The Accidental Life Swap

by Jennifer Joyce

The scratches turn out to be pretty superficial, and I’m feeling much better once I’ve had a cup of tea and disposed of the leftover chocolate from last night. So much so, I’m full of shame for the way I spoke to Oliver and pluck up the courage to head over to the house to offer a full, heartfelt apology. The builders have moved from the courtyard, but they haven’t made it very far. I find them in the hallway, Vincent still chatting on his phone, his free arm flailing as he makes a point about some ‘braindead ref’, while Oliver is having what appears to be a nap in the corner and Harvey and Todd are entwined like a human pretzel as they tussle near the staircase. There isn’t a tool in sight and even the paint-splattered radio is silent and abandoned on the windowsill. I stand in the doorway for a moment, my mouth slowly gaping as I take in the scene. Vincent swears loudly, his arm flinging in the air as the expletive echoes in the barren space, and the sudden sound captures Todd’s attention. Looking up, he’s caught off guard so that when Harvey twists his foot around Todd’s ankle and gives him a gentle push, he falls to the concrete floor. Seizing his chance, Harvey elbow drops onto his colleague, winding Todd and causing him to wheeze and splutter while he clutches at his middle.

  ‘That’s enough!’ I can’t stand by and watch this anymore. Not only are these buffoons neglecting their duties, they’re taking roughhousing too far and somebody could get seriously hurt. ‘What do you think you’re doing? You’re grown men behaving like silly little boys!’ Marching towards the staircase, I reach out a hand to help Todd to his feet as Harvey certainly isn’t going to be of any assistance. He was almost crying with laughter at his antics until my booming voice startled the mirth right out of him. I’m not sure where that voice came from; it doesn’t belong to me, though I suppose the echo of the empty hallway helped a bit.

  ‘Sorry, Vanessa.’ Harvey can’t meet my eye as he springs to his feet and brushes down his dusty jeans. ‘We were just messing about.’

  I’m about to correct Harvey – it’s about time everyone knew I wasn’t actually Vanessa – but I stop myself before the words come out. Vanessa wouldn’t let these guys get away with this. She’d be wearing their danglies for earrings if she caught her staff behaving like schoolboys on her time, but I don’t have a tiny portion of Vanessa’s boldness and not one shred of her authority. Rebecca Riley is spineless. She’s afraid of her own shadow and never, ever sticks up for herself.

  So I simply won’t be Rebecca Riley at this moment in time. If they think I’m Vanessa Whitely, with all her pluck and clout, then let them. Then maybe, just maybe, they’ll do some actual work.

  ‘I’m not paying you to “mess about”.’ I do the air quotes and everything, just as I know Vanessa would, even adopting her sneer. ‘I’m paying you to refurbish my house, on time and on budget. And you.’ I turn on my heel and march towards Vincent, who’s had the decency to end his call at last. ‘You’re supposed to be in charge of these chumps. You’re supposed to set an example. What on earth do you think you’re playing at?’

  I’m shocked at the anger that spills out of me, but it does the job as Vincent digs his hands into his pockets and looks down at his boots.

  ‘Sorry. It won’t happen again.’ Vincent sneaks a look up at me and I fix him with my best Vanessa glower until he looks back down again.

  ‘I hope not. Now, get to work. The lot of you.’ I turn to the Chuckle Brothers – Todd has stopped wheezing, though he’s still looking rather pained – and pierce them with The Glower. ‘I’m going to go and chase up Nicole’s paperwork, so I can see exactly where we’re supposed to be. I’m trusting you.’ I turn to Vincent again, The Glower firmly in place. ‘Don’t let me down.’

  I’m not really chasing the paperwork. It’s just an excuse to get out of the house and shut myself away in the guesthouse for a few minutes because I’m a little bit shaken up right now. That was way more confrontation than I’m comfortable with. My hands are trembling and I feel like I could throw up at any second, but my rant seems to have paid off. When I eventually calm down enough to head back over to the main house, the radio is on full blast while the builders are busy working on the plastering in various rooms. They don’t even stop for a tea break until I insist they take one late in the morning, and they’re back from their lunch break promptly, getting straight back to work without any prodding from me at all. Perhaps I should play the role of Vanessa Whitely for a tiny bit longer. After all, my career is depending on this refurbishment …

  It turns out there isn’t a great deal for me to do as project manager at this moment in time. Without the paperwork, I’m clueless as to what is supposed to be happening and when, so I spend the majority of my time watching daytime TV in the guesthouse, which isn’t a bad way to spend the working day, if I’m honest. I do dash across to the main house during the ad breaks, to make sure the builders are actually working and not practising their WWE moves on each other, or to ferry over cups of tea and coffee. By mid-afternoon, however, I’m totally bored of antique dealing and people airing their filthy laundry for the nation to see, so I grab my phone from the coffee table and check for any message that may have slipped by unnoticed. Nothing, and Emma hasn’t even seen the message I sent over WhatsApp almost an hour ago, though I know how busy she is now she’s essentially doing both our jobs while I lounge about all day. Guilt prods at my gut but I try to push it away. I didn’t choose to be here, so if anybody should be feeling guilty about Emma’s workload, it should be Vanessa. The real one.

  Opening my phone’s browser, I tap out a search for Little Heaton’s Animal Sanctuary and find the website. I’m not being nosy or stalkerish – I’m simply curious, especially since I’ve signed up to help out again tomorrow. There are photos of all the animals, some of which I’ve already met, plus a rather nice snap of Oliver looking pretty damn handsome in a red checked shirt.

  The website looks modern and professional, with tabs for sponsorship and rehoming as well as fundraising events and educational visits. There’s an event coming up at the weekend, right here in Little Heaton. A sponsored fun run in the park, with the proceeds going towards the development fund, whatever that is. I find myself bypassing the link for that to tap on the ‘About Us’ section instead, hoping to find out a bit more about Oliver, but it’s mainly about the sanctuary’s charity status, which is disappointing. Closing the browser, I toss the phone onto the sofa and slump in my seat. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find. His hobbies? Relationship status? Not that it would matter if he was in a relationship – he’s already made it perfectly clear he doesn’t find me attractive (‘Of course I didn’t hit on her. Why would I?’) and even though I fancy him the teeniest, tiniest bit (it can’t be helped. It seems I have a bit of a thing for pale stubble, full lips and booty-shaking to Eighties pop), I would never, ever act on it in a million years. That’s not my style at all, which explains why I haven’t had a boyfriend since uni. Perhaps this is why Stacey has taken a dislike to me. Could she have picked up on some subtle hint that I fancy her brother a little bit? Oh, God, I hope not. How embarrassing. I will have to make it perfectly clear that I have no interest in Oliver – other than his building skills – when I help out at the sanctuary tomorrow.

  A message pings onto my phone. It’s finally a reply from Emma:

  Sorry! Rushed off my feet today. V has asked me to help out with some stuff. She’s asked me to schedule a time for her to visit you. Is Mon morning okay with you? Around ten? Also, Kate phoned again! E xx

  Completely side-stepping the Kate issue, I reply that Monday morning is fine. It’s a few days away, which isn’t ideal, but at least I get to pretend to be the Big Boss for a little while longer. Trembling-through-confrontation aside, it’s quite fun having such influence.

  Chapter 13

  Why is my alarm attempting to pierce my eardrums in the middle of the night? I’m sure I only closed my eyes a few minutes ago and yet I’m being rudely awakened by the stupidly chirpy tone I always set on my phone in the hope that it’s perkiness will tra
nsfer itself into me first thing in the morning, making early get-ups much more pleasant. Needless to say, it never, ever works.

  Reaching out, I grab the phone and bring it mere centimetres from my face, squinting at the time as the alarm continues to chirrup away. It isn’t quite the middle of the night – but not far off. Why on earth is my alarm going off at 5.30 a.m.? I don’t even get up at this time back in Manchester, where my commute is much longer than a quick dash across the drive.

  Oh no. I groan as realisation dawns. Stacey. The animal sanctuary. I agreed to help out again, but at an even more ridiculous time of day. What an idiot I am! But I don’t have to get up right this second. A few more minutes won’t hurt, will it? I can snooze the alarm and still have plenty of time to get ready for the arranged time. My eyes are already clamped shut as I slide the phone back onto the bedside table, my body already slipping back into slumber.

  I’m rudely woken eight minutes later, but it’s the snooze button I jab at, taking several attempts until I hit the right spot and my phone is gloriously silent again. A few more minutes, that’s all I need …

  I groan as my alarm springs into life again, muttering incoherent words of malice as I roll over to snatch the phone from the table. I squint at the display, fighting bleary eyes that want nothing more than to pull down the shutters and return to dreamland. I think I make out the numbers, but they can’t possibly be right. Pulling the phone a fraction closer, I widen my eyes in an attempt to get a clearer view.

  6.02 a.m.

  What? How? It isn’t possible! I snoozed the alarm at 5.38 a.m., so how has so much time passed? I couldn’t have snoozed it a couple more times without realising. Could I? Unfortunately, I don’t have time for an internal debate between unconscious snooze-button-pressing and some weird time-zapping phenomenon so I simply have to get on with things, which means rushing to the bathroom to have the swiftest shower known to man. I don’t have time to wash and dry my hair, so I give my body a quick scrub before hastily drying and dressing in a pencil skirt and silk blouse, which isn’t ideal for cleaning out the chicken coop but I don’t have many options left. I really must put a wash on later.

  I wish I’d had the foresight to bring a can of dry shampoo with me as I gather my hair into a high ponytail and twist it into a messy bun. There is no way Vanessa would be seen out in public with anything but salon-perfect hair. Still, there’s nothing I can do about that now and at least I have a ruby lipstick in my make-up bag that should divert attention away from my not-so-freshly-washed locks. The lipstick was a freebie from a cosmetics company’s event we planned earlier in the year but I haven’t been brave enough to actually try it out until now. I apply the glossy lipstick, blotting most of it away with a tissue before I look in the mirror.

  Wow. That’s making a statement, though of what, I’m not entirely sure. It’s certainly eye-catching and a shade Vanessa would rock, so I fight the urge to scrub it away and replace it with my clear lip balm and scuttle out of the guesthouse before I can change my mind.

  I avoid the bushes as I head to the sanctuary, more or less walking in the middle of the lane, but there isn’t any hint of traffic. Or people. It’s still dim, though the darkness is starting to lift, and there’s a slight chill in the air. Summer has undeniably drifted away and I tuck my hands into my pockets as my fingers start to feel the bite.

  ‘Hello again.’ Mrs McColl is ahead of me on the lane, about to reach for the sanctuary’s gate. She nods in greeting but doesn’t crack a smile. ‘You’re here early this morning. Most volunteers don’t make it in until at least nine.’

  ‘I need to start work before then.’ I quicken my pace as Mrs McColl opens the gate, so I can grab it before it swings shut again. ‘Especially as I found the builders mucking about yesterday. I won’t be making that mistake again.’

  ‘You need to watch that lot.’ Mrs McColl rummages in the handbag looped over her forearm. ‘Oliver’s a decent sort, obviously, but the rest of them?’ She shakes her head, sending her doughy jowls into a wobble. ‘Vincent sent that young apprentice of his to my house over the summer. Needed a bit of brickwork mending on my front wall. Quick job, it should have been. Took the great lump three days.’ She tuts loudly before producing a set of keys from the handbag. ‘Make sure you crack the whip. It’s the only way you’ll get the job done.’ She selects a key and inserts it into the front door’s lock. ‘I take it Stacey’s expecting you?’ Her eyes are narrowed with suspicion as she turns to me, key still in the lock, door still shut.

  ‘She is. It was her suggestion that I help out again.’ Although I was the nitwit who’d bartered for such an unreasonable time.

  Mrs McColl pushes open the door and steps into the hallway, pausing on the doormat and blocking my path. ‘Stacey? You have a visitor.’ She turns to me again, eyes still narrowed. ‘What was your name again?’

  I open my mouth, ready to introduce myself. My mouth is forming the letter R before I realise what I’m about to do. Do I tell her my name, or do I allow the misunderstanding over my identity to continue? I don’t want to lie, but I also want to keep the builders in check and I know that without the Vanessa pretence acting as a shield, I’ll shrink back to my normal pushover state of mind.

  ‘Well? Do you have a name or don’t you?’ Mrs McColl’s eyebrows jump towards her greying hairline as she observes me. My mouth opens again, but I still don’t know what to say. ‘For goodness’ sake!’ She bends down towards me and speaks very slowly. ‘What. Is. Your. Name?’

  ‘This is Vanessa Whitely.’ Stacey appears behind Mrs McColl and ushers the older woman out of the way. ‘I introduced you yesterday, remember? Vanessa’s doing up the house at Arthur’s Pass.’

  ‘I knew she was working on the house but I didn’t know she was the owner herself.’ Mrs McColl sniffs as she unwinds the scarf around her neck and hooks it onto the coat stand behind the door. ‘She could at least identify herself instead of standing there flapping her lips like a goldfish. I thought you said she was assertive. Bossy, I think those were your words. And you certainly made her sound like a she-devil.’

  ‘I did not.’ Stacey laughs, convincing nobody, before she pulls me into the house, bright smile plastered on her face. ‘Shall we get started? I thought you could help with Franny and Daisy today.’

  My eyes flit from Stacey to Mrs McColl – who is still observing me with deep suspicion as she unbuttons her coat – and back again. ‘Sounds good to me. And I brought my own socks this time!’ I delve into my pocket and pull out the balled pair. They’re not as thick as the ones I borrowed yesterday, but at least I know whose feet (only my own) have been in them previously.

  ‘Let’s get you kitted out in wellies and leave Mrs McColl to her breadmaking.’ Stacey winks at Mrs McColl, who sniffs loudly before turning her back on us to hang up her coat.

  ‘I’m starting to get the impression Mrs McColl doesn’t like me very much.’ We’ve moved along the passage to the little area by the back door while Mrs McColl has disappeared into the café, but still I lower my voice to barely audible levels.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ Stacey selects the same pair of wellies as yesterday and hands them to me. ‘It’s just her way. She was my gran’s best friend, so I’ve known her all my life and I’ve got used to her manner, but she really doesn’t mean anything by it.’ She pulls open one of the drawers and grabs a hat – a neon pink monstrosity with a white bobble on top – and tosses it my way. I reluctantly catch it but shove it straight into my pocket. I would rather suffer frostbitten ears than entertain even the idea of wearing it.

  ‘I still think I’ll try to keep out of her way.’

  Stacey snorts as she tosses me a pair of gloves. ‘Most people do. I love the woman to death, but she wasn’t at the front of the queue when they were giving out likeability.’

  I sit down on the wooden chair and unlace my boots. ‘It sounds like she was standing behind my boss then. She’s definitely lacking in that department.’


  ‘Your boss?’ I look up to see Stacey frowning down at me. ‘I thought you ran your own company. Nic said something about party planning or something? She actually gave me your card, in case I wanted to hire someone to plan our party when we finally expand. I think I still have it here somewhere …’ She reaches for the back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a wallet, rummaging inside until she finds a slightly dog-eared business card. ‘See?’ She holds it up to me. It’s the familiar ivory-coloured card with gold embossed lettering that I’ve seen a million times, with Vanessa Whitely Events taking centre stage. There is no doubt at all that Vanessa is at the very top of the food chain, meaning I’ve put my foot right in it.

  Chapter 14

  This could be the perfect opportunity to come clean, to tell Stacey about my mistaken identity, which we would laugh about because it’s so silly to think that I could be mistaken for the hard-nosed Vanessa Whitely. But Stacey would obviously pass on the information to her brother, who in turn would reveal all to his workmates and I really, really need to keep those guys on track. Vanessa’s visiting in a few days and I can’t let the schedule slip even a tiny bit. I need her to see that I am capable and reliable, that I deserve the promotion I’ve coveted for the past three years. I can’t let the mask slip just yet.

  ‘I meant my old boss, before I set up my own company.’ I roll my eyes. ‘She was a real bitch to work for.’ I slip my boots off and un-ball the socks. ‘And I’m in events management, not party planning.’ I sound snooty, but there’s no way Vanessa would have let that one slide.

  ‘Sor-ree.’ Stacey shoves the business card back into her wallet, causing it to crease diagonally, cutting right through Vanessa’s shiny, gold name. ‘I’ll meet you outside, down at the barn. Don’t take too long – there’s a lot to do this morning.’ Stalking from the entryway, Stacey shuts the back door roughly behind her. I shove my socks and the wellies on, which don’t feel half as comfortable as they did yesterday while I was wearing the cosier socks, and it’s only when I stand up that I realise how ridiculous I must look in the get up of a pencil skirt and heart-printed wellington boots. If I’m going to be staying in Little Heaton until the house is completed, I’ll need to go home and pick up some more clothes over the weekend. The thought of the lengthy and tiresome journey to Manchester and back again fills me with dread, but not nearly as much as the thought of returning to the dingy flat – and the dingier flatmate – does. I’m pondering the state the flat will be in during my absence when the back door flings open. Stacey is standing on the threshold, one hand on her hip and lips pursed.