Swapping Lives

by Jane Green

  ‘Seems nice. Looks like a banana.’

  ‘Darling, what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean she looks like a banana. Wearing a very scary shade of yellow. Makes me want to put my sunglasses on.’

  ‘But is she a Desperate Housewife?’

  ‘I’d say in that shade of yellow she’s got to be pretty bloody desperate.’

  ‘Oh I see her!’ Janelle claps her hands as she sees Ruth lead Amber in and start introducing her. ‘Oh I adore that colour. Why is it that only the Americans can pull off those wonderful acid colours. Oh so smart,’ she muses to herself. ‘And the perfect colours to brighten up a dull winter day. Where’s Stella? Can you be a darling and go and get Stella in here for me? I’m thinking fruit bowl for Christmas. Orange and yellow and purple. Gorgeous! And do bring Amber in to say hello.’ Janelle watches her admiringly as Amber shakes hands and waves to people sitting at banks of desks around the room, and Leona slips out of the office.

  ‘Well?’ Ruth has deposited both Amber and Stella with a besotted Janelle, and turns to find Leona standing there.

  ‘Well what?’ Ruth says.

  ‘Well Janelle clearly has one of her crushes.’ Leona rolls her eyes. ‘She was almost licking her shoe soles.’

  ‘I’ll admit she’s very pretty, but I still maintain she looks like a banana.’

  ‘Well you’d better start thinking that’s a good thing, because Janelle’s decided to feature bananas, oranges and plums for the Christmas issue.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Look,’ and Leona gestures to Janelle’s office where Janelle is clearly getting excited about something, pointing to Amber’s sweater, as Stella nods, throwing in a few ideas of her own.

  Janelle’s door opens and Ruth and Leona immediately put their heads together, pretending to be busy.

  ‘…and you must come over for dinner one night with Stephen and me,’ Janelle says. ‘We’ll host a dinner party for you, introduce you to some fabulous people. And if there’s anything you need, just knock on the door, otherwise the girls will look after you, won’t you, girls?’ And the deputy editor, celebrity editor and health editor all look up, all women in their thirties and forties, all married with children, all resigned to forever being ‘the Girls’ in their editor’s eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ they say in unison. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I thought she was supposed to be living Vicky’s life?’ Ruth whispers when Amber goes to get a coffee.

  ‘She is. Why?’

  ‘When was the last time Janelle offered to host a dinner party for Vicky?’

  ‘Darling,’ Leona does a horrifyingly accurate impersonation of Janelle, ‘if Vicky were a Winslow, Stephen and I would have her over for dinner all the time. Don’t take it personally, darling, but she’s almost an equal, and were she not American, she might even be someone I’d want to be friends with.’

  ‘Well this is certainly going to be interesting,’ Ruth says. ‘Meanwhile what’s she actually going to do while she’s here?’

  ‘Bloody good question,’ Leona says. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  Amber is not a young temp, and cannot be treated as such, so going through press clippings and offering tea to the desk is not something that can be asked of her. She is not a journalist and cannot be asked to write pieces for the forthcoming issues. She is a confident, fairly intimidating American wife and mother, and as such is proving to be something of a problem.

  Because it was never the case that Amber was really ever going to step into Vicky’s shoes at work. How could a novice come in and deputize for the features director when she doesn’t know the first thing about magazines? There are, admittedly, a few things Amber could do, but none of them would be the types of things Vicky would do.

  She can attend meetings with Janelle, even though everyone else at the meeting would know that she was there as a courtesy rather than for what she could contribute. She could possibly write small editorial pieces, even though Vicky left those types of pieces behind many years ago.

  Perhaps she could sift through the thousands of unsolicited features that arrive on the features director’s desk daily, and who knows, being inexperienced she may even bother to read some of them before consigning them to the bin.

  The last thing they want is for her to sit around bored, and in the end it is Leona who comes up with the perfect solution. ‘Let’s send her out to do a story!’ she says. ‘It gets her out of the office, it’s something that Vicky might do once in a blue moon –’

  ‘Bollocks!’ interjects Ruth. ‘Vicky only goes out to do stories if they’re off to luxury spas in Thailand.’

  ‘Well, okay, you’ve got a point, but why not send her on a press trip? If her writing’s crap we can just rewrite it for her. Now all we have to do is think up a piece and find somewhere for her to go. Ruth, you go through all the press releases that came in over the last week and pull anything that sounds interesting and put it on my desk.’

  ‘What should I do with Amber in the meantime?’

  ‘Oh God,’ groans Leona. ‘I know! We’re running that piece on taking time for ourselves when the kids get too much. I’ll ask her to do a box on ten things that give us breathing space. She’s a mum. I’m sure she can do that. And let me have those press releases this afternoon.’

  *

  Amber hasn’t written anything creative for around fifteen years – not since she was in college. She spends the morning reading through British newspapers and magazines to familiarize herself with them, grabs a sandwich from Pret à Manger to eat at her desk with the rest of the girls, then spends the afternoon struggling to come up with ten things that give us breathing space.

  When six o’clock comes she finds she hasn’t thought about Jared, Gracie or Richard all day. She’s joined in the banter across the desk, including answering the many, many questions about life in America, and feels, for the first time in years, that she’s actually used her brain somewhat.

  At six Leona comes over and congratulates her.

  ‘I’ve just read the piece and it’s perfect!’ she says. Truthfully. ‘We’re going to run it as is. Looks like we’ll have to find more pieces for you.’

  ‘Really?’ Amber is thrilled. And surprised.

  ‘Really. You’re obviously a natural. Listen, I’m off to a screening tonight at the Charlotte Street Hotel. Do you want to come?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Amber says, ‘but I’m really tired. Can we do it another night?’

  ‘Sure,’ Leona says. ‘There’s one on Thursday in Soho. How does that sound?’

  ‘I’m already going with Jackie,’ Amber says.

  ‘My my!’ Leona laughs. ‘You are busy already, aren’t you? Tell you what, how about lunch tomorrow? We’ll go somewhere nice.’

  ‘Great!’ says Amber. ‘I’ll put it in my book.’ And as Amber rides down in the lift, as she walks home past Selfridges, cutting through to Hinde Street, Amber finds that the smile never leaves her face.

  Perhaps this wasn’t such a mistake after all.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘Ouch!’

  Richard looks up at Vicky and winces in sympathy as she walks gingerly into the kitchen, trying not to let her thighs rub against one another, nor her arms touch her sides.

  ‘I know,’ she tries a smile, her skin feeling hot and tight as she does. ‘I think I overdid it a bit yesterday.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Richard jumps up and goes to the medicine cabinet on the other side of the kitchen. ‘You’d better put something on that immediately. I think this should help,’ and he hands her a bottle of calamine lotion.

  ‘Vicky?’ Gracie hasn’t stopped staring at Vicky since she walked in.

  ‘Yes, darling?’ Vicky stops shaking the bottle to look at Gracie.

  ‘Why is your face the colour of my socks?’ And she extends her legs to show off her purple socks.

  ‘It’s not the colour of your socks, silly,’ Jared interrupts, ‘your socks are purple and Vicky’s f
ace is red. Red like a… fire truck.’

  ‘No!’ Gracie’s voice rises indignantly. ‘It is the colour of my socks.’

  ‘Oh I hope it’s not, darling, because that would be really scary,’ Vicky says, leaning down and giving Gracie a painful squeeze. ‘But this is what happens when you don’t put enough sun cream on.’

  ‘Is that sunburn, then?’ Jared asks curiously.

  ‘This isn’t just sunburn,’ Vicky says, sighing with pleasure as she smoothes the thick white liquid all over her face and the children watch her in fascination. ‘This is practically sun roast. In fact, I’m not Vicky any more, I’m roasted Vicky. And it’s very very painful.’

  Richard shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t put any cream on. It was ninety-seven degrees yesterday.’

  ‘Well first of all I wasn’t planning on falling asleep on that lilo in the swimming pool, and second of all I thought my skin was fairly strong. You’re talking to the girl who used to sunbathe with olive oil in the back garden.’

  ‘Olive oil?’ Richard spits his coffee out with laughter. ‘That’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever heard. And you must have smelt terrible.’

  ‘Are you kidding? I smelt delicious. Bit of salt and pepper, sprinkling of lemon juice and I was good enough to eat.’

  ‘Were you really good enough to eat?’ Jared asks seriously, Jared who is now at the age when he listens to everything. Even when he looks as if he’s focusing fiercely on a television show, he will still manage to hear every morsel of interesting adult conversation going on in the next room, and will then ask inappropriate questions about it at inappropriate times.

  ‘No, Jared,’ Richard says, ‘that’s just a figure of speech. But seriously, Vicky, didn’t you burn like crazy with olive oil?’

  ‘No,’ she shrugs. ‘I just went a lovely golden brown, although I suppose the English sun isn’t that strong. And worse, I used to lie on a sheet of tin foil.’

  Richard starts laughing again. ‘And I thought you were joking about being roasted Vicky.’

  ‘Dad?’ Jared taps him on the arm. ‘What’s a figure of speech? Is that like an action figure?’

  ‘No, Jar, it’s just a way of saying something, so when…’ he tails off and rolls his eyes at Vicky. ‘It’s complicated, Jar. I’ll explain when you’re older. Vicky, there’s coffee over there, and because it’s Saturday I made French toast and eggs. Just help yourself.’

  And Vicky does, sitting down to an enormous plate of French toast, bacon, scrambled eggs and maple syrup, reading the New York Times while Richard reads the business section and the children run into the family room to watch Saturday morning television.

  This, Vicky thinks, sipping her coffee and surreptitiously looking at Richard, dressed today in a polo shirt and khaki shorts, this I could get used to. Oh stop, she tells herself. The last thing you need right now is to be lusting after another woman’s husband. And anyway, it’s not particularly Richard that she’s lusting after, she realizes. It’s the whole picture. It’s eating French toast that your handsome husband has made on a Saturday morning. It’s sipping fresh coffee at an antique breakfast table by the large French windows as sunlight streams in and glints on the glasses of orange juice. It’s sitting in companionable silence with another person, able to read the papers separately, but together.

  This is what I want with Jamie Donnelly, she thinks. This is exactly how I can see myself living with Jamie Donnelly, exactly the sort of feeling that I want to have, although it’s hard when she only sees him late at night, when they’re still in such early days, when passion is still the driving force behind their relationship.

  Vicky would love to push the fast-forward button, take their relationship to exactly where she’s sitting now, but she’s trying hard to ignore that urge, because she’s felt it many times before, and it’s only ever got her into trouble. Never one to take things slowly, every time Vicky has thought that this time she may have met her Mr Right, she has jumped in feet first, and her relationships have always followed the exact same pattern: they meet her, fall madly in love with her because of what she appears to be – independent, funny, slightly aloof. As soon as they fall hook, line and sinker, Vicky feels she can trust them enough to let her true feelings show, at which point she becomes affectionate, warm, dependent. Convinced that this time it’s real, she will drop hints about the kind of future she wants, tell them of her dreams to have children, and animals, to live in the country. She will stop going out for dinner, and will start cooking for them, proving what a wonderful wife she would make.

  And if their laundry needs collecting, their spare room needs organizing, their letters need posting, then Vicky will do that too, all in the name of love and her future.

  It may take three weeks. Sometimes three months, and occasionally we’re talking longer, but at some point they always run away, always say they’re not ready for what Vicky wants. They thought they were at the same stage, but clearly Vicky needs much more than they can give; and Vicky is then left alone again, convinced she has done something wrong, convinced that she will never find her Mr Right.

  But if she were to find her Mr Right, if indeed Jamie Donnelly is her Mr Right, then this is exactly how she would choose to spend her Saturday mornings. Reading the papers quietly, perhaps both reading out loud the occasional funny or interesting quote or story, taking the kids out to lunch, then perhaps a long walk in the park or on the heath with the dog.

  Richard feels Vicky watching him and looks up to catch her eye. ‘I’m being rude, aren’t I?’ he says, putting the paper down. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t know quite how to behave. Amber kept saying I had to treat you like her, which is completely ridiculous, not to mention impossible given that I barely know you. So I’m torn between being incredibly polite and trying to explain our lives to you, or doing what I normally do on a Saturday morning which is this. And now I realize that this is rude, and you probably have loads of questions, so go on. Shoot. Ask me anything.’

  ‘Whoa!’ Vicky laughs and puts her arms up. ‘I don’t have any questions. I was just thinking that this whole… experiment… is so strange. I didn’t think that I would be able to really feel what it would be like to be married and have kids, and what I was thinking while you were reading the paper was that right now I think I do know exactly what it must be like, and I didn’t expect to have that feeling, and definitely not on my very first day.’

  ‘So what do you think it must be like?’

  ‘Well right now it feels very easy. Relaxed. Comfortable. I love that you’re sitting there reading the paper and don’t feel the need to entertain me. That’s exactly what’s supposed to happen, except I didn’t think you’d be able to do it so quickly.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t think I’d be able to be so rude so quickly.’ Richard grins.

  ‘Exactly!’ Vicky laughs.

  ‘Well I know what you’re saying, but this isn’t an accurate reflection of a typical Saturday morning.’

  ‘Oh no? What’s the difference?’

  ‘First, the kids are on their best behaviour because you’re here, but we’ll see how long that lasts. Secondly, Saturday morning television is a very occasional treat. Amber hates them watching TV, and only tends to use it as a last resort, so usually they’re bored by this time and are pulling at our sleeves and begging to go out somewhere.

  ‘And usually we’re not nearly this organized. My confession today is that because you’re here I got everything ready for breakfast last night so it was all incredibly easy this morning. Usually Amber and I are both running around preparing the food, getting drinks, making our own breakfasts, dealing with fights between Jared and Gracie. Let me tell you, today feels like a vacation.’

  ‘Maybe Life Swap will show you a different way of doing things?’ Vicky grins.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Maybe it will teach you to be a bit more organized,’ she laughs, as Richard shakes his head.

  ‘It’s a nice thou
ght, but I can’t see Amber and me keeping this up.’

  ‘So what’s on the plan for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I thought we could go up to the farmers’ market in Weston. It’s much easier to hit the grocery store for vegetables, but the farmers’ market is a real experience, and I thought tonight we could do a barbecue, so we can get the salad stuff there. Plus you get to see what a country farmers’ market is like.’

  ‘Sounds perfect!’

  ‘We can take the kids out to lunch and then hang out here. I’ll take Jared to his Little League game at four, and you’re welcome to come with, or you can hang out here and swim with Gracie.’

  Vicky gestures to herself. ‘I think the last thing I’m going to be doing today is swimming,’ she laughs.

  ‘You could wear a wet suit,’ Richard says.

  ‘Ouch! Even the thought of rolling a wet suit onto my poor, sore skin is painful. Nope. I’m covering up today and staying out of the pool.’

  ‘Okay. So if you give me twenty minutes I just have to make a phone call and then we’ll go.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Vicky says, as Richard gets up and goes upstairs. Damn, she thinks. I wish I hadn’t noticed how nice his legs are.

  They go to the farmers’ market, buy armfuls of fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce and onions that came out of the ground that morning. They buy fresh honey and flowers, and home-made pecan slices that stick to their fingers, washing them down with sugary sweet lemonade.

  Every single person at the farmers’ market comments on Vicky’s skin colour. ‘Wow, that looks painful,’ they say, one after the other, all curious as to how someone could be so negligent, all understanding as soon as Vicky opens her mouth and reveals she’s English.

  It gets to the stage that Vicky offers the explanation before they say anything, and soon Jared joins in, leading Vicky to stands they haven’t yet been to, standing next to her and pointing at her face. ‘It’s sunburn,’ Jared shouts, to get their attention. ‘This is Vicky and she’s from England, and she fell asleep on a raft in the swimming pool yesterday because she’s jet-lagged.’