House Swap Read online

  As twins go, Rachel and I are practically identical. Although Rachel now has a blunt fringe, and my nose turns up slightly at the end whereas hers sits neatly on her face. Which sums us up really. Rachel has always been perfectly organised and in control, with nothing out of place, whereas I’m the flyaway. Grandma never let us take ourselves too seriously, and she certainly never let us fight. Although I think if she could see the stilted, rehearsed version of our relationship now, she’d say that was worse. At least when we were fighting, we were being real.

  I pull myself up to sitting, being careful not to hit my head on the low ceiling, and swing my legs round to find the ladder.

  I go into the office about twice a week, as Fiona says the rest of my work can be done at home. I have helped her with events before – I mean, I am the PA to the director of events – but in the past that has just meant ordering flowers or sending invitations that someone else has picked out. A lot of the time, the biggest help I seem to be to her is keeping the children entertained when she’s on a business call.

  She knows I want to work in the office and be a proper employee. She’s made excuses over the years about my experience, and talked about me building my ‘repertoire’ (all the other staff seem to have come straight from fancy agencies), so I’ve waited patiently for my time to prove myself, and now this is it. Out of nowhere, Fiona let me organise the auction at the charity ball. The most important part of the event! I haven’t mentioned it to her, but I know that if I get it right, she’ll have to offer me a position within the company. You know, an actual I-have-a-desk-and-nobody-dare-use-my-prized-mug employee, taking part in the absurd office polls about who is the most outrageous person on Love Island and the correct way to make a cup of tea. Caitlyn, one of the junior event executives, left last month to work in Canada, so it’s as if everything is lining up for me and finally my entire fantasy of what my London life should be is about to come true.

  I flick the kettle on. Today I’m wearing my leopard-print dress, black court heels and my new hoop earrings. I can barely stand in heels, but there is no way I’m sauntering into the edgy east London office in flats. I already feel like an outcast every time I walk in.

  I pour the boiling water into a mug over the dark coffee granules and pick up my phone as it vibrates in my hand. Three emails pop onto the screen. Two from Fiona and one from Rachel. Rachel and I used to text, and occasionally we still call, but she worked out that the quickest way to get a response from me was to send an email. She stopped picking up the phone months ago.

  I mentally note the two emails from Fiona, a reminder of what time the taxi will be outside, and have I remembered to bring my laptop? (Yes.) I take a sip of coffee as I open the email from Rachel.

  Hi Katy,

  Hope you’re having a nice Monday.

  I thought I’d email your work address to remind you to triple-check with HR that you can have the time off to come and house-sit next week. Bruno is very excited to see you, and I’ve attached a schedule with his meals and exercise regime. I’m sure you’ll have lots you’ll want to do when you’re here, but I’ll leave the fridge full and my Sky password is on the remote.

  Good luck for your big event. Maybe I can see you before you go. I’ll try and leave Paris a day early.

  Love you,

  Rachel x

  I drop the phone back to my side.

  Urgh.

  Six months ago, Rachel asked if I would house-sit for her and look after her giant, slobber-ridden dog/bear Bruno, while she spent a week at a work conference in Paris. I wanted to ask why her husband, Danny, couldn’t return from the boat he’s been on for the past ten bloody months to look after his dog, but I thought that wouldn’t be very sisterly. (He’s not a pirate; he just works on a cruise ship.)

  Anyway, she asked me in the depths of a hangover when I didn’t have the energy to make up an excuse, and she’s been reminding me every other Monday since with a brisk email or novelty countdown tag on Instagram. I don’t know why she’s so excited; it’s not like she’s going to be there.

  I take a sip of my coffee, squinting towards the house, where I notice William throwing his cereal across the table.

  I wince as the coffee burns my tongue.

  Obviously when I agreed to house-sit, I didn’t know I was going to be organising the single most important event of my entire career the week before. In an ideal world, I wouldn’t be going. It seems ridiculous to take a week off when I am finally on the cusp of a promotion. Really, I need to be in the office bright and early on Monday morning after the ball, ready to schmooze Fiona with light titbits and stories of how fabulous the evening was while everybody chips in with how much fun they had. Not being dragged around soggy Wales by a dog that always tries to hump my leg.

  I did toy with the idea of cancelling. I even found a nice-looking doggy hotel that I thought Bruno might enjoy (with female dogs he could ‘socialise’ with), but quickly dismissed the idea when Rachel sent me a list of his favourite walks, with a sloppy picture attached of Bruno ‘smiling’ because he’s so excited about seeing me.

  I begged Fiona to give me the time off (even though I haven’t had a holiday for the entire time I’ve worked here), and she agreed on the condition that I took my laptop with me so I could work remotely ‘if required’. I didn’t ask whether this included some awful virtual babysitting.

  So I replied to every one of Rachel’s incessant emails about my stay, assuring her that yes I was definitely coming, no I didn’t still own a pair of walking boots, and no, I one hundred per cent did not want to buy a pair, especially that hideous pair that were fifty per cent off in the sale.

  I down the final dregs of my coffee and check the time. Right, one hour before we have to leave.

  Rachel doesn’t know my real work situation. It wasn’t a complete lie. I told her I work at Hayes Events (which is true) as PA to the director (also true). She knows I live in a flat in west London (almost true) and I live by myself (true!).

  But she doesn’t know that I live in my boss’s back garden, and I actually spend eighty per cent of my working week looking after her children and sometimes feel like I was hired as an accidental nanny who just happened to apply for a job as the annexe was finished.

  There would be no point telling her any of this. She already doesn’t understand why I wanted to move away from our precious childhood village to live in London. She’s never wanted to understand. So I leave her to it, with her perfect marriage and her perfect little life in our family cottage. We normally see each other once a year, at Christmas, and send the routine birthday cards and Lush vouchers, and that’s fine. Neither of us asks for anything more.

  I mean, sure, perhaps there have been times when I’ve exaggerated the glossiness of my life in answer to her asking an innocent question like ‘How is your job going?’ But what am I supposed to do? Tell her the truth?

  But yes, even I can see that telling her that I hosted an after party in my rooftop garden with everybody from Heat magazine was a bit extreme. And that Kem from Love Island was there. And that I may have got off with him.

  But I did say ‘may’! I was very clear on that.

  My phone buzzes in my hand and a second email from Rachel pops onto my screen.

  PS I’m having a piece of bara brith for breakfast for Grandma. Hope you’re okay today x

  My heart squeezes as Grandma’s warm, doughy hands fill my mind, pulling another bara brith from the oven and laughing as Mum exclaimed how we’d only just finished the last one. ‘You can never have too much cake!’ she’d say, giving Rachel and me a wink as we grinned over our cereal. If we did well in school or helped her around the house, cake for breakfast was our treat. Bara brith was her favourite. The heavy fruit loaf was a constant staple of our kitchen, sitting right next to the kettle. None of our friends from school liked it, but Rachel and I couldn’t get enough.

  My eyes sting at the memory. How has it been two years since she died?

  I drop my
phone onto the sofa and pluck a fondant fancy from the cupboard, shoving the entire thing in my mouth before I start crying.

  I can’t start the day in tears.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror and give myself a goofy grin. I wince as I notice my large teeth, and the bags that threaten to swallow my eyes. I pull a more serious face, with a small, subtle smile. The kind of face I need to fit in with Fiona’s dreadful cool employees.

  Except every time I pull that face, I look like I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m the person who’s just farted.

  I relax my face and pad into the bathroom. As I shut the door and switch the shower on, I continue to practise my face of indifference.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RACHEL

  I swing my legs against the back of the chair, remembering the feeling of being a child and only being at the doctor’s for something minuscule, like a routine injection that resulted in a sticker from the doctor and a secret McDonald’s from Grandma.

  My eyes scan the room, lingering slightly on each person as I find myself trying to guess what they’re in for. After flitting over each unsuspecting patient, my eyes land on a young couple and I feel my heart jolt. The woman has caramel skin and thick braids, twisted together over her shoulder. She is leaning against the back of her chair, her stomach stretching out effortlessly as her manicured hand rests lightly on her bump. The man next to her has his arm wrapped around her shoulders, speaking quietly and making her giggle. He places his hand on top of hers and gives the bump a light rub. The woman beams up at him and I have to clench my jaw to stop myself from vomiting.

  Isaac spots me holding my hand over my mouth and jerks to attention, his pale eyes alert.

  ‘What is it?’ he says quickly. ‘Do you want the doctor? Or the toilet?’

  He looks at me nervously and I almost want to laugh at the pure terror etched on his face.

  Poor Isaac, I don’t think he’ll ever recover from seeing me throw up in my pyjamas seconds after opening the front door to him. I don’t think his shoes will ever recover, either.

  But I mean, really. Who shows up at their pregnant neighbour’s front door at 8 a.m. with a fresh bag of wet dog food wafting through the air?

  Still, I should really buy him a new pair of shoes. And socks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to look away from the giggling couple, stealing one final glance at the gold band wrapped around her finger.

  ‘Rachel Dower?’

  A petite receptionist with a thick Welsh accent pokes her head around the door. I raise my hand and she gives me a quick once-over before realising that I’m not going to stand up. Like clockwork, Isaac leans forward and takes the form. The woman gives him a kind smile and I can almost see the lovely thought bubble pop out from her head.

  How sweet. He’ll make a great dad.

  Without quite meaning to, I scowl at her.

  This must be the tenth form I’ve filled out since I’ve been pregnant. I swear the receptionist just collects them for fun.

  ‘Right,’ he says, leaning back into his seat. ‘Have you got a pen?’

  I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘I can fill out my own form, Isaac,’ I say. ‘Assuming you have a pen I can borrow?’

  He looks down at my expectant hands and shrugs.

  ‘Pen? No. I do have a trowel in my bag, and,’ he pats his pockets, ‘some dog biscuits and perhaps a tissue?’ He yanks out an old red sock from the depths of his pocket and I grimace as dust flies off it like icing sugar.

  ‘You need to bin that,’ I say, trying not to laugh as the woman sitting opposite looks at him as though he’s just produced a squirming rat.

  Isaac glances at the sock, shrugs, and shoves it back in his pocket, where it will undoubtedly stay for another two years.

  ‘I’ll grab a pen from reception,’ he says.

  I smile after him and make the stupid mistake of catching the eye of the pregnant woman across the room, who is beaming at me, her hands still placed delicately on her bump. Much like the receptionist, I watch her thought bubble pop out of her head.

  You must be as blissfully happy as I am.

  I stare down at my hands, heat prickling my cheeks.

  If only they could see my thought bubble.

  ‘Rachel, are you ready?’

  The receptionist reappears and I snap out of my thoughts. Slowly I grip the chair and push myself to standing, trying to ignore the splats of black that squirm in front of my eyes from the effort. Just as I take a step forward, I feel Isaac’s arm link into mine.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say quietly.

  ‘This is for me,’ he mutters. ‘I need to regain some credit after the sock incident.’

  I notice him look over at the woman opposite, whose head is now cocked in approval.

  For goodness’ sake.

  ‘Right,’ the nurse says as we sink into identical chairs in her office and Isaac finally lets go of my arm. ‘So, Rachel . . . and partner?’

  My stomach drops. I haven’t met this nurse before.

  ‘No,’ Isaac says, as though she’s just asked whether he’d like a cup of tea.

  ‘He’s not the father, either,’ I blurt, unable to bear to wait for the inevitable question. ‘He’s my neighbour.’

  ‘Friend.’ Isaac shoots me a look. ‘Childhood friend. Sister’s ex-boyfriend,’ he adds to the nurse as an aside.

  Oh God. He’s making it worse. Why does she need to know that? She doesn’t even know Katy.

  ‘He’s here to support,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just me, I’m doing this all by myself.’

  A horrible, awkward laugh tinkles out of my mouth and I rest my hands on my round stomach, my face burning as my thought bubble finally stretches out for everyone to see.

  I’m doing this all by myself.

  *

  The rest of the appointment goes quite quickly. I nod and smile and answer the questions politely, all the while chewing on the inside of my cheek whilst fighting the urge to tell the nurse my entire life history to stop her from potentially thinking I’m sleeping with my sister’s ex-boyfriend. An image of myself blabbering out my thoughts creeps in front of my eyes:

  Isaac really is just a friend, he’s actually never got over my twin sister. I was married up until last year, but then he sort of left me. Or, well, I guess we kind of left each other. He works on a cruise ship so I haven’t seen him since. And I was stupid and sad and let myself get sucked in by a guy from work and somehow ended up pregnant. He didn’t even pretend he wanted anything to do with it, so he’s gone too. So here I am, all by myself, which I am totally fine with.

  I catch hold of the imaginary dialogue steamrollering through my mind as the last few words judder to a halt. In my mind, I am chirping these words to the nurse as though I am chatting about the weather, but just thinking them causes my stomach to churn like a vat of cream cheese.

  Isaac is the only person I’ve actually allowed myself to spill all my secrets to. Well, Isaac, and Peggy from work, who caught me crying in the toilets and has been showering me with unexpected gifts ever since to try and get me excited about the baby, with varying success. Let me tell you, one thing to get you suitably mortified about childbirth is being sent a breast pump.

  I mean, what is she going to send next? Anal cream?

  Actually, I shouldn’t joke about that. Her daughter Tabitha has just had a baby, and Peggy told me a highly personal story about her ‘post-birth piles’ that made me want to rip my ears off. A week later, Tabitha popped into the office and I spent the entire conversation bright red fighting a horrible urge to ask her if the cream worked, and did she prefer the scented one after all the fuss?

  I lean back in the car seat and check my watch. The appointment was over in five minutes flat, just a routine check-up. I shooed Isaac out of the room before the nurse could ask me anything too personal.

  He reappears around the corner, strolling towards the car as though he’s in a mid-nineties bo
y-band slow-mo. Sometimes I wonder how he and Katy ever worked together as a couple, considering Katy is the most impatient person I know and does everything at one hundred miles an hour. Neither of them has ever found anyone else who matches their speed.

  ‘All right?’ he says, opening the driver’s door. I drop some change into the cup holder for the parking and he grins. ‘Thanks. I’d say don’t bother, but the parking here is extortionate. I mean, it’s a hospital!’ He clicks his seat belt on and judders the rusty old Clio into life. ‘It’s quite clever actually,’ he adds, leaning over the wheel as he pulls off. ‘I suppose if someone has lost an arm, they’d be so desperate to get inside that they’d pay anything for parking.’

  ‘I don’t think someone who’d lost their arm would be driving themselves to hospital,’ I laugh.

  ‘No, you’re right.’ He grins, flicking his indicator on. ‘They’d find a kind-hearted neighbour and guilt-trip them into giving them a lift.’

  ‘And buy them lunch?’ I add pointedly. ‘And offer to sort their recycling to stop them getting an enormous fine?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says, ‘and all that.’

  My ankles knock together and I glance down at them. For a horrible second I almost see them wobble.