice? I’ll end up with some floozy called Petunia or Narcissus or something.

  I snort with laughter.

  EileenCotton79 says: You should be so lucky, Arnold Macintyre!

  Oopsie, I’d forgotten about Howard for a moment there. I frown, clicking back to the right conversation. I don’t want to get distracted with old Hamleigh folks.

  OldCountryBoy says: I’ve never tried Agatha Christie, but I will now that you have recommended her! Which book should I start with, Eileen?

  I smile, already typing. Now, this is more like it.

  17

  Leena

  I glance at my watch, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. I am sitting in the driving seat of the school van, which is apparently lent to my grandmother every so often so she can drive the gang to bingo. Beside me is Nicola, my new—and only—client in my role as voluntary taxi driver for the Knargill elderly. She’s got to be at least ninety-five—I’ve never seen anybody with so many wrinkles—but her brown hair is only just threaded with gray, and she has magnificently bushy eyebrows, wiry like an eccentric professor’s. So far, she’s spent most of our journeys together coming up with elaborate unfounded judgments about any driver we pass on the road; she is very rude and absolutely hilarious. I’ve informed Bee that I have a new best friend.

  As well as being very old, and very judgmental, Nicola is also very isolated. She told me when we first met that she didn’t know what loneliness meant until her husband passed away four years ago; now she will go days, sometimes weeks, without even so much as meeting eyes with another soul. There’s nothing like it, she says. It’s a kind of madness.

  I’ve been trying to work out a good way to get her out of the house for days, and then I finally hit on it after Mum asked me to pick her up for bingo. Bingo is perfect. And the more the merrier, frankly, now that I have made the decision to invite my mother, with whom I have yet to really have a proper conversation for the last year and two months.

  “Why are you so tense?” Nicola asks, squinting at me.

  “I’m not tense.”

  She says nothing, but in a pointed sort of way.

  “It’s my mum. We don’t … we’ve not been getting on that well. And she’s late.” I look at my watch again. Mum’s been to her yoga class in Tauntingham and asked me to pick her up from there, which is quite out of my way, but I’m trying very hard not to find that annoying.

  “Fallen out, have you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not worth arguing with your mother over. Life’s too short for that.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t let me convince my sister to try a potentially life-saving cancer treatment. And now my sister’s dead.”

  Nicola pauses. “Right,” she says. “Golly.”

  At that moment the van door slides open and my mum climbs in. I notice, with a wince, that the window on Nicola’s side is wide open.

  “Potentially life-saving treatment?” Mum says. My stomach drops at the tone of her voice—it’s clipped with fury. She’s not spoken to me like that since I was a child. “What potentially life-saving treatment, Leena?”

  “I showed you,” I say, gripping the steering wheel, not turning around. “I showed you the research, I gave you that pamphlet from the medical center in the States—”

  “Oh, the pamphlet. Right. The treatment that Carla’s doctors advised against. The one everyone said wouldn’t work and would merely prolong her pain and—”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Sorry, everyone but your one American doctor who wanted to charge us tens of thousands of pounds for some false hope.”

  I slam my hand against the steering wheel and turn to face her. She’s flushed with emotion—it’s dappling the skin of her chest, flaring on her cheeks. I feel a wave of almost-fear, because we’re really doing this, we’re really having this conversation, it’s happening.

  “Hope. A chance. You always said all my life Cotton women don’t quit, and then when it mattered more than anything else in the world you let Carla do just that.”

  Nicola clears her throat. Embarrassed, Mum and I glance in her direction with our mouths open, as though we’ve both been caught mid-word.

  “Hello,” Nicola says to Mum. “Nicola Alderson.”

  As if she’s pierced a bubble, we both deflate.

  “Oh, hi, sorry,” Mum says, sitting back in her seat and putting on her seat belt. “So sorry. How rude of us to—to—I’m so sorry.”

  I clear my throat and turn back to the road. My heart is pounding so hard it almost makes me feel breathless, as if it’s working its way up my throat. I’m late to pick up the rest of the bingo lot, now; I turn the key in the ignition and pull aw
ay.

  … and straight into a bollard.

  Fuck. Fuck. I knew that bollard was there, I made a mental note when I parked here—I thought to myself, When you pull away, don’t forget about the bollard that’s just out of your line of sight.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I leap out of the van and grimace, covering my face with my hands. The bottom right side of the bonnet is badly dented.

  “Actually, no,” Mum says, jumping out of the van behind me and pulling the door closed with a slam. “I’m sick of half-having these sorts of conversations with you. I’m sorry, Nicola, but we’re not done.”

  “That’s all right,” Nicola calls. “I’ll wind the window up, shall I?”

  “How dare you act like I gave up on my daughter?” Mum says, her fists clenched at her sides.

  I’m still processing the dented bonnet. “Mum, I—”

  “You didn’t see her day in, day out.” Mum’s voice is climbing. “The emergency admissions; the endless, brutal, wrenching vomiting; the times she was so weak she couldn’t make it to the toilet. She put on a brave face when you visited—you never saw her at her worst!”

  I let out a small gasp. That hurt. “I wanted to be there more.” My eyes are stinging, I’m going to cry. “You know Carla didn’t want me to leave my job, and I—I couldn’t be here all the time, Mum, you know that.”

  “But I was here all the time. I saw it. I felt it, what she felt. I’m her mother.”

  Mum’s eyes narrow, catlike, frightening. She’s speaking again before I can respond. The words come spilling out of her in a voice that’s raw and rising and doesn’t sound like my mum.

  “Is this why you left us and cut us out of your life? To punish me, because you think I didn’t try hard enough for Carla? Then let me tell you something, Leena. You cannot imagine how much I wanted your American doctor to be right. You can’t imagine it. Losing Carla has made me wonder what the hell I’m living for every minute of every day, and if there was any way I believed I could have saved my little girl, I would have taken it.” Her cheeks are wet with tears. “But it wouldn’t have worked, Leena, and you know it.”