House Swap Read online

  Copyright © 2021 Olivia Beirne

  The right of Olivia Beirne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licenses issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an ebook by

  Headline Publishing Group in 2021

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover images © GoodStudio, LessiK, Shutterstock Vector, Dari-designPie and Liliana Danila, all Shutterstock

  eISBN 978 1 4722 8447 1

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Olivia Beirne

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Katy

  Chapter Two: Rachel

  Chapter Three: Katy

  Chapter Four: Rachel

  Chapter Five: Katy

  Chapter Six: Rachel

  Chapter Seven: Katy

  Chapter Eight: Rachel

  Chapter Nine: Katy

  Chapter Ten: Rachel

  Chapter Eleven: Katy

  Chapter Twelve: Rachel

  Chapter Thirteen: Katy

  Chapter Fourteen: Rachel

  Chapter Fifteen: Katy

  Chapter Sixteen: Rachel

  Chapter Seventeen: Katy

  Chapter Eighteen: Rachel

  Chapter Nineteen: Katy

  Chapter Twenty: Rachel

  Chapter Twenty-One: Katy

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Rachel

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Katy

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Rachel

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Katy

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Rachel

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Katy

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rachel

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Katy

  Chapter Thirty: Rachel

  Chapter Thirty-One: Katy

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Rachel

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Katy

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Rachel

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Katy

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Rachel

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Katy

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Rachel

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Katy

  Chapter Forty: Rachel

  Chapter Forty-One: Katy

  Chapter Forty-Two: Rachel

  Chapter Forty-Three: Katy

  Chapter Forty-Four: Katy

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Olivia Beirne is the bestselling author of The List That Changed My Life, The Accidental Love Letter and House Swap and lives in Buckinghamshire. She has worked as a waitress, a (terrible) pottery painter and a casting assistant, but being a writer is definitely her favourite job yet.

  Also by Olivia Beirne:

  The List That Changed My Life

  The Accidental Love Letter

  About the Book

  Packed hilarity and heartbreak, this new novel from bestselling author Olivia Beirne follows two estranged sisters who learn more about each other from a house swap than they ever expected . . .

  Twins Katy and Rachel don’t know much about each other’s lives anymore.

  Rachel thinks that Katy is a high-flying event planner in London, while Katy thinks that Rachel lives in idyllic marital bliss in the countryside.

  Each sister believes the other has created a perfect life – but the truth is that neither twin has the life she pretends she does.

  And when these sisters unexpectedly swap houses for a week, they’re in for a big shock.

  But it might just be the wake-up call they’ve both been waiting for . . .

  To my wonderful dad,

  for keeping me laughing and cheering me on.

  PROLOGUE

  From Rachel Dower to Katy Dower

  Sent 4 January 18:01

  Hey Katy, how are you? How was Christmas in the end? Sorry I left you with Mum, Danny wanted to spend it with his family. What did you think of your present? I thought the plant would look great in your rooftop garden!

  Love, Rachel x

  From Katy Dower to Rachel Dower

  Sent 5 January 00:45

  Hey, didn’t want to spend Christmas with Mum and her massive new family so went to Dad’s. He asked about you. I said you might give him a ring in the new year?

  Thanks for the plant, yes, it looks fab on the rooftop. It’s right next to the Shard. What did you think of that vegan cookbook? I use it all the time.

  K xx

  From Rachel Dower to Katy Dower

  Sent 6 January 08:07

  Love the cookbook! The sweet potato brownies are great. x

  From Rachel Dower to Katy Dower

  Sent 15 February 08:06

  Hey Katy,

  Just got a notification to say that your membership to Food Glow hasn’t been used, remember you need to sign up by the end of Feb otherwise it automatically cancels? I did say to the girl that you had been into the shop so she’s looking into it.

  Love, Rachel x

  From Katy Dower to Rachel Dower

  Sent 15 February 08:07

  Hey,

  That is weird because I have used it? Look, I made this spelt spinach cake.

  From Katy Dower to Food Glow

  FAO Kelly

  Sent 15 February 08:15

  Hi Kelly!

  Thank you so much for all your help on the phone! As I said, my sister bought me membership last year to Food Glow, which I was super excited about, but when I came to register I couldn’t (because of my ex-fling Larry working there, and yes, you’re right, he is a total shit). Anyway, Rachel will never understand that, so if you could please send her an email saying that there’s been a mistake and I have registered then that would be so great! I know you’re worried about your manager, but please feel free to forward him my email!!!

  With very best wishes,

  Katy Dower

  From Rachel Dower to Katy Dower

  Sent 15 February 08:20

  Wow, that cake looks amazing. It’s like something out of a book! What recipe did you use?

  From Katy Dower to Rachel Dower

  Sent 15 February 08:30

  I’ll post it to you.

  From Katy Dower to Rachel Dower

  Sent 3 March 22:15

  Hey!

  Know you love running, and just saw an advert for Super Bike, have you seen it?!? Looks amazing and an easy way to get fit. Thinking of buying it! What do you think?

  K x

  From Rachel Dower to Katy Dower

  Sent 4 March 07:45

  Hi Katy,

  Have you bought this?!

  No, I haven’t seen these advertised, but just looked them up and seen they are two thousand pounds! They look like a total con, and I would 100% say not to buy one. Why don’t you start jogging? That’s free!

  Also if you are rich enough to spend two grand on a bike then please can you transfer me your half of Mum’s birthday present.

  Love you,

  Rachel

  From
Katy Dower to Rachel Dower

  Sent 4 March 09:08

  Hey,

  Thanks for the advice. Don’t worry, I didn’t buy one.

  K

  CHAPTER ONE

  KATY

  I glance anxiously back at the house, the bedroom window flickering from the reflection of the television. The fat van crunches over the gravel, casually trampling one of Fiona’s precious rose bushes and dragging the plump pale pink flowers under the tyres. My eyes flit back up to the window, waiting for Fiona to fling it open and demand me to tell her what the hell is going on.

  I bite my lip, willing the driver to hurry up as the engine rumbles with enough force to awaken the Kraken.

  I had no idea he would be this late! What sort of courier delivers a bike at ten thirty at night? Not that I’ll say that to him. I’ve been waiting since three o’clock for this bloody bike to arrive; there is no way I am saying anything to piss him off. If he drives off with it, I’ll cry.

  The driver hops out of the van, slamming the door behind him with a loud thwack. I jump as the echo reverberates through me and force myself to smile at the man. His head is a perfect circle and completely hairless, and he has large folds of skin gathered under his eyes that pull his entire face downwards like anchors. He looks exhausted.

  He’ll be even more exhausted when he realises where I need him to carry my bike.

  ‘Are you Katy?’ he says, his voice thick with a Scottish accent.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my hand twitching as I fight between the awkward urge to wave or shake his hand.

  He stomps towards the back of the van and I scuttle after him, trying to make as little noise as possible. He reaches forward and flicks a tab at the bottom of the metal door, triggering it to shoot up with a rattle as though it’s holding an army of pot-wielding tap dancers. I feel my hands clench into fists by my side.

  Oh my God, why is it so loud?

  He catches my stricken face and scowls at me.

  ‘You did order a bike?’ he says, pulling out his phone and squinting at the screen. ‘The Super Bike?’

  My stomach twitches.

  Yes, yes, I did order the Super Bike. I did sign up for a finance plan for the next two years to pay for a bike I can only afford if I eat Tesco own-brand food until I die and never use fabric softener and wear the same pants for the rest of my life even if they have an unfortunate hole or fall down every time I sneeze.

  But who knows? Maybe I’ll use this bike every day and look so fantastic that a billionaire will fall in love with me who has shares in fabric softener and then I’ll be glad I bought the bike. Thank God I bought this bike, I’ll say. And then I’ll send Rachel a photo of me sat on a yacht with my new beau, smiling smugly into the camera whilst subtly showing off my new, perfectly ripe arse.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘yes, that is for me. I live down the bottom of the garden.’

  I feel my face flush as it always does whenever I admit to anyone where I live, which is very rare. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t live under a flowerpot like Bill and Ben, I just live in my boss’s back garden (in the annexe) so I can be the perfect PA to her highly successful events company.

  Oh, and so I can also be the perfect nanny. Not that it was part of the job description, nor in the small print of my contract. No, it was more that Fiona literally pointed at my little home and told the children that I would love nothing more than to play hide-and-seek, and now, three years later, I’m trapped like a hostile Mary Poppins who’s run out of places to hide.

  I look over my shoulder at the narrow path that winds down to my small home, and then back at the man. He doesn’t look impressed.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Can I move my van closer?’

  If he got any closer to the house, he’d be parked in Fiona’s front room.

  I chew on my lip. ‘Er,’ I say, ‘no. Sorry. But I can help you carry it!’ I add brightly, offering my matchstick arms towards him as if I’m the answer to all his problems.

  He cocks his head and climbs inside the van. ‘You’re going to have to,’ he says, and my arms wilt.

  I peer inside the van, which is practically empty apart from one large box glowering at me from the corner.

  I watch as the man slams his body weight onto the box, shoving it towards me.

  I feel myself tense.

  Was it a good idea to offer to help lift this? Am I really going to be able to do it?

  ‘Right,’ he puffs, ‘ready?’

  I jump to attention as the box suddenly tilts towards me. My hands grip the edge of it and I feel a surge of heat rush through my arms.

  I shall not drop this box. This box contains the reason I’m not having takeaways for the next two years (minimum). I must carry it to safety. It is literally my most prized possession.

  The delivery man eases himself out of the back of the van and the box lunges towards me, and before I know what’s going on, I’m hobbling backwards down the drive like an unenthused crab. An unenthused crab with a serious yeast infection.

  This is not the luxury experience I was hoping for when I ordered this bike. Honestly, why don’t they have more than one delivery driver? He’s lucky I’m a naturally strong, independent woman. What would he have done if I had broken my arm? Or was heavily pregnant? Or, you know, just didn’t want to carry it?

  ‘Is it just straight on?’ he says, his gruff voice reverberating around the garden.

  ‘Yes,’ I hiss back, willing him to be quiet.

  The last thing I want is for Fiona to hear a mysterious man’s voice following me down the garden path in the dead of night. I don’t want her to think I’m sneaking Scottish men into my flat like a secret temptress.

  Not that she’d care. If anything, she’d love it and pluck me raw for all the juicy details over coffee the next morning, using code words the children can’t understand.

  I say the children; the first time it happened, she kept asking if I had ‘captured the goat’, and to this day I have no idea what she was talking about.

  (I said I had, as this seemed to be the answer she wanted. She was delighted.)

  I try not to shriek as my foot lands in a patch of mud and slides off to the side.

  Bloody hell, how does anyone walk like this? The Chuckle Brothers made it look so easy! It is totally unreasonable for anyone to be expected to walk backwards in this weird position. I mean, there is a reason why it’s only crabs that walk sideways.

  A gust of wind whips my thick hair in front of my eyes and I shake my head about like a distressed horse.

  ‘Just down here,’ I manage between puffs of air.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he replies. ‘I can see it. Cute little place.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, craning my strained neck to see, to my relief, that we have arrived at my cabin.

  That’s what I call it: ‘The Cabin’. It’s a beautiful little lodge, with my own squashy armchairs and perfectly fitted kitchen. Fiona and her husband Tristan had it built just before I arrived, in hopes of an au pair appearing and casually teaching them all French. She was thrilled when I applied to be her PA and told her I was moving from Wales to start a new life in London.

  I mean, I was applying to be PA to the events director. Not PA to Fiona Cunningham and her entire family. But whatever. It has its perks. I mean, there is a reason I’m still here three years later.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘so if we just put it down, I’ll open the door.’

  I’ve barely finished speaking when the man starts to dip into a deep squat. I fight the urge to scream in pain as my poor thighs tremble under the weight of the box.

  Christ! Who does he think I am? The only time I squat is when I’m avoiding a toilet seat!

  The box lands on the ground with a thump and I fumble around for my keys.

  ‘Do you need help bringing it inside?’ he says, looking back up the garden, not bothering to hide his desperation to leave.

  I click the door open and flash him a smile.

  ‘Just through the d
oor, please,’ I say. ‘I’ll set it up.’

  He gives the box a final shove with his shoulder, and it slides through my front door. He pulls himself to standing and turns his iPhone towards me. I push my long hair off my face, shoving it behind my ears roughly, and scribble my signature, then look at the bike, my heart thumping in my ears.

  ‘Thanks.’ He shoots me a thumbs-up and stomps back down the garden. I watch him leave and then slowly push my front door shut, the familiar silence of the cabin falling around me.

  I just won’t mention it to Rachel again until I’m sure it’s a good idea. That’s the way I’ve been living for the past three years, and it’s been going pretty well.

  It’s not lying; it’s just that there are some aspects of my life I’ve never told her about.

  What’s the big deal?

  *

  I feel myself stir as the bright white light of the sun streams over my face. Every night for the past three years I have slept with my face next to the window. It means I wake as the sun rises each morning.

  It makes me feel quite peaceful and at one with nature, like Snow White. Although I bet Snow White didn’t consider murdering a pair of foxes who thought that outside my bedroom window was the perfect place to start a family.

  I open my eyes, shielding them from the sun as I peer up the garden towards the main house. I can see William’s shadow against the blue blind, sitting up on his bed and scratching his head. He’s probably reading; he knows he’s not allowed out of bed before six. Jasmine will still be asleep, which isn’t unusual.

  I roll onto my front and pick up my phone, feeling a tingle of nerves as I look at the date: 13 March. Two days before the charity ball, the first event Fiona has let me properly work on. Which means that today, I am going into the office.

  I look down at my outfit, perfectly laid out on the chair beneath me. My bed is made up of a large mattress and duvet, with about thirty old pillows, tucked away on the mezzanine section of the cabin. I’ve stuck some photos on the wall next to my pillows, and sometimes pull a string of fairy lights up if there is a storm outside and the place gets particularly dark.

  They’re all photos Rachel took – she’s always had a knack for photography – which means they are from our teenage years, when we spent real time together. There’s one of me and Dad grinning over a birthday cake, a photo of the four of us standing on a cliff edge in Pembrokeshire, the Welsh air pinching at our cheeks and our arms linked around each other as our shiny sunburnt faces beam at the camera. Then there’s one of Rachel, me and our grandma, with Rachel’s arm stretched out in front of us holding the camera. That’s my favourite one. Our cheeks are pressed to either side of Grandma’s face, my teenage braces glinting in the light and Rachel’s circular glasses propped on her button nose. Grandma is grinning mischievously at the camera. There was always a light in Grandma’s eyes, a certain twinkle of naughtiness. Even when she was really sick, she’d look at you as though she was sitting on the most delicious gossip, or about to burst into ripples of giggles at a prank she had in store for one of the neighbours.