‘And that’s a good thing?’
‘Er, yeah.’ Oliver pulls his seatbelt across his chest and clunks it into place. ‘You don’t like snow?’
‘Why would I?’ It’s cold and wet and the country seems to come to a standstill at the threat of a single flake.
‘Snowmen?’ Oliver looks at me as though I’ve completely lost the plot.
‘We weren’t a snowman-building type of family.’ The idea of Dad bundled up in a bobble hat and thick gloves while he rolls a giant snowball around the garden is ludicrous. He’s more of a freshly-pressed-suit-and-tie-at-all-times kind of guy. He reads broadsheet newspapers and heavy novels for pleasure, and mucking about in the garden just wouldn’t have occurred to him. The only form of social interaction we had while I was growing up were the grillings over the dinner table, in which I’d usually have to explain a less-than-perfect test score, and the Sunday evening board games that were highly competitive rather than the intended fun, bonding experience they were designed for.
‘We can build a snowman together if it snows this winter.’ Oliver starts the engine and is concentrating on the road so he doesn’t see the weak smile I give in return. It isn’t that I don’t like the idea of building my first snowman with Oliver. It’s that I won’t be here during the winter. In a couple of weeks, the work on the house will be finished and I’ll be back in Manchester, being Rebecca again instead of the fake Vanessa.
*
I feel like a kid on Christmas morning as we wander along the high street, my eyes wide as I take in familiar shops and brands; is this all mine to play with? There’s a Poundland! And a KFC, Boots, and a branch of Santander. I actually squeal and grab hold of Oliver’s arm when I spot the huge turquois letters of a Primark, before quickly letting go and pretending it never happened at all. It’s like the grandest day out I’ve ever had, which would feel quite sad if I wasn’t overwhelmed with the elation of being out of the village.
I buy three pairs of leggings, a handful of T-shirts, packs of tights and knickers (while Oliver pretends to examine a rack filled with scarves) and push the boat out with a pair of Converse-style trainers before we move onto the supermarket. I fill a basket with fresh meat and vegetables, tins of soup and beans that aren’t covered in a fine layer of dust as per the mini market, and a few bits and pieces to pop in the freezer at the guesthouse. I’ve offered to cook for Oliver tonight, as a thank you for the excursion into town, and then we’re going to play Trivial Pursuit, which Oliver has just bought in town. He wasn’t impressed when I narrowly won the game of Battleships the other night, meaning I’m in the lead on the game scoreboard, 2-1. I could quit while I’m ahead and claim the victory, wearing my smugness like a gold medal, but I’ve enjoyed playing the games with Oliver, and it beats sitting in the guesthouse on my own night after night.
‘Do you think I should invite Stacey round tonight?’ I place my bag of groceries in the boot of Oliver’s car, nestling it next to my Primark bag. The idea of cooking for Oliver suddenly feels like a date and I don’t want him to think I’m going to lunge at him again over the breakfast bar. Inviting his sister along will kill any romantic connotations.
‘It’s Saturday.’ Oliver places the other bag of groceries in the boot and pulls it closed. ‘She’ll be down the Farmer’s, ogling Dominic Blackwood. He always goes in for a couple of pints on a Saturday, so Stace follows suit.’
*
To change or not to change, that is the question I’m faced with when Oliver drops me off at the guesthouse. As comfortable as my new leggings and a T-shirt combo would be, they don’t scream ‘Saturday night dinner plans’, but I also don’t want to come across as though I’m trying too hard in case it gives Oliver the wrong idea about tonight. What would I do if it was Emma I was expecting in twenty minutes?
In the end, I opt for a compromise of a pair of leggings teamed with a loosely draped top, which is comfortable but with a less formal feel, so I won’t look as though I’m trying too hard. It feels fantastic to be so unrestricted, to feel like Rebecca again. Never in a million years would I lounge around the flat in a pair of tailored trousers or form-fitting dresses like I have these past couple of weeks and I feel like I can finally breathe again.
‘I brought wine.’ The game of Trivial Pursuit is tucked under one arm while Oliver brandishes a bottle in the other when I open the door. He’s wearing a pair of jeans – but not the tired-looking work jeans I’m used to – and a soft, dove-grey jumper. He’s struck the right balance between smart and casual, but I doubt he agonised over his wardrobe choices as much as I did. ‘I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got Stacey’s favourite. I hope it’s okay?’ He hands me the bottle and I check the label, though I’m no wine connoisseur; I usually just buy whatever’s on offer at my local supermarket.
‘This looks great. Thank you.’ I give a nod of approval, hoping it masks how clueless I am because Vanessa definitely has a wide range of knowledge when it comes to wine. ‘Would you like a glass now, or would you rather wait until the food’s ready?’
‘Let’s go nuts and have a glass now.’ Oliver grins at me and I have to turn away because his smile is doing funny things to my insides. Which is crazy as I see the guy every day and cope perfectly well, the lunging-in-for-a-kiss incident aside, though I place the blame on that firmly on the amount of alcohol I’d drunk in the pub.
‘I think I’ll just have a small glass.’ Darting into the kitchen, I grab a couple of glasses and pour a regular amount in one and a thimble-sized drop in the other. ‘I don’t want to be cooking under the influence.’
‘What are we having?’ Oliver glances past me at the oven devoid of any foodstuff.
‘Not ready meals again, don’t worry.’ I open the fridge and pull out the shrimp and veggies I prepped earlier. ‘I hope you like Thai red curry? And shrimp?’ I hold up the plates, my lips pressed tightly together as I hope he does. I should have asked him while we were at the supermarket, so I could stock up on alternative ingredients if he doesn’t like it.
‘Sounds great.’ Oliver rubs his hands together. ‘Anything I can help with?’
‘You could put some music on.’ Placing the plates down on the counter, I nod towards the stereo in the living room. ‘I’m afraid there’s only a couple of CDs to choose from though.’ The previous occupants of the guesthouse left behind Now That’s What I Call Music! 35 and Britney Spears’ Femme Fatale album, both of which I’ve listened to countless times over the past two weeks. By now, either of those CDs could be my specialist subject on Mastermind.
‘Oh.’ Oliver sounds less than impressed when he picks up the cases from on top of the stereo. ‘Any preference? Other than silence?’
I hide my smirk in the cupboard as I reach for the frying pan. ‘No, you can choose.’ Placing the pan on the hob, I pour in a little of the vegetable oil I bought earlier while Oliver deals with the music. I look over as the opening to The Spice Girls’ ‘Say You’ll Be There’ starts up and Oliver gives me an apologetic shrug.
‘Well, at least I know what to get you for Christmas.’ Oliver slides onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. ‘Some decent music choices.’
I turn back to the frying pan even though I know the oil hasn’t had the chance to heat up. I don’t want him to see the moment the smile drops from my face, because I won’t be here at Christmas and I doubt I’ll still be friends with Oliver once the refurbishment is complete. Not after I’ve lied to him about who I really am.
‘How do you know I’m not a massive fan of Britney?’ I force myself to turn around again, my eyebrows raised at the query.
‘Did I choose the wrong one?’ He twists on the stool, looking back towards the stereo, but I reach out to stop him before he gets up.
‘I’m kidding.’ I reach into the cupboard for the curry paste, squeezing a good dollop into the pan. ‘I actually don’t mind Britney, but I’ve worn that CD out while I’ve been soaking in the bath.’
Mentioning the bath brings up an ima
ge of me being naked, and I hope Oliver isn’t experiencing the same awkwardness. I send myself on a massive coconut milk hunt as a distraction, even though I know exactly which cupboard it’s in.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting at the breakfast bar, which Oliver set while singing along to ‘If You Ever’, taking on both East 17’s parts and Gabrielle’s when I refused to duet. My glass of wine didn’t last long but there wasn’t nearly enough alcohol in the tiny measure to allow my inhibitions to lower enough to allow me to sing in front of an audience (even if that audience is just Oliver, who has already seen me at my worst).
‘You really know how to cook.’ Oliver is tucking into his curry, making all the right noises to show he’s enjoying the meal I’ve prepared. ‘How have you coped eating those ready meals for the past couple of weeks?’
I shrug as I top up Oliver’s glass. ‘They’re not so bad, and my cooking isn’t exceptional. I’ve just had a lot of practice, I guess. I learned to cook quite young and you soon get bored of the same meals night after night.’
‘Well, I happen to think your cooking is exceptional.’ Oliver spears a shrimp and pops it into his mouth with an overexaggerated moan of pleasure. I roll my eyes as I add a dash of wine to my glass.
‘You’ve tried one meal, and it’s a pretty easy one. You just bung everything into the one pan. Plus, I cheated and used microwavable rice.’ I do this often, and it always gives me a little tingle of rebellion whenever I set the timer on the microwave. There’s no way Dad would ever have allowed a grain of ‘phony’ rice on his plate. We didn’t even own a microwave while I was growing up, and processed food was never to be seen at our dinner table.
‘Do your parents like to cook?’ Oliver, thankfully, has stopped his over-the-top moaning and is eating like a normal person. ‘Is that where you inherited it from?’
I almost choke on a slice of red pepper. ‘My dad can’t boil an egg.’ At least he couldn’t when I still lived at home. Perhaps he’s been forced into learning how to feed himself now, meaning my refusal to toe the line was a positive move for the both of us.
‘What about your mum?’
I chew slowly as Oliver awaits an answer, drawing out my response for as long as possible. ‘I have no idea. I don’t have that many memories of when Mum was around, and I probably only see her a couple of times a year, and never at home.’ I give a humourless laugh. ‘I can’t remember the last time I shared a meal with my mum.’
‘It must have been tough growing up. I don’t mean to sound out of turn, but your dad sounds quite strict.’
I snort. ‘That’s an understatement. He could be pretty mean at times, and he was of the opinion that the louder you shouted, the more respect you earned.’ I’m loading up my fork with curry but pause as I spot Oliver giving me an odd look. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Oliver shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. ‘It’s just, that last bit sounds sort of familiar. Not this Vanessa.’ He nods at me. ‘But the one I thought I knew before you turned up. What’s the saying, the one about the apple not falling far from the tree?’
I’m horrified at the thought of ending up like Dad, but Oliver’s right; Dad and Vanessa do share some unsavoury qualities. I decide the best course of action is to nudge the conversation on.
‘What about you? Do you like to cook?’
‘Like is pushing it a bit. Have to in order to survive is more accurate.’ Oliver scrunches up his nose. ‘I’m no Jamie Oliver, let’s put it that way.’
‘I bet Jamie couldn’t tile a floor as beautifully as you can though.’
Oliver straightens, his shoulders thrown back and he gives a slow nod. ‘I am particularly skilled in that area.’ His serious face cracks into a smile. ‘Plus, I’m the master at Monopoly.’
‘But not Scrabble or Battleships.’ I hide a smile as I concentrate on filling my fork with rice. ‘Let’s hope you have better luck with Trivial Pursuit. I fear for your ego if you lose again.’
‘My ego will be just fine, because there’s no way you’re going to win this one.’
I grin at Oliver. ‘Bring it on.’
Chapter 28
There’s a good turnout at the sanctuary’s family day, with a steady stream of visitors already descending and cooing over the animals. Stacey is leading a small party around the yard while another volunteer is showing a family how to groom the donkeys, and inside is just as busy. The café is full to the brim while the education suite has been transformed into a craft centre as half a dozen kids make peanut butter bird feeders, cereal necklaces for the chickens and DIY rabbit toys out of slotted-together cardboard shapes and hay. The sanctuary is usually so peaceful when I visit first thing in the morning, which is lovely, but it’s wonderful to see the place come to life.
I’ve been placed in the education suite, tucked away in a corner with the hedgehogs. I’ve been given all the information from Stacey and although I’m not prone to public speaking, I hope I’m living up to her expectations.
‘Here at Little Heaton Animal Sanctuary, we work closely with the local veterinary surgery to care for injured or sick hedgehogs, as well as those who have been orphaned. We hope to release them back into the wild once we think they’re able to survive.’ I’ve rolled this little speech off numerous times this morning and envisage doing so several more over the course of the day. ‘This is Pumpkin, and he was found in the allotment. Can you guess where?’
Half a dozen hands shoot up into the air, wiggling and waving for attention until I choose one of the children at the back to answer.
‘Elsie’s pumpkin patch?’ The answer is faltering, unsure, but totally correct.
‘That’s right. Pumpkin was found right in the middle of the pumpkin patch. He had a broken leg but he’s been nursed back to health by Stacey and the vet and he’ll be ready to be released very soon.’ I place the hedgehog very carefully into his box. ‘And this little cutie is Sophie.’ I pick up the next hedgehog, telling the story of how she was rescued after some bad flooding down by the canal. ‘One of the first things we do when we take in a hedgehog is to weigh them. Sophie was very small and weak, but she’s been well fed and looked after.’ I pop the hedgehog on the scales set out on the table in front of me. ‘And she’ll be released with Pumpkin in the next week or two.’
One of the hands shoots up into the air, the question of the enthusiastic little girl asked before I’ve had the chance to respond. ‘Is it sad to let them go?’
‘Maybe a little bit.’ I pick Sophie up from the scales, thinking of everything I’ll have to let go of when I leave Little Heaton. The animals. The views and peacefulness. Stacey, Vince and Todd – and even Harvey, I guess. And Oliver, of course.
‘But it also means the hedgehogs are happy and healthy and ready to go back where they belong.’ I give a decisive nod, as though I’m trying to convince myself. ‘Which is a good thing. Hedgehogs are wild creatures, not pets.’ I place Sophie back into her box. ‘We have two baby hedgehogs at the sanctuary at the moment. Rianne and Isobel are very small, so we’re going to keep them in their boxes today, but you can have a little look at them if you’d like. They’ll be staying at the sanctuary over the next few months and will hopefully be released in the spring.’
Afterwards, once the children have all had a peek at the hedgehogs and are now either colouring in a hedgehog picture at the tables across the room or have moved outside to see more animals, Stacey pulls me aside. At first, I think I’ve done something wrong but she’s full of praise.
‘You’re a natural. Who would have thought that the Vanessa who turned up here that first morning in those unsuitable boots and ran away from a chicken she was convinced was stalking her would be this Vanessa.’ She spreads her arms out and takes a step back. ‘You’re like a completely different Vanessa now.’
She has no idea.
Stacey leans in close and lowers her voice. ‘Shall we sneak upstairs for a brew? I need to feed the kittens, plus you can tell me all about your date
with Oliver last night.’
‘It wasn’t a date.’
Stacey raises her eyebrows at me. ‘You cooked for him. That’s a date in my book.’
‘Just to say thank you for taking me into town. There was nothing romantic about it whatsoever. We played Trivial Pursuit, for goodness sake.’
Stacey stops abruptly to observe me. ‘What is the matter with the pair of you? Who plays bloody board games with someone they fancy instead of snogging their face off?’
I open my mouth to deny such an attraction exists, but I find I can’t outright lie to her. Again. ‘What about you and Dominic? You clearly fancy him but you’ve never done anything about it.’ With the option of denial unavailable to me, I decide to divert attention away from myself and go on the attack.
She stops at the door leading up to her flat, fishing in her pocket for the key. ‘It’s complicated. He’s still getting over the breakup of his marriage and I—’
‘Am a big wuss?’
Stacey sticks her tongue out at me as she pushes the key into the lock. We make our way up to the flat, where I put the kettle on while Stacey starts to feed the kittens.
‘We’re going to the pub later. Once we’ve finished here.’ Stacey places the bottle of kitten formula on the coffee table and gently cleans around Tammy’s mouth with a wet wipe. ‘You should come with us. I know Oliver would like that.’ She kisses the top of the kitten’s head before placing her with her brothers and even though I can’t see her face right now, I can take a wild guess that there’s a mischievous glint in her eye. I decide not to play along.
‘Do you think you’ve raised enough for the auction next week?’
‘Who knows?’ Stacey shrugs as she sits back down on the sofa. ‘That’s the downside of auctions, I guess. You never know what the competition is willing to pay, but I’ve got my fingers crossed.’
‘Me too.’ I hold them up, to demonstrate.
Stacey makes a note of Tammy’s feed before she wanders over to the window. ‘It’s been a great turnout and we’ll be able to do more open days once we’ve expanded and … whoa.’ She moves closer to the window, pressing the palms of her hands against the pane. ‘That’s insane.’
The Accidental Life Swap Page 17
