The Switch

by Beth O'Leary

  Hmm. That’s not Betsy’s account of things, and I trust Betsy’s eye when it comes to a brewing romance. Rumors that start with Betsy are rarely wrong.

  “I was ashamed of myself, after,” Jackson says. “She’s got—she had a boyfriend.”

  “Yes, well,” I say briskly. “No need to worry about that any longer, we made quick work of him.” I reach forward and pat his arm. “If she doesn’t see you that way, then you need to change the way she sees you. Come to London. Wear something smart. You know how, at the pictures, when the girl gets dressed up for a party and walks down the stairs in slow motion with her glasses off and her hair up and a bit of leg showing and the man is standing at the bottom, mouth open wide, as if he can’t believe he’s never seen her that way before?”

  “Yeah?” Jackson says.

  “You need to be that girl. Come on. Have you got a suit?”

  “A suit? I … There’s the one I wore to Davey’s funeral.”

  “You haven’t got a less … funereal option?”

  “No. I’ve got smart trousers and a shirt?”

  “That’ll do. And wash your hair, there’s half a tree in there.”

  He raises an experimental hand to his head and pulls out a sprig of something evergreen. “Oh,” he says.

  “Shower, get dressed, then it’s go-time. You can drive us to Daredale station in that truck of yours?”

  “Yeah, I can. I’ll … but…” He swallows. “Is this a good idea?”

  “It’s an excellent idea,” I tell him firmly. “Now come on. Chop, chop.”

  * * *

  Fitz kisses me on the cheek when I arrive, then double takes when he sees Jackson.

  “Is this Arnold?” he says, clutching at his chest.

  I laugh. “This is Jackson,” I say. “Arnold’s stepson. In love with Leena,” I add in a whisper, though it might not be as quiet as I thought it was because, behind Fitz, Martha goes oooh and before I know it, she’s grabbed Jackson’s arm and started what looks like a very personal conversation.

  The party is a heaving mass of bodies; I wince despite myself at the barrage of thumping music as we move inside. We’re in a bar under the arches by Waterloo station, and the noise echoes from the high, cavernous ceiling as stylish youngsters mill about holding beer bottles.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Jackson mutters beside me, having escaped Martha’s well-meaning clutches. “This is…”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, patting his arm. “If you feel out of place, just imagine how I feel.”

  He looks down at me. “Somehow you fit right in, actually.”

  “I know,” I say breezily. “I was just trying to make you feel better. Come on, let’s find Leena.”

  We make an unusual pairing as we move through the crowds, one old lady and one giant young man walking arm in arm through the throng. Jackson has smartened up well, I’m pleased to see. His shirt is open at the neck and just the right fit across the shoulders, and even though he’s wearing a very battered pair of brown leather shoes, the overall effect is very impressive. Combined with the clean hair and the smart trousers, it’s all bound to get Leena’s attention.

  “Eileen?”

  I turn, surprised, and am faced with the rather hunted expression of Ethan Coleman.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I hiss at him.

  Beside me I can feel Jackson drawing up, getting even taller, even broader. It’s all very manly. I look around quickly, hoping Leena is within view, but no such luck.

  “I’m here for Leena,” Ethan says. “Eileen, please, you have to understand…”

  “I have to do no such thing,” I say, pulling on Jackson’s arm. It’s like trying to tug at concrete. “Come on.”

  “You’re here sniffing around after Leena, are you?” Ethan asks Jackson, lip curling a little. “I thought as much when I first met you. But she’s not your type, mate. Or, rather, you’re not hers.”

  Jackson is very still. I yank at his arm, but again, nothing—he is firmly rooted.

  “What’s that meant to mean?” Jackson asks Ethan.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ethan says, moving to pass us. “I’ll see you around.”

  Jackson’s arm shoots out. Ethan walks right into it with a quiet oof.

  “If you’ve got something to say, say it,” Jackson says. He sounds very calm.

  Well. This is all rather thrilling. Where is Leena when you need her?

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Ethan says, rattled. “Get out of my way. I’m going to find Leena.”

  “What do you want with Leena?”

  “What do you think?” Ethan snaps.

  “I’ll have a guess,” Jackson says. “You still think you have a chance with her. You think Leena will come around and forgive you—you’re her blind spot, aren’t you, and you can get away with pretty much anything. You don’t see why now should be any different.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jackson shrugs. “I hope you’re right about that. Good luck to you, mate, but I hope she tells you where to shove it.” He turns to me. “Eileen, shall we?”

  “Let’s,” I say, and we head on through the crowd, leaving Ethan behind.

  “So,” Jackson says to me, “who do you think is going to find Leena first?”

  I scoff. “I’m Eileen Cotton and she’s Eileen Cotton. I’ve lived her life and she’s lived mine.” I tap the side of my head. “It’s a sixth sense, Jackson. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s a complex bond, like the one between a—”

  “We seem to be heading to the gin bar,” Jackson remarks.

  “Where would you be if you’d just found out your ex was at your friend’s engagement party? It was this or in front of the bathroom mirror, fixing her hair—ooh, doesn’t she look beautiful!” I breathe, catching sight of her at the bar.

  She’s wearing a long black dress that leaves her arms bare; there’s a striking silver bangle on her wrist, but that’s all the adornment she needs. Her hair is stunning—worn as it should be, loose and large and full of life.

  I glance at Jackson. He’s staring at Leena. I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs. You’d have to be a fool not to tell what that man is thinking.

  “Leena,” Ethan calls out to our left, pushing through the crowd.

  I curse under my breath. “The little weasel!” I hiss, trying to shove Jackson forward. “Quick, before he…”

  Jackson holds his ground and shakes his head. “Not like this,” he says.

  I huff, but stay where I am. At the bar, Leena’s brushing Ethan off. Her cheeks are flushed—she’s getting up now, trying to walk away—toward us …

  “Look, Ethan,” she says, spinning on her heels just a few feet away. “I gave you a free pass, didn’t I? I didn’t even know I’d done it, but you did. I decided you were the guy for me and that was it. Well, turns out that pass does expire, Ethan, and there is a line, and you fucking crossed it.”

  “Leena, listen to me—”

  “I don’t know what was worse! Sleeping with my arch-bloody-nemesis or telling me my grandmother was losing her mind! Do you know how messed up that was?”

  “I panicked,” Ethan wheedles. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Do you know what? Do you know what? I’m almost pleased you slept with Ceci. There. I said it. I’m glad you cheated on me because thank God I came to my senses and realized you weren’t right for me at all. Not this me, not the me I am now, not any more. We’re done.”

  And with that she turns to storm off and walks right into Jackson.

  He catches her arm as she stumbles backward. Their eyes meet. Her cheeks are flushed, his lips are parted. Around us the crowd shifts, closing Ethan from view, leaving a small quiet island just here. Just the two of them.

  Oh, well, and me, I suppose.

  “Jackson?” Leena says, baffled. She looks him up and down. “Oh, wow, you look…”

  I b
reathe in, hand at my heart. Here it comes.

  “Weird,” Leena finishes.

  “Weird?” I blurt. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, girl!”

  They both turn to me then.

  “Grandma?” Leena looks between me and Jackson, then glances over her shoulder as if remembering Ethan. Her eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “Jackson just fancied a trip to London, and so I thought, oh, there’s a party this evening and…”

  Her eyes are narrowed to slits.

  “Oh, look,” I say brightly, as a member of staff heads out of the storage room to the side of the bar. “Just come this way a minute.” I grab Leena and Jackson by the hands and pull. Thankfully they follow me. I lead them into the storage room.

  “Wha—Grandma, where are we—”

  I duck out and close the door behind them.

  “There,” I say, brushing my hands down on my culottes. “Not many seventy-nine-year-olds who could be quite that nimble, if I do say so myself.” I tap a nearby gentleman on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” I say. “Would you mind leaning on this door, please?”

  “Grandma?” Leena calls through the door. “Grandma, what are you doing?”

  “Meddling!” I yell cheerfully. “It’s my new ‘thing’!”

  39

  Leena

  This cupboard is extremely small. It’s also lined with shelves, so there’s nothing to lean on; Jackson and I are standing very close together but not quite touching, as though we’re on a tube train.

  What is Grandma playing at? I look down at my feet, trying to shuffle backward, and my hair brushes against Jackson’s shirt. He inhales sharply, raises a hand to his head, and elbows me in the shoulder.

  “Sorry,” we both say.

  I laugh. It comes out far too high-pitched.

  “This is my fault,” Jackson says eventually. I risk a look up at him; we’re so close together, I have to crane my neck to see his face. “I shouldn’t have let her talk me into coming.”

  “Did you … come to see me?”

  He looks down at me then. We’re so close our noses almost touch. I’m not sure I’ve ever been quite so aware of somebody, physically, I mean—I hear every rustle as he moves, feel the heat of his body inches from mine.

  “Course I did,” he says, and just like that, my pulse is thundering again.

  There’s just something about Jackson. Even with his hair all fluffed up, and dried-out shaving foam behind his ear, he’s so sexy. It’s the unintentional confidence he has, as if he’s wholly himself and couldn’t possibly manage being somebody else even if he wanted to.

  “Though,” he goes on, “this is not how I imagined we’d see each other again. Bit of a last-minute plan change. Think I got Eileened.”

  His hand brushes mine. I inhale sharply, and his eyes search my face, but it’s not an objection, it’s a reaction to the sharp shot of heat that comes when his skin touches mine. I let my fingers twine with his, and I feel like a schoolkid doing seven minutes in heaven with the guy I’ve been crushing on all year.

  “What had you planned? Beforehand?” I ask. My other hand finds his.

  “Well, I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait before you binned that ex of yours. But I thought you’d see sense eventually, and when you did, I’d wait an appropriate amount of time…”

  His lips touch mine, very gently, not even quite a kiss. My whole body responds; I can feel the hair on my arms stand on end.

  “Like six weeks?” I say.

  “I’d imagined six months. But it turns out I’m impatient,” Jackson whispers.

  “So you’d wait six months, and then…”

  Our lips are touching again, another almost-kiss, a little deeper now, but his lips are gone before I can kiss him back. I shift my fingers between his, holding him tighter, feeling the calluses on his palms.

  “No shame—I’d make full use of all the tools at my disposal,” he says, his voice husky. “Get the schoolkids to sing you that Ed Sheeran song, ‘Thinking Out Loud,’ send Hank around with a bunch of flowers in his mouth, bake you heart-shaped brownies. Burn them, in case you make them that way because that’s how you like them.”

  I laugh. He kisses me then, a real kiss, lips parted, his tongue tasting mine. I melt into him, our hands still linked at our sides, and I stand on tiptoes to kiss him better, and then, when I can’t resist it any longer, I let go of his hands to thread my arms across those broad shoulders and press my body against his.

  Jackson breathes out. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined how it would feel, holding you like this,” he says, pressing his lips against my neck.

  I sigh as he kisses the sensitive skin behind my ear. “I might’ve thought about it too,” I confess.

  “Oh?” I feel him smile. “You did fancy me, then. Could’ve given me a clue. I’ve been shit-scared all evening.”

  I laugh. “You’ve been distractingly fanciable for months. I’m surprised you didn’t figure out I had a crush on you.”

  “Ah, was that what losing my dog and crashing the school van meant?”

  I press a kiss to his jaw, feeling that sandy stubble beneath my lips. “No,” I say. “That meant I was a mess.”

  He pulls back then, rests his forehead against mine. “You weren’t a mess, Leena Cotton. I’ve never met a human being who is less of a mess than you are.”

  I move away a little to look up at him properly.

  “What do you think people do when they lose someone? Just … plow on?” He smooths my hair back from my face. “You were healing. You’re still healing. You’ll maybe always be healing. And that’s OK. It’ll just be part of what makes you you.”

  I rest my face against his chest. He kisses the top of my head.

  “Hey,” he says. “Say the distractingly fanciable thing again.”

  I smile. I don’t know how to explain the way Jackson makes me feel, how freeing it is to be around somebody so completely themselves, so utterly without guile.

  “When you’re here, I’m here too,” I say, turning my face up to his. “Which is amazing, because most of the time, I’m always somewhere else. Looking back or looking ahead, worrying or planning or…”

  He kisses me on the lips until my whole body is humming. I want to take that shirt off him and feel the hair on his chest and the broad, firm muscles of his shoulders and count the pale freckles on his arms. Instead I kiss him again, hungrily, breathlessly, and he walks me backward half a step so my back is pressed against the cupboard door, his body flush to mine. We kiss like teenagers, his hands tangling in my hair, mine clenching fists of fabric at the back of his shirt.

  Then—oof—the door opens, and we’re thrown backward. All that stops us falling is Jackson’s arm thrown out to catch the doorframe—I cling to him, my hair in my face, as the music of the party blares around us. I can hear laughter and whoops, and even once I’m steady on my feet, I keep my face buried in Jackson’s neck.

  “Leena Cotton!” I hear Fitz call. “You’re just as much of a minx as your grandmother!”

  I laugh, pulling away a little and turning to look at the crowd around us. I see my grandma’s face—she’s beaming at me, a large gin and tonic in her hand.

  “Are you going to tell me off for meddling?” she calls.

  I lean into Jackson, my hands linked around his waist. “You know what? I can’t fault you on this one, Grandma. Switch places, and I would have done the exact same thing.”

  EPILOGUE

  Eileen

  It’s been almost six months since Leena moved to Hamleigh; seven months since Marian left. And two years to the day since Carla died.

  We’re at Leeds Airport, awaiting the arrival of the last member of our party. Leena’s organized it all: the village hall is decked out in moon daisies and lilies, Carla’s favorite flowers, and we’re having shepherd’s pie then brownies for pudding. We even invited Wade, though thankfully he took the invite as it was meant—purely a g
esture—and declined.

  Here in Leeds Airport, Samantha comes tearing around the corner, eyes scanning the gaggle of people waiting around us. She spots Jackson first, and that’s it, she’s flying toward him, her blonde mop of hair bouncing as she darts her way through the crowd and throws herself into his waiting arms.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Samantha cries.

  Marigold follows her daughter more slowly. In her defense, nobody could move at speed in those ridiculous heels.

  “Leena, hi,” she says, leaning to kiss my granddaughter on the cheek. Marigold looks relaxed, and the smile she shoots Leena seems genuine.

  This is all Leena’s doing. Samantha will be spending the next four weeks here, then going back to America with Marigold after Christmas. Leena worked on Marigold for weeks: softly softly, placating, easing her into the idea, removing each obstacle one by one. I was there for the moment, one month ago, when she told Jackson that Marigold had agreed to a longer visit at Christmas. If it is possible for a man to look both broken and healed at the very same moment, then that’s how Jackson looked. He hugged Leena so tightly I thought she’d suffocate, but instead she came up red-cheeked and beaming, turning her face up to his for a kiss. I have never been prouder.

  We make our way back to Hamleigh-in-Harksdale in convoy, Jackson’s truck in the lead, and me in Agatha the Ford Ka, who now—thanks to Arnold—has functioning air conditioning. There’s snow on the hilltops and dusting the old stone walls crisscrossing the fields. I feel a fierce, intense love for this place that has always been my home, and I watch Leena smile out at the Dales as we pass the sign saying Welcome to Hamleigh-in-Harksdale. It’s home for her, now, too.

  The Neighborhood Watch are setting up the village hall when we get there. They greet Marigold and Samantha like returning war heroes, which just goes to show that absence really does make the heart grow fonder, because Basil and Betsy used to harp on about Marigold like she was Mary Magdalene before she moved to America.

  “You guys! You’ve done an amazing job,” Leena says, bouncing on the spot.