The House Swap

by Rebecca Fleet

  ‘Look,’ she says in a rush, ‘you must know how this seems. Be honest with me. Did you come here to see him?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I tell her, trying to make my words brook no denial. I know I would have thought the same, in her place, but all the same I can’t help but resent the implication.

  ‘OK,’ Amber says slowly. I can’t tell if she believes me or not. ‘But you said he had been in touch.’ She pauses, biting her bottom lip. ‘Outside,’ she says. ‘The other day. You told me your ex had messaged you. You meant Carl, right?’

  The sound of your name on her lips, dropped with such easy, possessive familiarity, makes me not want to tell her anything. She’s on your side, not mine. She’d dismiss it, painting me as a fantasist; she’d be straight on the phone to you, if she hasn’t been already. At the idea, my heart jumps into my throat and I have to ask. ‘Have you told him?’ I force out. ‘That I’m here?’

  Amber shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to upset him. There’s no point in dragging up the past – unless I need to.’ I catch the glimmer of a threat. She’s not sure, yet, what I plan to do.

  ‘I see.’ I have to admire her reticence. In that way, she isn’t like me at all. I couldn’t have kept this secret for more than a few minutes … although of course I’ve been keeping it from Francis, for days now. I’m not sure what the difference is. Perhaps it’s simply that I’m used to hiding things from him, to dividing our life together into little pockets and playing the complicated game of twisting some of them outwards for public view, some of them inwards for my own consumption.

  Amber is staring at me expectantly, still waiting for the answer to her question. ‘You told me he had contacted you,’ she says again. ‘And you told me you thought he was in your flat. Why would you say those things?’

  I open my mouth, on the brink of trying to explain, but I don’t know where to begin. ‘I did get a message recently,’ I say slowly, and as I do so I realize that there is a way of telling the truth while hardly telling anything at all. ‘It wasn’t from him, or at least it wasn’t under his name. It mentioned my flat, and … there was something about it that reminded me of him. I thought it was him getting in touch. But I could be wrong.’

  She takes this in, frowning imperceptibly. As she does so, she sinks into a chair, gesturing for me to do the same. She leans forward, knotting her long fingers together, scratching her pale-pink-painted nails thoughtfully back and forth over her skin. There’s something hypnotic about the movement. ‘I think you are,’ she says at last. ‘I think you are wrong.’ Despite the qualifier, it doesn’t sound like an opinion. She speaks with absolute confidence. ‘If you know Carl,’ she continues, ‘then you should know that he doesn’t change his mind. It’s almost a weakness, as far as he’s concerned. And he made a very definite decision to leave your relationship behind.’ Only now does she meet my eyes, and the unblinking directness of her gaze is unnerving. ‘He’s moved on,’ she says.

  When the words first land they hurt, a well-aimed blow that makes me flinch. But the impact is glancing, fading into nothing almost as soon as it has come. What she says is hollow in the face of the evidence I have – not only the secrets I am keeping from her, but the simple, tangible force of how similar we look. ‘It’s a strange way to move on,’ I say, gesturing into the space between us.

  Amber’s face flickers briefly with doubt as she catches on to my meaning, but she shrugs, brushing her hair behind her ears. ‘He has a type,’ she says. ‘A lot of people do.’

  I know it’s more than that, but I don’t comment, letting her hear the echo of her own words in the silence. ‘How much has he told you?’ I ask instead. ‘About me. About our relationship.’

  She seems on safer ground now, drawing herself up and meeting my gaze again head on. ‘Everything.’ Her face twists, as if she might say more, but she presses her lips together and half shakes her head, a little internal self-check.

  Without wanting to, I’m giving that one word its context. Images are rising inside me, headed with increasing speed towards that final still point: the road outside the Silver Birches hotel, the place where I last saw you. I see Amber watching me, and I wonder how much of what I am fighting hard to suppress is written over my face, and if she really knows, if she really understands. For so long I have believed that our secrets have existed only between you and me, in a tight, unhappy little club of two. It’s an unspoken bond, stretching across the distance. It’s kept me in your life, and you in mine, whatever the facts might say. The thought that the circle might have expanded to include her disorientates me.

  ‘Look.’ Her voice cuts into my thoughts. ‘That message you just sent me.’ With a shock, I remember the reason I texted her. ‘I don’t really understand what you were asking. You’re asking why I didn’t tell you Carl lived here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That first day we had coffee, when I asked you if you knew the person who owned the house I was staying in, you said no. Why didn’t you tell me it was him?’

  She frowns, clearly thrown off base. ‘Why would you think that?’ she asks. ‘Carl lives here. Here. In this house, with me.’

  I blink, trying to take in what she is saying. It makes no sense, and yet it rings true. The crockery in her kitchen, the bright-coloured walls, the stark black-and-white prints in the hallway. These are your taste, not hers. I can imagine you here in this house, in a way I’ve never been able to imagine you at number 21. The mental images of you here flood my brain with a certainty that tells me she isn’t lying.

  I’m wading through treacle, trying to catch up with a meaning I can’t quite grasp. Does number 21 belong to another of your girlfriends, someone who trusts you and lets you into her home and whose absence you’ve timed to coincide with my arrival? Have you posted her details on the house-swap website without her knowledge? Somehow enlisted her, obtained her keys and intercepted mine? Or do you own both houses? But every idea that comes to me feels implausible.

  ‘When is he coming back?’ I ask at last. I need to drag the conversation back to firmer ground. The here and now is what we need to concern ourselves with; it’s the only thing we can deal with right now.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ she says, and she can’t suppress the lift in her voice for an instant, her face momentarily illuminated by the private happiness the thought is giving her.

  I clench my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms. I’m not due to return to Leeds for two more days and, although I still don’t understand how, you must know that. You’re choosing to return early. Why would you do that? Surely only because you want to see me?

  ‘We need to decide what to do,’ Amber says bluntly. ‘I’ll be honest, I don’t think you should stay. I don’t think it will do any good for you to see him. No good for you, or for him. Or for me,’ she adds – casually, but I know that this is what must be burning brightest in her mind.

  My immediate reaction is to defy her, but I have the sense to keep my mouth shut and bite my tongue. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say at last. ‘I’ll text you in the morning.’

  Amber nods, and I see her body sag in the armchair, as if drained by the intensity of our conversation. ‘OK.’ She rests her head back, half closing her eyes.

  I stand to leave, but when my hand is on the door I can’t help turning back and asking the question that has been nagging at me ever since I knew that she was the one person who could give me the answer. ‘How is he?’ I ask simply.

  She raises her head slowly, looks at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Fine. Happy.’ Her voice is soft and non-combative, but each word has the feel of a muffled gunshot, killing off further questioning. I think about these words, turn them over in my head. They don’t fit with what she said the other day, when she talked about your remoteness, the feeling she often had that you weren’t quite there. But I don’t have the energy to work out which I would prefer or which is more likely to be true, and I just nod and leave the house, closing the front d
oor quietly behind me.

  Somehow, in the few hours I’ve been asleep since I returned from Amber’s house, I’ve managed to work my way across the bed towards Francis, so that when I wake my lips are pressed into the crook of his neck and his arms are wrapped loosely around me. He’s still sleeping, his breath coming evenly, stirring the hair that falls across my face. Lying with the warmth of his body pressed up against mine, the surreal midnight encounter with Amber seems like a dream.

  Francis is stirring, stretching and yawning. ‘Hello,’ he mumbles, tightening his arms around me in a hug. ‘It’s good to have you here.’

  I push my face into his shoulder, my eyes suddenly stinging senselessly with tears. ‘Morning.’ His hand is resting lightly on the top of my head, then sliding to the back of my neck, applying a little pressure to encourage me to look up at him. I blink the tears back. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  He frowns gently, his face angled down to study mine. ‘I slept all right,’ he says, ‘but when I woke up at one point in the night, you weren’t there. Where did you go?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I was just downstairs for a bit,’ I say quickly. Too late, I realize I have no idea if he went in search of me and found the house empty. My muscles tense, but he doesn’t contradict me.

  ‘You know,’ he says instead, at last, ‘I really am worried about you. I have been all week. I know we’ve had some tense moments, particularly the other day at the museum, and I’m sorry for my part in that, but it’s not just that. You’ve just seemed … troubled. Jumpy.’ He pauses, as if searching for the definitive comment on my behaviour. ‘Absent,’ he finishes.

  The word sends a shiver through me. Absence – detachment – is a dangerous thing between us. I used to come home to a man who seemed not so much a husband as a robot put in his place, a hologram with Francis’s face and nothing inside. At first, I fought back with anger, pouring double the emotion into the empty space that his disappearance from the relationship had left. I’m not even sure when the anger turned to an indifference that numbed me to the bone and sucked up my love. But I know what hardened it and made it set in: you. And now, after all this time, you’re starting to do it again.

  I wrap my arms around his neck, trying to bring myself back. ‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry. I just …’ I release him and roll over on to my back, staring up at the shadowed sunlight flickering warmly across the ceiling. ‘I’m not happy here,’ I say honestly. ‘I know we looked forward to coming away, but I feel strange. I miss Eddie, and the flat. I miss being at home.’ As I speak, I feel the resolve strengthen inside me. Amber was right. I have the opportunity to cut this mess off before I’m tempted to have any further contact with you. ‘We could just go home today,’ I say.

  Francis draws in a breath, confused. ‘Today?’ he repeats. ‘But we’re going back tomorrow evening, anyway – what’s the point of going now? Maybe you’ve forgotten, Caro, but there’s someone staying in our flat this week, too. They’re not going to want to be turfed out a day early.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ I say, the irony tasting bitter in my mouth, ‘but …’ The words dry up. There is no way to explain to him that I know you have no intention of staying in our house until tomorrow night; that probably even now you’re packing up your things and preparing to make the long drive back here. ‘I’m sure it would be OK,’ I finish lamely. ‘Or we could go somewhere else, drive back and stop off somewhere in the Midlands at a hotel for the night.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’ Francis asks bluntly. ‘It’s just spending money unnecessarily. Look … I hear what you’re saying. But I think we can turn this around. It hasn’t been all bad, has it? And we could do something nice today. I admit I’ve kind of run out of tourist traps to visit, but I’m sure we can think of something.’

  I open my mouth to argue back, but inspiration deserts me and I can’t think of any reason to protest. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it encouragingly, taking my silence for consent. ‘OK,’ he says briskly, leaping out of bed. ‘I’m going to hop in the shower, and then we’ll work out what to do today.’

  When he has disappeared into the bathroom I pull the bedclothes up around my neck, feeling cold. Already, I’m interrogating myself – wondering if I could have tried harder. I tell myself it will be fine. We’ll go out all day, come back late. I’ll walk straight up the path and into the house, not even glancing across the street. Being a few yards away from you is no different from being hundreds of miles away. There is no invisible aura that grows more powerful when you’re closer. It makes no difference at all.

  Even as I’m trying to convince myself, I know it’s useless. Despite everything, an insane part of me doesn’t want to go, and doesn’t want to keep away either. I want to see you.

  I close my eyes briefly, hating myself. I don’t even know who it is that I’m wanting. The you I knew wouldn’t have done this at all, yet alone sent that sinister photograph. At the thought of it, I turn to my phone and open up the email again, wanting to present myself with the evidence. The shock of it hits me afresh: the crudely doctored pictures, the ovals of blank space where my face has been removed. I keep looking until I’ve been staring at it for so long it’s starting to blur before my eyes. And then my focus shifts and, in the same way that you can look at an anagram and see the letters suddenly rearranging themselves into meaning out of nowhere, I see something else.

  In the corner of the picture, the hallway mirror is hanging, almost out of shot. The light is dim, and the camera flash has hit the glass, but I can just about make out the figure in profile holding the camera up to take the photograph. I can’t see the face, but I can see the length of the hair, the slightness of the shoulders and the curve of the neck. The figure is a woman. It’s not you.

  Home

  Francis, July 2013

  THE ONLY THING more frightening than the knowledge that you’ve hit rock bottom is the fear that you haven’t. I’ve been there several times these past few months. A dark place, a prison with no clear exit – a windowless box filled with the smell of decay and destruction. And then the gears grind into action and the lift shudders down another floor, and I realize that, wherever I’ve been, it was just a holding room. You can always go lower. That’s the lesson I’m learning, over and over, every day.

  Today is a first. It’s almost 8 a.m. and the summer sun is shining through the French windows, and I’ve been awake all night. No patches of uneasy sleep, no drifting losses of consciousness at the computer screen that end with a violent jolt, as if I’ve been falling and am only just hitting the ground. I’ve been sitting here wired up for ten hours and my eyes are wide open. Not to say that I can remember much of it. When I cast back over the night in search of something to catch on to, it’s like looking for driftwood in a constantly churning sea. The sunlight hurts my eyes and, despite the heat, I’m shivering.

  There’s noise in the rooms beyond. A child squawking and shouting, wordless bursts of song. Eddie. His name feels blank and unfamiliar in my head. Love sits uneasily on me, a worn-out, too-big coat that doesn’t mould itself to me in the way it once did. At some point, it’s going to fall apart, just like everything else.

  Caroline comes into the room. A woman in a sleeveless vest top and a black skirt with transparent pleats that shine through to a short silk layer beneath and which fly out and settle again against her skin when she turns. Her hair is soft and she smells of roses. We have nothing to do with one another. In fact, the idea that this woman used to look into my eyes and tell me with passionate impatience that she loved me, that she used to come for me as easily as breathing, is so strange it makes me wonder if I’ve dreamed it all and woken up in a whole other life.

  She’s checking her appearance in the mirror, rolling lipstick around her mouth. ‘We’re leaving in a minute,’ she says.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I’m not sure why I bother to ask. Life happens, and it doesn’t have much to do with me, but some habits die harder than others
and I still want to know where she goes and what she does, or at least what she tells me she goes and does.

  She stops, stares. ‘To my parents’ house.’ The words are slow and spaced out, as if she’s talking to a child. ‘I’m taking Eddie there for the weekend, remember.’

  ‘That’s next weekend.’ I do remember this being talked about. A little pathetic flicker of pleasure that something has filtered in. But it wasn’t happening today, or at least I don’t think so.

  ‘Today is the eighth of July, Francis,’ Caroline says. ‘This was always the plan. We’re leaving now, and we’ll be back on Sunday morning. That’s the day after tomorrow.’ I glance up sharply. That sounds like sarcasm, drip-fed info to an idiot. But when I meet her gaze it’s serious and straight. It’s like she thinks I can’t understand her.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I say, shrugging it off. ‘See you, then. Have a good time. Call me.’

  She pulls her handbag on to her shoulder, spends some time adjusting and fiddling with the strap, while her thoughts dance like butterflies across her face, each one clearer than the last. ‘If I were you,’ she says at last, not looking at me, ‘I’d use this time to think about how you want this to go forward. Because you know how I’m feeling. I don’t think we’re going anywhere. And unless you can show me otherwise pretty fucking soon, then you know what’s going to happen.’ Despite the swear word, her tone is calm and sad. If she’s talking to anyone, it’s to herself.

  The thought is vaguely reassuring. If you can’t even look me in the eye, I think, don’t think you can tell me what to do. And soon, it’s like it’s never been said at all.

  Eddie gallops into the room. Red shirt, blue shoes. Before I know it, he’s launched himself against me, his head butting into my stomach. It hurts, like most things do now. I wince, drawing him back by the shoulders. His arms are reaching out, squeezing around my neck. ‘Bye, Daddy.’ A moment of wide-eyed contact. He’s the only person left in the world who doesn’t judge me, and it’s only because he hasn’t got the tools for it yet. He’s not old enough to know better. But, sooner or later, his eyes are going to cloud with suspicion and his lip is going to twist with distaste and he’s going to turn his back.