The Accidental Life Swap

by Jennifer Joyce

  *

  The lane is littered with leaves as I make my way to the sanctuary in the half-light of early Saturday morning, my hands tucked into the pockets of my leather bomber jacket. Despite wearing the gloves and bobble hat Stacey has insisted I borrow on a semi-permanent basis, I can still feel the bite of the autumn chill in the air and my breath is visible in wispy puffs. The lane is silent, bar the odd rustle of the leaves stubbornly clinging onto branches in the breeze, but it no longer feels peculiar. I don’t expect to hear the rumble of a double decker bus or the wail of a police siren as I make my way along the narrow track anymore, but I’ll be back in Manchester in just over a week’s time and my secondment to the countryside will become nothing more than a distant memory.

  It’s a sobering thought, which I push away immediately. Today is not a day for sadness. Today is a positive day. A day of new beginnings that should have a skip in its step, because today marks the next stage for Stacey and Oliver and the animal sanctuary. The auction will be taking place this afternoon, and all the hard work Stacey, Oliver and the whole community of Little Heaton will pay off. My stomach dances with anticipation and glee because although I may not be around to witness this exciting new stage, I know for a fact that Stacey will make a success of the development and I’m so proud of my friend.

  ‘She’s in a flap.’ It’s Mrs McColl who answers the door when I reach the sanctuary, a tea towel thrown over her shoulder and a scowl fixed firmly in place. ‘Please calm her down before I’m forced to administer a sedative.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Mrs McColl is already marching back towards the kitchen as I step inside. I make my way to the yard, stopping off to pull on my usual polka-dotted wellies before heading outside. Stacey is sweeping up the old bedding from the rabbits’ hutch with gusto, and I know she’s throwing herself into her work to take her mind off the upcoming auction. I know this because she’s been working away non-stop like the Duracell bunny for the past few days and is in danger of serious burnout. It’s exhausting just watching from the sidelines.

  ‘Why don’t I take over? You look like you need a break.’ I reach for the broom, but Stacey tugs it away.

  ‘I’m fine. Plus, this will be the last time I do this for Honey and Rupert. Their new family are picking them up this afternoon.’ She looks fondly at the rabbits before attacking the debris on the ground again. ‘I’ve already mucked out the barn, so could you make a start on the chickens?’

  ‘What time did you start?’ It isn’t even seven yet and she’s carried out the biggest job in the yard?

  Stacey straightens and swipes at her forehead with the back of a gloved hand. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Have you at least had breakfast?’

  Stacey shakes her head and resumes her sweeping. ‘I’m too nervous to eat, and if I stop working, I’ll only think about the auction and want to throw up.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. Who else would want a bit of land with no road access?’

  Stacey pauses for a moment and nods her head. ‘I hope you’re right.’ And then she’s sweeping again, more feverishly than before. I head for the chickens, vowing to make Stacey stop for breakfast once I’m done, even if I have to wrestle the broom from her hands.

  But there’s no stopping Stacey, and in the end I have to give up trying because as much as I want my friend to take a break before she collapses in an exhausted heap, I have a house refurbishment to manage and a matter of days to complete the project. This is the final push before the decorators work their magic next week and turn the blank canvas into the masterpiece that will hopefully earn me the promotion I surely deserve. The builders have been amazing this past week, and the afternoon tea treat (and, I suspect more so, the pint in the pub afterwards) has really spurred them on to complete the tasks on time. I couldn’t be prouder of my team, and it’s come as a bit of a revelation that I can get the job done without resorting to Vanessa’s unpleasant tactics. It’s a bit of a relief, to be honest, as I haven’t enjoyed the yelling and the being strict that comes with playing my boss, especially after Oliver pointed out the similarities between Vanessa and my father. People don’t respect people like Vanessa and my dad – they fear them, and I don’t want to live my life like that. I want to gain respect by being myself.

  The thought of being myself has caused a lot of disturbed sleep over the past few days. It’s my date with Oliver tonight and I’ve been unable to decide whether to tell him about my true identity now or later. I need to disentangle myself from the lies without destroying the friendships I’ve developed in Little Heaton and to do this, I have to own up to the untruths and misunderstandings, but the question is how and when. Tonight? Before the date? Or during? Or do I take Emma’s advice and wait until the house is finished, to avoid any repercussions?

  My head is hurting just thinking about it, so I push the decision away. I have a job to do. A focus. Surely I’ll know when the time is right to fess up so there’s no point in stressing over it now.

  Chapter 32

  My stomach is tingling with anticipation as I send a good luck message to Stacey, but the prickly sensation – which is both unpleasant and agreeable in equal measure – has nothing to do with the auction that Stacey and Oliver are on their way to. Placing the phone down on the coffee table so I won’t be tempted to check for messages every thirty seconds, I turn the volume up of the familiar Britney album (which I’m contemplating slipping into my holdall when I leave) and head into the bathroom, where a warm bubble bath is waiting for me. I have several hours until my date with Oliver, but it’s been so long since I’ve been in this situation, I’m going to savour every single moment.

  With Britney blasting from the living room, I sink into the water, feeling my body loosen up instantly. The warmth and soothing rose scent is pure bliss and the tension from the refurb, the lies that need clearing up and the thought of returning to a grubby shared bathroom all evaporates in the air as I close my eyes and concentrate purely on the words of Ms Spears. By the time I emerge, skin pink and wrinkled, I feel energised and ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. I’m not going to worry about my confession, not tonight. I’m going to enjoy an evening with a man who makes me laugh and feel good about myself. And the fact Oliver is easy on the eye is inconsequential, obviously …

  Selecting the wide-legged jumpsuit from my charity shop haul, I team it with a gold belt and my peep-toe boots. With the help of a YouTube tutorial and several attempts, I manage to braid my hair at the sides, finishing off with a rolled bun at the nape of my neck, which looks stylish but cute. I keep my make-up quite simple, because although I want to make an effort, I still want to look like me, which is ironic given my Vanessa situation, but I elbow the niggling voice in my head away and concentrate on getting my smoky eye just right. A couple of layers of mascara and a nude lip gloss and I’m done. I’m physically ready for my date with Oliver.

  I don’t know how people do this dating thing on a regular basis. I’m a bag of nerves as I pace the length of the guesthouse. The tension has started to creep back and I have to remind myself – repeatedly – that it’s only Oliver I’m waiting for, someone I like, who I feel relaxed with. Someone I’ve told my secrets to, only omitting the one that could prove problematic if this date goes as well as I hope it will.

  I pause my pacing and close my eyes, drawing in a huge, chest-aching breath before allowing it to seep out slowly. My shoulders lower and my stomach unclenches. I am calm. I am relaxed. I am unruffled and ready to enjoy an evening with a man who has so far proved to be good company. Obviously, my new zen-like state crumbles as soon as I hear a car on the drive and, breathing ragged, I leap towards the window. He’s here. Oliver is here. Is it too late to change my mind?

  I give myself a mental slap on the wrist. I haven’t changed my mind, nor do I wish to. I’m just nervous and need to snap out of it. Pulling my shoulders back and lifting my chin, I remind myself who I am. I am Vanessa Whitely, project manager, an all-round kick-ass an
d capable woman. Vanessa Whitely doesn’t tremble behind curtains as she watches her date approach the door. She quickly checks her hair and make-up and plasters on her brightest smile, ready to greet the lucky man in question. She counts to five before she opens the door, so her date doesn’t know she’s been pacing the floor waiting for him.

  ‘Hi!’ My voice is cheery and without a hint of the wobble I feel inside. ‘Won’t be a sec.’ I grab my handbag from the breakfast bar and hook it onto my shoulder before joining Oliver at the door and locking up behind us. He takes my hand as we head for the car and my heart starts to hammer.

  Oh my God, we’re holding hands.

  ‘You look amazing.’

  If I were being Rebecca, I’d have batted the compliment away, probably made a disparaging comment about myself while feeling incredibly awkward. But I’m not being Rebecca. I’m channelling Vanessa, who already knows she looks amazing.

  ‘Thank you. You scrub up well yourself.’

  And he does. Oliver looks knee-weakening hot in slim-fitting trousers and a white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to three-quarter length. I’m used to seeing him in jeans and T-shirts, but I approve of this new look.

  ‘I thought I’d make an effort.’ Oliver pulls lightly on his collar. ‘I even dusted off the iron.’

  ‘Then I’m honoured.’ I’m disappointed when we reach the car as it means Oliver has to let go of my hand.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Oliver starts to fiddle with the heating settings once we’re in the car and while I’d normally say not to bother, that I was fine (even as the goose bumps grew to epic proportions), this time I’m upfront.

  ‘I’m bloody freezing.’ Wrapping my arms around myself, I give my bare arms a vigorous rub. Oliver whacks the heating up and I’m much warmer by the time we leave the village. Maybe I could learn a thing or two while being Vanessa after all. I can leave behind the bad bits – the meanness and manipulation – but being a bit more assertive wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  I twist in my seat as we head over the iron bridge, watching as the village disappears from view. It’s only the second time I’ve made the outward journey since my arrival, but this time I’m not so desperate to escape. And the next time I make this trip, in a week’s time, I may never return again.

  *

  Oliver has booked a table at a restaurant in town, and it’s as the waitress is leading us to our table that I realise I’ve forgotten to feel any nerves at all since we set off from the guesthouse. Oliver and I have chatted in the car, we’ve deliberated music preferences and debated the greatest film ever made. We’ve laughed. We’ve teased. We’ve had a brilliant time and we haven’t even glimpsed a menu yet. Any wobbles I was feeling earlier have wobbled away.

  ‘Did you manage to sign off all the snagging this afternoon?’

  We’re seated, drinks in front of us, our food order tapped out on a tablet and on its way to the kitchen when Oliver enquires about the refurbishment. I shake my head and hold up a finger.

  ‘I did, but no more shop talk.’ Mainly because I don’t want to think about what happens next week when the house is finished and I have to go back home to my regular life.

  ‘You’re right, sorry.’ Oliver shakes his head, as though he’s resetting himself. ‘Shall we discuss our next game? Because there isn’t a clear winner and look at me.’ Oliver scratches the back of his hand. ‘It’s making me itch.’

  He has a point. ‘What did you have in mind? A Scrabble rematch?’

  Oliver snorts and waggles his finger at me. ‘I see what you’re doing there, missy.’

  I feign innocence, my eyes wide and jaw slack. ‘What am I doing?’

  Oliver narrows his eyes at me and I try not to giggle. ‘You’ve just picked a game you’ve already won.’

  ‘Scared of losing again, are we?’ I lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest, with my eyebrows raised as I await the answer.

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Oliver clears his throat and straightens the cutlery that already looks perfectly aligned from where I’m sitting. ‘But it should be a new game. A game neither of us has won before. How about Hungry Hungry Hippos?’

  I’m taking a sip of my drink when Oliver makes his suggestion, and the ridiculousness of his proposal makes me splutter and choke. Oliver is halfway out of his seat to come to my aid, but I wave his offer of help away.

  ‘I’m fine.’ My voice is a bit raspy, but at least I’m breathing. ‘But Hungry Hungry Hippos though?’

  ‘What?’ Oliver holds his hands out with a laugh. ‘It’s a fun game. I used to love playing Hungry Hungry Hippos when I was a kid.’

  I suppose Hungry Hungry Hippos would be a fun way to settle the score. ‘Okay then. Hungry Hippos it is then. You don’t happen to have the game tucked away, do you?’ I’m joking, because what kind of childless, thirty-something owns Hungry Hungry Hippos?

  ‘I do, actually.’ Oliver laughs as my jaw drops in horror. He holds his hands up as I struggle to find words. Any words. ‘In my defence, it was up in the attic gathering dust until yesterday. I remembered we had a stack of games up there from when we were kids, so had a nose around, found Hungry Hungry Hippos, and thought it would be a laugh. We can also play Guess Who and Ghost Castle if you want? Do you remember Ghost Castle? Oh, and Go For Broke! We should definitely play that. Did you ever play it? Nobody else seems to remember it.’

  I hear the question somewhere in the back of my mind, but something else is going on in my brain. A slow acknowledgement of facts as Oliver chats animatedly about his favourite childhood games rediscovered in the attic of his grandparents’ attic. The attic in the house that now belongs to Oliver and Stacey. The house that is now half-home, half-animal sanctuary.

  I gasp, my hand covering my mouth, and it has nothing to do with Oliver’s admission that he never really liked playing Operation because it was too fiddly and tedious.

  ‘The animal sanctuary.’ I’ve uncovered my mouth, my hands now resting on my cheeks in a recreation of The Scream. ‘It was the auction today.’ I’d forgotten all about it in the panic and excitement of my date. ‘How did it go?’

  Oliver’s shoulders slump and all the joy displayed on his face during his childhood reminiscing only moments earlier fades away. ‘Not good, I’m afraid. We were outbid by five grand. There was no way we could match it, let alone beat it.’

  ‘Oh no.’ I reach across the table and place my hand on Oliver’s. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Oliver smiles at me but there’s no pleasure there. I wish we could go back to chatting about Hungry Hungry Hippos, to get that light, carefree feeling back but this is too important to brush away.

  ‘Who was the winning bidder?’

  Oliver shrugs and puffs out a sigh. ‘We don’t know. There were only two of us bidding on the land – Stacey and I and someone bidding online. Stacey’s determined to find out, though what she’s going to do when she finds out who it was I have no idea.’

  ‘How is she?’ It’s a stupid question – she’s hardly going to be performing cartwheels after losing out. They’ve been raising the money for this development for years.

  ‘She’s devastated, though she’s trying her best to hide it with anger and sheer determination in finding out who’s bought the land.’

  ‘Poor Stace.’ Our starters arrive, the waitress placing our plates of delicious-looking food carefully in front of us, but my appetite has vanished. There’s a great big boulder of dismay sitting in my stomach and I’m not sure anything else will fit in there. I should phone Stacey, tell her how disappointed I am for her, offer a shoulder to cry or vent on.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.’ Oliver is prodding at his food, seemingly as disinterested in eating it as I am.

  ‘You didn’t. It was me.’ I give my own food a prod, accidentally spearing a slice of chorizo. When my attempts to shake it off my fork fail miserably, I give in and shove it into my mouth, trying not to think about how utterly delicio
us it is. The boulder of dismay shifts over slightly as my stomach rumbles.

  ‘Anyway, what’s done is done.’ Oliver slices through the scallop on his plate. ‘We’ll figure something out. Stace won’t let this hold her back. It’s whoever bought the land I feel sorry for, because when she does find them …’ Oliver gives a slow shake of his head. ‘They’re in trouble. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of my sister.’

  ‘She is pretty feisty.’

  Oliver snorts. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet. See this scar.’ Oliver leans forward, tilting his head so I can see the faint, tiny mark on his temple. ‘That’s what I got when I accidentally broke the legs off her favourite doll.’

  ‘How do you accidentally break the legs off a doll?’ The chorizo really is delicious, I muse as I munch on a second slice.

  ‘The parachute I made out of a Kwik Save carrier bag didn’t work when I chucked her out of my bedroom window.’

  I almost choke for a second time this evening, this time on a slice of chorizo. ‘So it wasn’t an accident at all.’

  ‘Of course it was. I released Betsy in good faith, believing the parachute would lower her safely to the ground. How was I supposed to know she’d plummet to the concrete below? Either way, this was uncalled for.’ He wiggles a finger at the scar at his temple.

  ‘What did she do?’

  Oliver gives a slow shake of his head. ‘She went bat-shit crazy and frisbeed my grandad’s Simon and Garfunkel record at me. The corner of the sleeve nearly took my eye out. I was lucky, really.’

  I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help it, especially when Oliver flashes me a wounded look, his finger gently massaging the barely-there scar. He can’t keep it up, however, and we’re both giggling when the waitress returns to clear our plates away. I hadn’t realised I’d eaten my entire starter, but my plate is empty.

  Despite the bad news for the animal sanctuary, we manage to enjoy the rest of our meal before heading back to Little Heaton, where we stop off at the Farmer’s. We have to battle our way through to the bar as it seems most of the village’s population has squeezed into the pub. I expect to see Stacey lurking somewhere in the crowds when I spot Dominic Blackwood propping up the bar but she’s nowhere to be seen, which is proof enough that losing the auction has hit her hard. I’ll go and see her first thing in the morning, see if there’s any way I can help. I don’t imagine there’s a whole lot I can do to ease the situation, other than scouring the charity shop for records to use as weapons when she does find the winning bidder, but I can at least offer my support.