The House Swap

by Rebecca Fleet

  ‘I’ve never forgiven myself,’ I say, ‘for being so stupid and thoughtless in the first place, for deciding to drive when I’d been drinking, and most of all for walking away from what I’d done. I should have faced up to it. I owed it to that girl. I walked away – I walked away like she didn’t matter.’ It’s the first time I’ve said these words out loud.

  You shake your head. ‘Don’t,’ you say. ‘There’s no point. You can’t undo what happened. You’re right, you were stupid, and so was I, for not stopping you. I can’t make you feel better about it. But as for what came afterwards … if it helps, I still think you did the right thing by walking away. Even now. I’m not saying I never felt angry or resentful. But I never really doubted that it was better for me to take the blame than you.’ You speak with such conviction. I always envied you this – this inner knowledge you seemed to have that your own decisions were the right ones. You never seemed to suffer from the uncertainty that gnawed at me almost constantly, making me turn my own thoughts and motives inside out.

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way,’ I say slowly, not sure if I mean it or not. Part of me wants you to feel the same way I do. There’s no room in that serene complacency for doubts or longings. And yet I’m thinking of Amber, and the way she talked to me about you, before she knew who I was – the picture she painted of a man she couldn’t even quite reach, who had fenced himself off into his own distant space – and I wonder if the thoughts that come to you in solitude are quite the same colour and shape as the ones you are giving to me right now.

  ‘Are you happy?’ I ask. I know it’s out of the blue, but there’s no time to soften it or pretend that I don’t feel I have the right to ask.

  You half frown and your shoulders twitch, a quick gesture of exasperation. You brush your hand through the air in front of us, and for a fraction of a second it grazes against my own hands where they rest on the table. You snatch it away again, as if I’ve scalded you. It sets off a shiver throughout the length of my body, and I’m thinking how strange it is that you used to lie next to me naked, hold me against you so close that your sweat soaked into my skin, and now you feel like you can’t allow any part of your body to touch any part of mine.

  ‘Sure,’ you say. ‘As happy as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘With her?’ I ask. ‘With Amber?’

  The frown deepens. You don’t like me saying her name. For an instant, she’s a ghostly presence with us, slipping in beside you on the sofa, curling her slim body up into a question mark. Someone doesn’t belong in this picture. Her, or me.

  ‘Yes,’ you say. ‘We’re happy.’ You’re watching me carefully now, trying to measure my reaction, to determine what’s behind the question. In those few seconds of silence, something shifts. It’s as if the barrier has cracked open and, all at once, I can’t stop thinking about the way it used to be between us and I can see in your eyes that you’re thinking the same. ‘It’s different to how it was with you,’ you say quietly, your voice so low that I have to strain to hear. ‘More – real,’ you qualify. ‘Less …’ You stop. ‘I don’t know,’ you say. ‘Less something else.’

  I nod, and I can’t find the word either, but there’s a tightness in my chest and I’m thinking about the sweetness of putting my arms around you and your lips coming down on to mine, and I know that, whatever this something else is, it’s something that won’t come again, not for you and not for me, either, no matter what else might be in its place.

  ‘So you and Francis worked things out,’ you say. It sounds like a non sequitur but we both know it’s not, and even now you can’t quite rid your voice of the edge of dryness and contempt that shouldn’t really be there any more.

  ‘We’re still doing that,’ I say carefully. I’m seized by the violent desire to make you believe that my marriage is happy. I want to tell you about all the ways Francis has changed, the efforts he’s made, the journeys we’ve been on. I want to prove that he’s worth it. But I’m not sure you’ll care. Why should you?

  ‘It isn’t easy,’ I say, and this is true, too. ‘There are good times and bad times.’ The days I wake up to find a stranger with my husband’s face prowling in the living room, gripped by anxieties and neuroses he can’t even bring himself to talk about. The strange, mercurial lift and swoop of his moods, impossible to predict or steer. The knowledge that every day is a new one, and that he still has no real idea how each one will go. I think of these things and there’s a strange throb of vertigo, making me grip the edge of the table and briefly close my eyes.

  When I open them, you’re watching me again. ‘Well,’ you say, ‘you’re an adult, Caro. You make your own choices.’

  I nod, not trusting myself to reply. There is no way of forming these thoughts into words and, in any case, they’re not yours to deal with, not any more.

  You pass a hand slowly through your hair, scraping it back from your forehead. The lights above our head seem to dim further, and I’m conscious of the tiny distance between us, the ease with which I could reach out and take your face in my hands. ‘I did love you,’ you say at last. ‘I want you to know that.’

  ‘I know,’ I say quietly, and suddenly all the weeks and months I have spent turning over this question seem crazily wasted, because I’ve always known this, really, perhaps more clearly than you ever did yourself until this moment right here and now.

  You’re getting to your feet and, with a sick lurch of realization, I understand that the conversation is over and you’re preparing to leave. My legs are shaking, but I force myself to stand beside you. You smile, and you’re reaching out, placing your hand on my shoulder and turning my body in towards yours, bringing me into a hug. My face is against your neck and I’m breathing in the smell of your aftershave, and the feel of your skin on mine is so familiar and strange that the tears are falling now because I know that this is the last goodbye.

  ‘I’m glad we did this,’ you say, your words muffled in my hair.

  ‘Me, too,’ I’m saying, and we hold each other, your body pressed close against mine. Our lips are inches apart and, for a moment, I think we’re going to turn towards each other as easily and smoothly as we always used to. I can remember the way it felt to kiss you as clearly as if it were yesterday, and the possibility is so insanely close it makes my head swim. Your arms are suddenly rigid, locked around me, your breath coming hard and fast. And then you swallow and we’re moving apart and I have no idea who made the first move to do so.

  ‘Goodbye. Take care of yourself,’ you say, and you’re walking quickly away.

  I don’t want to see you leave. I stare down at the table, my eyes still blurred with tears. At the last minute, I change my mind. I look up sharply, but it’s too late.

  You’re gone, and the sense of resolution and serenity I felt for a few seconds is already draining away. Because this is how it goes, I realize. There are no words in existence that will ever make this story feel finished. We could see each other every day and talk long into the night, and I still wouldn’t make sense of it. I’m tired of searching for answers that aren’t there, or struggling to define what kind of love I felt or feel for you or how much it means. It doesn’t matter. It is what it is.

  Going Home

  Caroline, May 2015

  IT’S PROBABLY ONLY five more minutes that I stay sitting there in the café after you leave but, when I force myself to stand up again and walk towards the exit, my eyes hurt with how bright the world outside seems. There’s a faint cool breeze blowing as I make my way down the street.

  I’m still shaking a little, and there’s a soreness in my limbs. I almost welcome it. I’m ridding myself of the last vestiges of a fever that has gripped me so hard I can barely believe I’ve survived. Senseless euphoria is surging through me as I replay the last few minutes in my head. There are so many thoughts in my head they’re crowding each other out, leaving nothing but white noise.

  I carry on down the high street, taking the left turn down the road that will lead me
back to Everdene Avenue, and as I do so I’m aware of my phone vibrating. I pull it out and see that there’s a voice message, left only ten minutes earlier. I dial my voicemail and listen. When the message kicks in, there’s silence for a couple of seconds – a frustrated little intake of breath – and then I hear my mother’s voice. Hi, Caroline.

  As soon as I hear it I know something is wrong. I stop dead on the pavement, immobilized. It must be only a split second before her voice begins again, but in that tiny, compressed rush of time I’m thinking – Eddie. Something has happened. My mother is calling to tell me my son is dead. And the force of this thought is such that it sweeps aside everything else in my head and burns its way into my brain, makes me lean back against the wall and close my eyes.

  I don’t want to worry you, my mother’s voice continues, and although her tone is still tense and strained, I know that this is not how a tragedy is introduced. I breathe in sharply, sucking the air jaggedly down into my lungs, as if I’ve been saved from drowning. Eddie and I went to your flat this afternoon – it’s a long story, but anyway, we met the woman who’s staying there and, to be honest, she seems very disturbed. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it doesn’t feel quite right, Caroline, and I wanted to speak to you. We’re fine, don’t worry, but – well, just call me when you can.

  My heart is thudding as I redial the number. She picks up almost at once, and I launch straight in, with no time for preamble. ‘What happened?’

  My mother sighs. ‘I don’t know how to describe it,’ she says. ‘This woman – we bumped into her by chance and she invited us to come and see Paddy. She seemed perfectly nice but, while we were there today, she just – broke down. She was crying, and I couldn’t make sense of anything she said. I have no idea what was going through her head. Maybe it’s silly, but I feel uneasy about her being in your place. I know you’re coming back tonight, anyway, but I just thought you should know, and—’

  ‘I’m coming back now,’ I say. ‘I’m packing up my things and we’re coming back as soon as we can. I should be there in three or four hours.’

  ‘Well, maybe that’s a good idea,’ my mother says, clearly relieved. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you on your holiday. Have you been having fun?’

  My throat closes up and I find that I can’t speak, the tears that have dried up only minutes before rising up again to choke me. I grip on to the phone, listening to the low buzz of the line. Before I can make myself reply, I hear a scuffling sound and the sudden loud breathing of my son at the other end of the phone. ‘Mummy,’ he says, and with the word the tears shrink back and I find myself saying his name in return, clear and strong.

  ‘I miss you,’ he says.

  ‘I’m coming back,’ I tell him. ‘Me and Daddy. We’ll be back today.’

  ‘That’s good.’ His voice is oddly adult, reflective and thoughtful. ‘Because then you can put me to bed.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. I’m filled with the desire to say something to him that he won’t forget – to make him realize that I understand what matters, even if I’ve lost sight of it for so long. ‘I love you,’ I begin, but before I can say any more he’s pressed the wrong button and cut the call off.

  I think about calling back, but I find that I’m shoving the phone back into my pocket and running, my footsteps thudding in my head. I can’t wait any longer. I run down the street to number 21 and fumble for the keys, wrenching at the front door. As soon as I come into the hallway, I see Francis in the living room. He’s bent over the suitcase, zipping it up. When he hears me, he straightens up, dusts off his hands. He looks me straight in the eyes and I look back, feeling a jolt of connection. We understand each other.

  ‘We need to get back,’ he says, and I nod silently, flooded by the strangeness of this shared purpose, the way we have both arrived at the same conclusion from poles apart.

  I glance around the room, looking at the bareness of the walls, the flat, gleaming surfaces. I don’t need to try to imprint these things on my memory. Already, I know that they’ll be here with me for a long, long time. I wonder if I should leave some message or symbol for the woman whose house I have been living in, but I have no idea what it might be. So I just reach for my handbag and follow my husband out through the hallway and close the front door behind us, not looking back.

  Francis crosses the driveway to the car, unlocking it and preparing to get into the driver’s seat. I haven’t planned it, but I find the words rising unstoppably inside me. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll drive.’

  He stands very still, his hand motionless on the door handle. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  I move forward and take the keys from his fingertips. They feel cool and smooth against my skin. I slip into the driver’s seat and slide the key into the ignition. Place my hands on the wheel. Look through the windscreen at the road ahead.

  And then I’m moving the car forward, and it’s easy. Strange, but easy.

  I drive slowly at first, watching the road carefully, conscious of nothing else. It’s the first time I have driven, outside my dreams, for almost two years. In those nightmares, my hands have dripped with sweat and my head has pounded, and I have known even in my sleep that this will end badly. It isn’t that way now. I’m driving, and everything is clear and calm and it’s like I never stopped.

  We’re on to the motorway before I speak again, and when I do I don’t move my head, not wanting to look away from the road or meet his gaze. ‘I need to start telling you something now.’ I have no idea how I will begin. ‘Something that happened when Carl and I ended things,’ I say. I draw in a breath, tighten my hands on the wheel. The skyline spilling out ahead is vast and blank, punctuated by grey, drifting clouds.

  ‘Caro,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to tell me.’

  I do look at him then, a swift glance in the mirror before I snap my gaze back to the road. He’s staring at me with sadness and tenderness. ‘I already know,’ he says. ‘About the accident.’

  I shake my head, unable to process the words. ‘No,’ I start. ‘How could you?’

  ‘I’ve known for a while,’ he says. ‘Look, the important thing is to get home. We can thrash this out later. But a few months ago, I had a visit from a new patient. The girl … it was—’

  ‘Her mother,’ I finish, because from the moment he started speaking I realized that there are only three people in the world besides myself who have known the truth of what happened, and that she is the only one who can have reached him, the only one who would have wanted to.

  I tighten my hands on the wheel. ‘We have to talk about this,’ I say quietly. ‘We have to—’

  ‘I know,’ he interrupts, ‘and we will. Trust me.’

  I bite down hard on my lip, struggling to know how to reply, and then there’s a rush of sudden peace and I realize that I don’t need to, not now. All I need to do is drive.

  Trust me. The words echo in my head as I lean forward in my seat and steer the car forward. There’s no rhyme or reason to trust – it’s there or it’s not. And now it’s there – soaking through the silence between us, warming this small, private bubble. We’ve spent almost every day in each other’s company for the past two years and this is the first time I’ve really felt this intimacy.

  The knowledge is fierce and sad. I’m thinking of the way another man’s arms were around me less than an hour before, and I know there’s no point in clinging to a dream if what I have right here in front of me is something I want to keep. I have no idea where we will be in five years, or even five weeks, but I want to live in the present, with my family. I’m tired of walking through my own life like a ghost, giving them my body when my head is elsewhere.

  We don’t speak another word for the rest of the journey. The hours blur together, the miles whirring silently past. It’s almost three in the afternoon by the time we reach home. I pull carefully into the parking space and switch off the ignition. My hands are trembling. I’ve done it, b
ut this isn’t over. I peer up at the third-floor windows of the building and I try to determine if she’s still there.

  The thought fills me with nausea, but there’s no going back now. I turn to Francis, stretch my hand out to cover his. ‘I need to go in first,’ I say. ‘Just, please, wait here for me.’

  He opens his mouth as if he might protest, then abruptly closes it and nods. He leans his head back against the seat, his eyes intent and reflective. He knows as well as I do that something is coming to its end here. That once it’s past we’ll be left with a life that is a different shape, and that we’ll start to discover if it’s worth having.

  I climb out of the car and slam the door, folding my arms tightly around my chest as I walk up to the building. I climb the three flights of stairs to our flat, listening to the sound of my footsteps in the silent hallway. I’m half expecting to find her standing there waiting for me, but the door is closed. I reach into my pocket for my keys and unlock the door, letting it swing gently open.

  As soon as I step into the hallway I feel it – a sense of otherness, a presence that is intense and strange, and yet not quite a presence at all. The air is heavy and thick, as if suffused with invisible smoke.

  The door to the lounge is ajar. I walk up to it, softening my footsteps. My lips form a question. Are you there? But I barely have the chance to begin before a flash of something through the crack in the door catches my eye – a flutter of green, whipped across the gap and then withdrawn – and the flat of my hand is pressing against the door and opening the room to me.

  She’s hanging from the ceiling light, swaying slightly in the breeze that blows through the open balcony window. The scarf that I last saw illuminated by headlights, blown darkly back by the wind, is fastened tightly around her neck.

  She’s about fifty years old and she has shoulder-length brown hair and slim limbs. She’s wearing a discreetly stylish shirt dress, pale blue, the same colour as her open eyes.