The House Swap

by Rebecca Fleet

  Even the sound of his name lifts me. I want to talk about him all the time, even if it has to be couched in angst and uncertainty. ‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘I mean, it can’t last for ever, obviously, but it’s not easy ending it, either, when we’re seeing each other every day. I guess we’ll have to call it off sooner or later.’ I know the truth of what I’m saying, but my mind is entirely closed off from it, wrapping itself up in a neat little cocoon away from reality.

  Jess nods, pursing her lips in consideration. ‘How do you really feel about him?’ she asks. ‘I mean, are you—’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly, because I know what she’s about to ask and it isn’t something I want to think about. ‘I mean, we get on so well. Incredibly well. We just click. But he’s so much younger than me and, looking at it logically, it would never work in reality, would it … I can’t explain it,’ I finish lamely. What I want to tell her is that it is fun. I want to tell her in minute detail about what we did that morning, giggle and blush over it like a young girl in the throes of a new romance. But that’s exactly what I can’t do. In my situation, fun is indecent; mental torture and self-flagellation are the expected norm.

  She sighs, and nods again. ‘I hope you sort it all out,’ she says. ‘I think it’s really sad, you know. It’s just so sad.’ She speaks without agenda or condemnation – simply, honestly – and I can’t bear it, because it only takes a few words like these to twitch the veil aside and show me that she’s right, and I can’t let this sadness overwhelm me. Twisting around in my seat, I drain the last of my drink and reach for my coat.

  At the station, I hug Jess goodbye and see her on to her train, then pass back through the barriers and pull my mobile from my pocket. Nightcap? I text. I am only a few minutes’ walk from where Carl lives and, although I had told myself I wouldn’t see him tonight, now that the moment has come, I can’t resist. I imagine him lying on the bed I have never seen, hands clasped behind his head, thinking about me in the same way I’m thinking about him. It’s too seductive to pass up.

  The answer comes back almost instantly. Where are you? X

  Outside the station, I text back. So cold and lonely! ;-) X

  Say no more. I’ll be there in ten. X

  I pace up and down on the street, shivering in the cold night air, nerves and anticipation coiling in my stomach. When I see him walking towards me, I feel my face split into a smile, and without thinking I’m running to meet him and almost jumping into his arms, wrapping my own tightly around his neck. He kisses me. His mouth tastes of toothpaste and he’s wearing a different shirt from the one he had on in the office earlier today. He’s dressed up, made an effort. For me. The thought is giddying and delightful.

  ‘Hello,’ I squeak, hugging him tightly.

  ‘Are you a bit pissed?’ he asks, laughing. He draws back to evaluate, his eyes teasing me.

  ‘Maybe a bit.’ My head is swimming lightly and I feel a little unsteady on my feet, as if I’m walking on air. ‘Come on,’ I say, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Let’s go and have a drink in that bar.’ I gesture towards the place Jess and I have just left, and he agrees readily, slipping his hand into mine as we cross the road.

  ‘Back again?’ the doorman asks as we enter. I think I see a spark of knowing recognition in his eyes: an awareness that a woman who leaves a bar with a friend at eleven at night and comes back ten minutes later with a man in tow is with someone she shouldn’t be with. Before I have the chance to consider, I give him a wink as I pass. It should feel sordid, this conspiracy of silence between strangers, but it excites me.

  The next hour is a haze of mutual appreciation – neglected drinks, jokey conversation punctuated by kisses and caresses. I find myself touching him again and again, unable to keep my hands away. His hair is ruffled and I reach up to smooth it down, then slip my fingers up underneath his shirt and pull him towards me. It feels as if I have never done these things before. Through the haze of alcohol, I have the dizzying sense of everything falling into place – the strange, magical sensation of wanting exactly what I have right now. I notice that he can’t stop smiling at me, and it reminds me surreally of how I used to think of him, back in the days when we were no more than friends. Attractive, but a little detached and reserved, despite his banter – a little closed off. I feel as if I’ve discovered something incredibly precious. More than discovered: I feel as if I’ve created it. I’ve made him happy in a way that I can’t seem to make my own husband, no matter how hard I try.

  On cue, my phone buzzes in my bag, and I reach absently down to find it. Francis has woken up. Not on your way back yet? Let me know when you are. Would have been nice if you’d let me know you were staying out late, but I suppose, given what a bitch you were before you left, it’s not much of a surprise. I read it over a couple of times, momentarily lost.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Carl asks. I shrug and, on impulse, I flip the screen towards him, showing him the message before stuffing the phone back in my bag.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, frowning. ‘Well. Don’t quite know what to say to that. He must know a different Caro from the one I do.’

  The words are casual but something in them drives to the heart of me and rocks me to the core. It’s true, I realize. What is happening here is far more than the sum of its parts. It’s a transformation. There is someone inside me who has been fighting to get out for years, and he’s ripping open the doors and swinging them wide, dragging her and all her dangerous new desires and compulsions out into the light.

  At first, it was difficult sleeping in Caroline’s bed – even though the sheets were freshly laundered, I couldn’t help thinking about her lying there, a ghostly presence beside me. Last night, though, exhaustion overtook me swiftly and deeply. I didn’t wake until ten and, when I did, it felt as if I was surfacing from something much greater than sleep. Like coming back to life.

  I lie there for a while, staring at the chaos I still haven’t cleared up in her room, the debris of clothes and papers that mark my investigation. It’s another half-hour before I drag myself out of bed and get washed and dressed, then pick up my phone to scroll through my emails. When I see her name at the top of the inbox, I feel something inside readjusting, calibrating – a soft, internal blow to the heart. Are you there? It’s not that I didn’t expect it. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, or which one of the subtle clues I’d left scattered around the house would tip her over the edge, but I knew she’d fall eventually. All the same, there’s something about the message that gets me: its directness, its neediness, the acres of blank space packed with invisible meaning around the words.

  I leave it unanswered for hours, knowing she’ll be checking for a reply. Of all the lessons I could teach her, one of the most valuable would be that the world doesn’t always spin to her rhythm. Not everything has to be adjusted to her needs, reconfigured around what is best for her. She isn’t the exact centre of anything but her own life. She isn’t exempt from judgement or tragedy, any more than those she sees as circling in her orbit.

  What Caroline wants isn’t always what she gets. All the same, when I do reply, I find myself falling in line with her. I keep it short and simple, although it’s twice as long as her own message.

  If you want me to be.

  Away

  Caroline, May 2015

  THE TUBE IS packed and too hot, even at eleven in the morning on a weekday. We’ve been standing for more than fifteen minutes now, and every time the train pulls into a station it lurches and almost knocks me off my feet. I keep trying to remind myself to hold on to the rail, but the message doesn’t seem to be making it through. I can’t focus on anything for more than a few seconds. The strangers around me are fuzzy, sliding off the edges of my vision and seeping away into bright blurs of nothing. Next to me, Francis fiddles unconcernedly with his headphones, turning the music up.

  At least, underground, I can’t check my email for a few minutes. I’d forgotten how it felt – the sick, compulsive need to look at my
phone every five seconds, a needle scratching over and over again in the same groove. I’ve already convinced myself several times that I’ve imagined the whole thing. But then I think about that folder, and the password printed inside it, and I’m right back there in the kitchen, holding it tightly in my shaking hands and feeling as if I’m falling a thousand feet, with no way of stopping. I can’t prove it, but I know the person who created that password is you. And if that’s true, then you’re in my house. Looking at my things, touching them. Sleeping in my bed. You’ve put yourself back in my life.

  The thought brings a complex surge of emotions. Confusion, sick excitement, even fear. I don’t understand why you would do it this way. I can’t reconcile it with the you I knew – unapologetically frank, direct to the point of bluntness. If you wanted to see me, why wouldn’t you just send a text? An email? Even as the thought lands, something about it doesn’t feel quite right, and I realize that you’re not seeing me; quite the opposite. You’re seeing the way I live, without me there. But why would you want to do that?

  ‘Come on.’ Francis nudges me, indicating the sliding doors ahead. I push my way automatically through the crowds of people and tumble out on to the platform. We must be at South Kensington already.

  I try to gather my thoughts, concentrate on the day ahead. We’d agreed last night to take a trip to the Science Museum, a half-ironic nostalgia mission. I glance at Francis, smiling amiably at nothing as he wanders up the platform beside me, and a shiver passes up the length of my spine. I love him, I remind myself. Things are very different between us now from the way they were two years ago. If I really believe what I’m thinking, then even by typing that one question into an email I’ve crossed a line that is unacceptable. I owe it to both of us to push it aside, for now, at least.

  Without realizing it, I’ve walked the length of the tunnel that leads from the Tube station to the museum entrances. Glancing back at the way I’ve come, I feel a stab of uncertainty at the thought of those lost minutes. I remember this, too. The way I used to lose time to you when you weren’t even there, so sucked up in my thoughts that reality might as well have disappeared into a black hole. I don’t like it. It’s like my hands are being taken smoothly and firmly from the controls by some unseen force.

  ‘Where do you want to go first?’ Francis asks, when we enter the museum. He is already striding ahead into the dimly lit ground-floor hall. Above our heads, lights whizz and swoop through coloured tubes. There’s a faint humming in the air, like static electricity.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I say distractedly, staring at the maze of corridors around us. Francis has come to a halt in front of what looks like a huge replica of part of the solar system: starred spotlights dotted on three-dimensional models of planets and craters, lines and patterns etched redly into their surface. I stare at it. I have no real idea what I’m looking at.

  ‘Read that,’ Francis says, pointing at the small, dark plaque next to the display. ‘That’s amazing, isn’t it?’ His face is rapt and engaged, shining with enthusiasm. It’s something I always associated with him in the early days, this ability to find genuine interest in almost every aspect of the world, and yet, for a long time, I thought I’d never see it again.

  ‘Yes. Amazing,’ I echo. The plaque says something about the formation of stars. Molecular clouds. Regional collapse. I can’t wholly take it in, but I can’t help but be touched by his eagerness. Reaching out for his hand, I link his fingers through mine. The contact is warm and solid, and my fingers curl automatically tighter. ‘Is there anything you especially want to see?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, there’s a gallery on the second floor,’ he says. ‘I think it’s about maths and stuff.’

  ‘OK …’ I make a doubtful face, and he laughs and rolls his eyes.

  ‘It’s interesting,’ he says. ‘Trust me.’ The words fall easily from his lips and he’s smiling at me, and I feel my heart lift, as if it believes that maybe it can be this easy and we can live in this little bubble together and I can pretend that the message I sent you means nothing.

  I follow him up to a secluded wing surrounded by walls of curved, reflective blue glass. The floor is smoothly polished, glinting in the coloured light, the muted sound of my footsteps across it echoing like falling rain.

  We wander towards what looks like a huge, elaborately carved clock face hanging on the far wall. ‘It’s an astrolabe. It was used to help astronomers measure the position of the stars and planets in the sky,’ Francis recites learnedly, shooting me a sly look to make sure I’m paying attention.

  I nod. ‘Kind of like a sundial.’

  ‘Well, yes …’ He half nods. ‘Except, you know. At night.’

  A beat, and then for some reason we’re both laughing – quietly, complicit. We swing away from the astrolabe and move towards the next display, and I’m not even really thinking about it as my hand goes reflexively to my pocket and I pull out my phone again and check the screen. But this time there’s a little envelope flashing at the top. A new email.

  I swipe across and it’s there. S. Kennedy. Six words.

  The room lurches and, even though I have never fainted before in my life, I am filled with absolute certainty that I will do so now unless I sit down. I lean back against one of the cool glass walls and slide down against it, bending my head to the floor and listening to the sound of blood rushing through my head.

  ‘Caroline? Caro, are you all right? What’s wrong?’ Francis is kneeling down beside me, his hand on my arm, trying to see into my face. ‘Do you feel sick or something?’

  I shake my head, although I am briefly flooded with nausea. I press my curled fists to my eyes, pressing in hard so that when I release them the blue light around me explodes in bursts of colour, making me dizzy again. I try to breathe in deeply, but my chest is so constricted I can barely take in the air. My phone feels hard and heavy in my pocket. I want to look at the email again. I want never to have seen it.

  Suddenly, I realize that I’m alone. People are wandering up and down the hall, occasionally shooting me covert looks of concern, but Francis has gone. I leap to my feet, ignoring the whirling in my head, and stare wildly around the gallery. He’s nowhere to be seen. The back of my top is slick with sweat, the pulse pounding through my veins.

  At last, I spot him, weaving his way laboriously back towards me, but I don’t feel relief – just an inexplicable swell of anger and panic. ‘Where did you go?’ I ask tightly, when he is close enough to hear. ‘What were you doing?’

  Concern ripples his face. He holds up a bottle of water. ‘I was just getting you this,’ he says, ‘from the café. I thought you might need it, if you were feeling faint.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I force out, taking the water. ‘I’m OK.’

  Francis steps forward, his face still creased with anxiety. ‘You don’t look OK,’ he says. ‘You look very pale, and you’re shaking. Maybe you should sit down again …’

  His hands are on my shoulders, gently pushing me downwards, and all at once I can’t bear it, this closeness, this solicitousness – it’s too much, it’s suffocating me. ‘Don’t!’ I snap. ‘Don’t touch me.’ I can hear how it sounds, but I can’t take it back.

  ‘What?’ Francis says, his eyes wide and uncomprehending, hands still hovering lightly on my shoulders. I bite my lip, trying to resist the urge to twitch them off. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

  I know I should apologize, but your words are still pounding in my head. I glance at Francis, and guilt stabs at me unpleasantly – we’re meant to be on holiday together – and I can’t bear that, either. ‘I don’t want any help,’ I burst out, knowing I sound angry and ungrateful. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’

  There’s a moment’s pause, and then his expression changes. ‘Well, fuck this,’ he bites back. ‘I can’t win. I thought this week would be fun. But honestly? So far, you’ve been a bloody nightmare most of the time. Nice and affectionate one minute, on another planet the next. I don’t know what’
s going on in your head, Caro, but I’m starting to think that, whatever I do, it’ll never be enough. Christ knows I’ve tried.’ His voice is rising, and people are starting to hesitate in their tracks and look in our direction. I motion for him to be quiet, but he ignores me. ‘I’ve tried to make up for the past few years,’ he says, ‘because I know I needed to, but you know what? Sometimes, it really fucking sticks in my throat that I’m the one who needs to make all the effort, when I wasn’t the one who—’

  He is abruptly silent. We are standing inches apart and my whole body is hot and trembling, waiting for his next words. ‘When you weren’t the one who what?’ I say quietly when he doesn’t continue. ‘Go on, then.’

  He looks directly into my eyes. The contact jolts me, makes me feel more present in this room with him than I have done all day. ‘When I wasn’t the one,’ he says, deliberately spacing out the words for emphasis, ‘who dealt with our problems by lying on my back and fucking someone else.’

  The air between us lightens, the tension exploded – but what it leaves behind it is a sadness I can’t look at head on, something too raw and intimate to handle. He’s wheeling around and away, stuffing his hands into his pockets and walking head down, elbowing his way through the crowd. In the old days, I would have run after him – grabbed on to his coat sleeve, begged him to come back, made a public scene, to no avail. But my legs are weak and shaking and the strange blue light is still making me feel dizzy and unsure and, in this moment, I want to be alone as much as he does. So I just stand still and watch him until he’s disappeared.

  I walk around the museum for another fifteen minutes or so, staring at smooth, curved metal structures, twinkling maps of the galaxy. I remember, the first time I came to this place, I was struck by a powerful feeling of being on the edge of something huge and unreachable – the minuteness of my own life in the face of the universal. This time, it’s the exact opposite. I can’t see beyond what is happening right here and now. My own concerns have blown up to the size of the world.