by Jane Green
‘Well at least he’s got balls,’ Kate says.
‘But not for much longer, apparently.’
‘Did he attach a picture?’
‘Yes, and all I can say is it’s going to be pretty hard to pass yourself off as a woman when you’re sixfoot five and built like a rugger centre forward.’
‘Poor bloke,’ Kate sighs. ‘Any more?’
‘Far too many to mention,’ Vicky says.
‘Well make sure you keep some of the choice ones for when you come down, which I expect to happen soon. The chickens are here, and the kids are dying for you to see them.’
‘Are they tiny and fluffy?’
‘Yes, and the sweetest things I’ve ever seen, although Hogie and Herks are doing lots of lurking around the pen, eyeing them hungrily. Thank God Bill-the-chicken-man came back to do some reinforcing. It turns out your brilliant brother hadn’t done such a brilliant job after all. Still, bless him for at least trying.’
‘I should be down this weekend,’ Vicky says. ‘I’ll probably come straight from work on Friday, how does that sound?’
‘Sounds perfect. And by the way, did you ever hear from that creep Jamie Donnelly?’
‘That fuckwit? Nope. I hope he rots in hell with Denise Van Outen.’
‘I read he’s already moved on. I think this week’s catch is Rachel Stevens.’
Vicky sighs. ‘Oh God. I suppose I ought to be flattered that he appeared to even fancy me at all. At least I’m in good company.’
‘Exactly. He just doesn’t know what he’s missing.’
‘Kate, have I ever told you that I love you?’
‘Yes. You tell me all the time. And you know I love you too. You’re much more like my sister than sister-in-law.’
‘Okay, okay. Enough sentimentality. I’ll see you on Friday.’
Janelle Salinger is delighted with the piece. Everyone on the advertising side is delighted with the piece. Everyone, that is, except for Vicky, who is now wondering what exactly she was thinking of. Living in another woman’s house, looking after another woman’s children, wearing another woman’s clothes.
Because that is what they decided. It wouldn’t be enough to just turn up to someone else’s house, to someone else’s life, bringing everything from your own life. Janelle had decided that if this was going to work, if the experiment was actually going to prove anything at all, both swapees had to immerse themselves as far as possible into the life of the other.
Which meant that Vicky was allowed to bring nothing bar underwear. She would wear the married woman’s clothes. Use her make-up. Shampoo her hair with the other woman’s shampoo.
She would step into the married woman’s social circle as if she had belonged there all her life. Whoever was the married woman’s best friend would be expected to be Vicky’s best friend. It wasn’t enough to swap lives. The real interest lay in discovering whether it would be possible to truly inhabit the world of another person, to find out what her life was really like by becoming her, or becoming as near to her as was physically possible.
And in turn Vicky was giving over her life. Her clothes. Her make-up, which she had swiftly replaced, embarrassed by the crusting mascara that was three years old (even though her very own magazine regularly advised its readers to throw out your mascara after six months…). Her friends. Her own brother and sister-in-law. Luke, Polly and Sophie would have to endure stories read to them by what she hoped would be a pale imitator of herself. They wouldn’t be fooled.
If Vicky is honest with herself, she didn’t expect this to go quite so far. When Janelle had hit upon the idea, Vicky had thought she would just go and live her dream lifestyle for a couple of weeks, probably find out that looking after someone else’s children isn’t nearly as much fun as looking after your own, and would come home again feeling much the same as she did when she left.
What she didn’t expect was how far she would have to go, how much Janelle expected her to transform and, even more surprising, how many women would respond.
The letters keep coming. The emails are flooding in. And Vicky has already had to direct the magazine receptionist to request that people write in instead of phoning, because for the first three days after Poise! hit the stands, her phone rang off the hook, women thinking they were being clever in looking up her number, figuring they stood more of a chance if they spoke to her in person rather than simply writing in.
Who are these women?
Some have sent photographs. Quick snapshots attached to their emails, digital pictures of their children playing, their handsome husbands, their living rooms and gardens.
Some of the letters are short. Some go on for pages. All of the women claim to love their children, some of the women claim to love their husbands, and most of them feel that there is something missing, that if they are the one picked, they will find whatever it is that is causing them dissatisfaction.
A few are brutally honest. They don’t like being married. Aren’t happy. Are hoping that this will give them the courage to leave, to go back to a life that fills them simultaneously with envy and fear.
A handful of those have suggested they bring their children with them for the swap. Let Vicky come and live with their husbands while they hole up in Vicky’s bachelorette flat with their children.
As if.
Vicky dumps those letters firmly on the no pile.
She sits back and re-reads the small pile of potentials.
Dear Vicky,
What an amazing idea! I’ve been a reader of Poise! for years, but this is the first time I’ve written in and I still can’t quite believe I’m doing it, particularly when I have a wonderful life that is the envy of all my friends, two beautiful children and a husband who is my best friend.
My kids are Jack and William, aged six and four, and we live in a small but charming cottage on the outskirts of Oxford. Simon, my husband, works for a local law firm, which is lovely because he’s always back by six to help with the kids’ bathtime. (Have I tempted you yet???!!!)
Before I had children I was in advertising. I had just been promoted to Account Director when I fell pregnant with Jack. We were still living in London at the time, in a lovely flat in Putney, and I planned on taking three months’ maternity leave and then going straight back to work, but of course I fell head over heels in love with Jack, and when the time came I couldn’t do it.
We moved out to Oxford when William was conceived. It seemed like the right time, and I’d always wanted to bring my children up in the country, with fresh air and trees and animals. I love the fact that we have three acres with a stream at the bottom of the garden, and the boys spend hours down there fishing. Not that they ever seem to catch anything but it keeps them happy and, more importantly, quiet!!!
So, I stopped working, and now that the boys are that bit older and in school, part of me is desperate to work again, but the other part is really scared. I sat down with Simon and showed him the article, and we both thought it was a brilliant idea, and that as hard as it would be, being away from everyone for a month, it might give me the impetus I need. Plus I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a writer, and I love the idea of working for Poise! magazine, even if it is merely stepping into your shoes for a while.
I knowyou’re looking for someone who’s the same size so you can swap wardrobes too. On a good day I’m a size 10, and on a bad day a 12. On a terrible day it’s a 14, but luckily I haven’t had any terrible days for the last year!! Oh, and I’m a six and a half shoe. I’d love to tell you that my wardrobe is filled with glamorous stuff like Armani shirts and Manolo shoes, but actually it’s far more likely to be Jigsaw sweaters for best, Oasis, and Nine West shoes. Sorry! (Although I’m hoping to take advantage of your wardrobe which looks pretty fantastic from the photo in the piece. I think those strappy lilac Jimmy Choos are the sexiest things I’ve ever seen!)
I probably ought to stop banging on about clothes now, other than to say that I think you’d really enjoy it here. Y
ou said your dream was a house in the country, children, an Aga, and big dogs. Well we’ve got the house in the country, we’ve got the children, we don’t have an Aga (am hoping Simon might accommodate me for my thirty-fifth birthday!), and we’ve got two West Highland terriers.
And my husband is also fantastic. I’ve enclosed photographs of everyone for you to see, but he’s funny, and clever, and a huge help with the children. But you’re not allowed to sleep with him!!! (I’m assuming you’re not planning on jumping into bed with the husband…)
I hope I hear from you. I’m around most of the time. And if you decide to choose someone else, good luck – I still think it’s a brilliant idea.
Best wishes,
Sarah Evans
Dear Vicky Townsley,
I’m a thirty-eight-year-old wife, mother, cleaner, launderer, dog-walker, chauffeur, cook, bartender, hostess and chief-cake-maker at 745 Station Road, Chislehurst.
And I’m bloody tired.
Please take me away from all this for a few weeks.
Yours gratefully,
Sally Lonsdale
That one only made it onto the potential pile because it made Vicky laugh. And then there were the letters that Vicky didn’t have the heart to put on the no pile. The letters that almost brought her to tears, that made her want to help, to be a part of the solution.
Dear Vicky,
Well I suppose I ought to start by being honest and saying that my husband would probably kill me if he knew I was doing this, although don’t let that put you off – if you pick me I’ll make sure I explain it to him in a way that he decides to spare me my life and take me back once the month is over.
The truth is that I’m not very happy. Actually, we’re not very happy, which is probably not what you want to hear, but I thought I may as well be honest. I have some of what you’re looking for in your perfect life – a lovely house in Bath which is incredibly beautiful, and three children, and a cat which thinks it’s a dog. And of course my husband, Adam.
Adam and I were childhood sweethearts. I’m only thirty-two, so we’ve managed to fit an awful lot in! We’ve been together since we were fourteen, and a year ago if you’d asked me whether I was happy, I would have said I was the happiest and luckiest woman in the world.
Six months ago Adam came home and said he had something to tell me. You probably knowwhat I’m going to tell you. It seems that everyone else always knows when something is going on, that the wife is always the last to know, and sure enough he said he’d been having an affair with someone at work, that it was over, that he loved me and was sorry, it would never happen again, and the only reason he’d decided to tell me was because he couldn’t live with the guilt, and he wanted to wipe the slate clean and start again.
I bloody well wish he’d kept that slate dirty.
Adam’s the only man I’ve ever been with. The only man I’ve ever loved, and I never dreamt that he would do something like this. I do know the girl he was involved with – I met her at the office Christmas party and I never liked her, she was exactly the type of woman you want to keep away from your husband. The thing is, I do believe he loves me. And I do believe he probably won’t do this again, that it was a terrible mistake and he has learnt his lesson. But the problem is, I can’t seem to forgive him.
Every time he touches me I think of him touching her. (Oh God, is that too much information for you?) Every time he tells me he loves me I feel this rush of anger, and I keep thinking that time is the great healer, that at some point I will feel the forgiveness, be able to carry on as we were before, but it only seems to be getting worse.
So when I read your article, I thought that it would be exactly what I need. What we need. I think I need something huge, momentous to happen. My friends keep saying I should leave him, but the truth is I don’t want to leave him. Not permanently. If I believe that it won’t happen again, then why would I leave when he’s a good father, he’s good to me, I know he loves us. But because I can’t forgive him, I know I have to do something, so this seemed perfect. To leave him temporarily. To make him realize what it might be like if I left, to make him really realize what it is that he’s got in me and his family.
Anyway, I didn’t want to depress you, and actually I feel better nowthat I’ve got it out there in this letter. I’d love to be the person you swap lives with, and I hope you get in touch!
Yours sincerely,
Hope Nettleton
And finally this:
Dear Vicky,
I know you won’t be expecting a letter from the other side of the pond, but our local bookstore carries magazines from England, and my husband bought me some magazines the other week, amongst which was the June issue of Poise!. (Little did he know what he was letting himself in for…!)
So, I read your article and have to confess I find it fascinating, particularly because I’m always saying that the grass is always greener, but have never actually put it to the test. And let me start by saying that my life, on the surface, appears to be perfect. Actually, in many ways, it is pretty perfect.
I’m married to Richard and we have two children, Jared, 6, and Gracie, 3. We live in a town called Highfield in Connecticut, which is about an hour outside Manhattan. It feels like the country, but every time I need my fix of the city, or Bergdorfs is calling, I can hop on a train and go in.
We have the requisite golden retriever, Ginger, who’s horribly overweight, a lovely nanny, Lavinia, and although we don’t have an Aga we do have the American equivalent, a Viking range, which I’m sure you’ll find just as appealing!
I’m lucky enough to live in a huge house, with a swimming pool, about twenty minutes from the beach, and my days are filled with carpooling, playdates, and a huge amount of charity work for the Highfield League of Young Ladies. We’re just planning our Summer Gala which raised $1.8 million last year that we distributed to various local charities – it’s a wonderful cause and keeps me busy!
I guess that a lot of the letters you will have had will be from women who are unhappy, and I have to start by saying I’m really not. My goodness, if you looked at my life (I’ve enclosed pictures of the family, the dog, the house and our beautiful Main Street which includes a proper old-fashioned ice-cream parlour to tempt your further…) you would think I have everything, and although I adore my kids and my husband, I just can’t get rid of this feeling that there must be more to life than this.
I suppose at times I feel like a Desperate Housewife (I’d like to be the Teri Hatcher one but I’m far more like Felicity Huffman!) – that’s kind of the life we live. For most of the women around here all this charitable work seems to be far more about social climbing, and even though that’s not why I got involved, it’s so hard not to get caught up in it.
Because this town is only an hour outside Manhattan, a lot of the people who have moved here work on Wall Street – at least the husbands do. Not that I should complain, Richard works on Wall Street and thank goodness! But it makes for a very competitive lifestyle: everyone’s always trying to keep up with everyone else – who has the biggest house, who has the most expensive car, whose children got in to the best private school.
And it’s exhausting. I didn’t growup with anything, I came from the wrong side of the tracks altogether, and I’m not sure howmuch longer I have the energy to do this. So that’s why I’m writing. I’m sure I’m not what you’re looking for, and I’m sure you weren’t expecting to hear from someone in America, but the idea of having a break from keeping up with the Joneses is hugely appealing.
Plus I thought you might just like the idea of finding out what life really is like on Wisteria Lane (although in truth my road is called Sugar Maple Lane!).
Yours,
Amber Winslow
Vicky slides the letters back into the potential file and checks her watch. Damn. She’s going to be late. She has a one o’clock lunch meeting with a couple of people from Channel 4. They saw the magazine and phoned her, pitched her about making a do
cumentary about the swap, doing a fly-on-the-wall, coming along with both women to see how they fare.
Janelle almost cried with excitement when Vicky told her. She had to tell her. Even though she couldn’t think of anything worse than being on television as part of a fly-on-the-wall documentary.
There was the not insignificant issue of television putting on at least ten pounds for one thing. Plus the whole world would be watching her, and Vicky hasn’t wanted fame or celebrity since she was six years old and wrote to Jimmy Saville to ask him if he could fixit for her to meet the Bay City Rollers (he couldn’t).
She’s hoping that during this lunch meeting they will think her not interesting or charismatic enough to make a documentary about her, even though the premise is a good one. Janelle is joining them later, which is unfortunate, but hopefully Vicky can do enough damage before Janelle arrives, and put them off for good.
Chapter Eleven
Amber stands once again in the corner of her new Amberley Jacks-designed living room, and smiles as she surveys the changes.
The walls are lavender now, just as they proposed, the sofa a rich plum, the armchairs re-upholstered in a plum and chocolate-brown print. The curtains are a mocha and lavender check, and the pièce de résistance is the new antique Asian coffee table in the centre of the room, dressed for today’s committee meeting with silver platters of exquisite handmade cookies and pastries.
Amber comes into this room at least three times a day. She doesn’t actually sit down on the sofa – doesn’t let anyone sit down on the sofa – but she stands and admires how lovely it is, and thank goodness it managed to be ready for the final committee meeting before Friday’s Gala for the League.
Julian and Aidan did a wonderful job, she tells anyone who asks. Now they are working on the family room, the library, and Amber is thinking of adding the master bedroom to the list, although she hasn’t managed to tell Richard about adding a few more rooms, and he’s been so difficult lately about money, it might be best not to mention it at all.