The Sister Swap

by Fiona Collins

  Meg didn’t feel she had much choice, and she did have nothing else to do.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘OK, eleven o’clock. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Fabulous!’ Violet looked delighted, but as Meg noted as he walked out of the village hall, Garfield trotting obediently behind him, Jamie looked anything but.

  Chapter Ten

  Sarah

  ‘Hello, Dylan.’

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’

  Sarah had left the office in a bit of a tizz. She’d hated being in one, seeing as it was the first she’d fallen prey to since being back at House. Sarah had been there three whole days now and things had been going surprisingly and swimmingly well. Somehow, she was speaking confidently in those morning meetings, impressing clients with her capability and enthusiasm; and she was delighted, too, to rediscover her creative mojo, buried for so long under the piles of trainers and clutter at Orchard Cottage. She’d even kept a tidy desk and hadn’t felt the urge to fill it with biscuits.

  The tizz reminded her too much of that old life in the country, the chaos and the clutter, and it had begun with a spot of bad timing. As Sarah had been packing her bag, the phone had rung with a prospective new client, but Felicity was away from her desk, so Sarah couldn’t patch it through to her to deal with. By the time Felicity was back from wherever she’d been and was hovering over Sarah’s desk straightening up her in-tray for her, the new client was all sorted, there was a date in the diary, but Sarah was running ten minutes late.

  ‘Haven’t you got to leave now, for the baby shower?’ Felicity had frowned as Sarah had put down the phone. ‘It’s gone ten.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah threw her purse in her handbag and fled. By the time she met Dylan Silva at their agreed place on the corner of Richmond High Street, she was more than a little hot and flustered and the powder-blue body-con dress of Meg’s she’d borrowed had ridden rather high of thigh. She yanked it down, now, as she blushed furiously.

  ‘Is it really you?’ Dylan asked. ‘After all this time?’

  Dylan looked the same, a little greyer, a little more crinkled. He was still incredibly scruffy round the edges. He was wearing scuffed brown lace-up boots, a creased blue-and-white striped shirt, blue jeans and that same ubiquitous battered brown suede jacket which had always been glued to his back.

  ‘Yes, it’s really me,’ said Sarah, a little shyly, and conscious of the sex bomb dress and how different she must look in it, to the Sarah he had known. ‘How are you?’

  She hoped he would think the redness on her cheeks was a result of her running to get here on time. She hoped he would not realize her heart was beating fast at the sight of him, after twenty-two years. He still looked gorgeous, that was the truth. She’d never expected to see him again.

  ‘I’m really well,’ said Dylan. He still had denim blue eyes framed by the sort of long, dark eyelashes women get really jealous over. ‘What are you doing back? I thought you lived in the country now. I’m so sorry about your parents,’ he added. ‘I never got the chance to tell you.’

  No one had had the chance to say anything to anyone. Not that night. Sarah had rushed from her big celebratory dinner, forgetting her coat and her award, and had got on the next train home, cold and devastated.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said simply. What else was there to say? ‘And I have lived in the country for the past twenty years. I’m back because I applied for my old job and somehow – as mad as it is – I got it.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ Dylan said. He lifted his left hand to run it through his thick, black hair – greying at the temples. ‘Well, you were great at the job before. What with the award, and everything. It was such a shame you had to leave.’ Firstly, Sarah wondered if this really was Dylan – he hadn’t said anything sarcastic yet. Secondly, did he mean the job, or that dinner, when they had started flirting, just a little? When she had giggled and he had laughed and she’d joked about his jacket and he’d teased her about the award going to her head. ‘I’m not sure you’ll want to be back though,’ he added, as they started walking. ‘It’s all gone terribly OTT these days, the Events world. Full of divas demanding unicorns and rainbows … It’s all ego-a-go-go, baby!’

  Sarah laughed. ‘I think it was always like that. And I can deal with divas!’

  Dylan glanced at her and she could detect a curious look in his eyes. He thought she was different, too, didn’t he? Maybe it was Meg’s siren dress. Perhaps it was the shoes – she’d bought herself a more sassy pair. Higher. More sexy. But she knew it was more than that. Sarah felt different, this time, ever since she’d started the job. Before, she’d possessed a kind of quiet eagerness in the role, but in the past few days – faking it ’til she was making it – she’d realized she now wasn’t so earnest about everything. It was only parties; it wasn’t life or death. It was fun. And somehow, the fact she had single-handedly raised two human beings to near-adulthood, one who was off to university and the other – well, he’d be OK, eventually – had given her a novel kind of self-assurance. A feeling of pride in herself and a desire to go for it … maybe? Or, perhaps, simply, all those years in the wilderness meant now she was back, she was determined to enjoy herself.

  ‘Can you now?’ teased Dylan, his eyes shining.

  ‘Yeah, divas are a doddle,’ Sarah said. She’d had Olivia in her life, hadn’t she? And Meg, for that matter. Although she’d been more devil than diva. She had a sudden flashback to what Meg had done to her precious locket then pushed the memory away. Now was not the time.

  Dylan looked at her curiously again. He still looked surprised and kind of impressed. It was quite funny, but she’d become London Sarah, she noted: cool and poised. Was this how Meg felt, when she was strutting round London? Confident and in control? Had Meg felt like this at twenty, at twenty-five, at thirty, when she was living the life Sarah had never been able to?

  ‘So how have you been?’ Dylan asked.

  It depended when he was asking about, thought Sarah. Resentful, regretful, sad? Bitter towards her sister for over two decades? Knee-deep in children and the mayhem that surrounded them? ‘I’ve been OK,’ she said.

  ‘Well, the country air has clearly agreed with you,’ he said. ‘You look good.’ He looked at her, with those denim blue eyes. In the past she would have looked away – even at that dinner she’d found it hard to look at him – now she looked directly back at those steady, beautiful eyes. She was self-assured these days; she’d just decided that, hadn’t she? But it was also morning and sunny, so she was on safe ground. Nobody would be falling for anybody in daylight, just walking down the street.

  ‘And your sister? The one you went home to look after? I heard on the grapevine she owns Tempest Models. Quite the Miss Thang.’

  ‘Yes, she is. She’s always been quite the thang.’

  Meg’s dress was riding up even higher as they walked briskly up the street. Sarah decided to let it. It was really hot and sunny this morning and London looked beautiful. It often did; each time she let herself out of Meg’s flat she noted just how fabulous it was. Was she seeing the city through Miss Thang’s eyes? And did this mean her sister was currently lounging in the orchard like a sloth, in a pair of Sarah’s baggy shorts, and seeing the world through hers? Sarah thought of their email exchange the other night: she didn’t want Meg bothering her all the time, asking questions about the cottage. Surely she could work things out for herself, or ask the twins?

  ‘She’s done well for herself,’ added Dylan. Sarah couldn’t be bothered to explain to him that Meg the model agency owner was currently under doctor’s orders at Orchard Cottage, wrangling Sarah’s two teenage children and lolling in the long grass with a raspberry Magnum. ‘Yes.’

  They carried on walking. Sarah could tell Dylan had detected the ‘end of subject’ note in her voice.

  ‘I’ve never done a baby shower before,’ he said. He said the words ‘baby’ and ‘shower’ with undisguised contempt. ‘I’m not entirely sure what it is. Women shrieking
over balloons? A giant pram with ridiculous presents in it?’ He smiled that slow, wide smile and Sarah felt her insides annoyingly flip. She called upon London Sarah. The sassy one.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the gender reveal cake?’ she asked playfully.

  ‘It sounds bloody awful,’ said Dylan. ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a cake which is cut – if it’s pink inside, it’s a girl, if it’s blue, it’s a boy. We’re not having one of those, though, this will be an extremely tasteful affair. It’s posh canapés and macarons and no silly games.’

  ‘I don’t like silly games,’ said Dylan. His boots really were scuffed, she thought, as they walked. They were what Connor’s would look like, if she didn’t make him polish them. ‘You walk fast,’ he said. ‘You didn’t use to.’

  ‘Do I?’ Sarah laughed. ‘Well, we are a little late. But it could also be me making up for all those years when I had to wait for dawdling toddlers to catch up, or for slouchy teenagers to pick up their feet and get a move on!’

  ‘You’ve got kids then?’

  ‘Yes. Two. Twins, actually. You?’ She’d missed the twins since she’d been up in London. She’d fretted over them, so far away, but she’d just about managed to keep hold of that grip she’d made herself get, especially while she was at work: faking it until she made it.

  ‘One daughter – she lives in Brazil. I’m divorced,’ he added.

  ‘Me too,’ said Sarah. They looked at each other for a moment.

  ‘And I’m still a bit of a sloucher myself,’ he continued. ‘Why do you think I’m still in the same job?’

  ‘Well, I think you need to pick your feet up and get a bloody move on then!’ she laughed.

  Dylan looked surprised again and then he laughed too. ‘Yes, ma’am. Life in the fast lane, eh? Is that what it’s going to be like with you this time around?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see!’ Gosh, she sounded almost flirty. She didn’t need red wine to flirt with him this time, it seemed. Was she now in some kind of surprising fast lane? She’d seen herself for so long as ambling along in the middle one, at a gentle cruise, lackadaisically wandering over the lines on occasion. Dropping crisp wrappers on the floor; moving her lips vaguely to easy, non-taxing listening on the radio. Had she changed lane? The thought amused her, and she was still smiling to herself as they turned into a leafy street with large, semi-detached Victorian mansions and beautifully clipped hedges. She stopped outside number forty-two.

  ‘We’re here. Party starts at two, so I’ve got just under three hours to get things set up. Laura-Faye wants reportage shots of the preparations so can you get on with that, while I get everything organized?’

  ‘Okey-doke,’ said Dylan, rubbing at his head with his left hand. A lock of peppery hair dropped over one eyebrow and he smiled from under it. ‘If a baby spews on me, you know I’m holding you responsible.’

  ‘I’ve come armed with wet wipes; you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Sarah, welcome! Do come in!’ The front door had flung open and Laura-Faye was there, dressed in a billowing cloud of white cotton with draping kimono sleeves, and a pair of embroidered white slippers. She looked like a giant Japanese fairy. ‘The trestle table guys have already set up and Pepe and the crew have just arrived to do the chair backs.’ Oh dear, thought Sarah. They had been running late. But Laura-Faye didn’t seem concerned; she was positively beaming. ‘Who’s this handsome devil?’ she asked, and Sarah felt Laura-Faye was close to reaching forward and slapping Dylan on the bottom as she ushered them over her gleaming black step.

  ‘This is Dylan, the photographer. Reportage, portrait … whatever you desire, he’s your man.’

  ‘Oh, I wish he was! Enchanté,’ said Laura-Faye, in an unexpectedly fey manner. She’d been all business-like with Sarah up until now. There had been no gushing. ‘A welcome blast of testosterone,’ she lisped. ‘We’ll need that today. Can I get you anything, Dylan? Cordial, whisky? A quick whisk upstairs before the guests arrive?’

  Dylan grinned; now Sarah was mildly shocked.

  ‘A bit early for the whisky,’ muttered Dylan, ignoring the comment about the trip upstairs for nookie with a complete stranger. ‘Water will do. Thanks.’

  Laura-Faye breezed up the hall, like a sail. The house was pretty. The hall was all white and pale green, with giant vases of flowers everywhere, the kitchen was rococo with white carved units, an enormous marble island and chandeliers. Everything glistened in morning sunlight flooding in through a huge, vaulted skylight.

  ‘Come through, darlings,’ announced Laura-Faye and huge double doors were flung open and they stepped out into a gorgeous walled garden where a long white wooden trestle table stretched down the centre of the lawn, flanked by twelve chairs either side. A team of florists was busy lacing fresh flowers to the back of each.

  ‘Gorgeous aren’t they,’ pointed out Laura-Faye. ‘A touch of genius from you, Sarah, I’d say. We’re thrilled, and Clementine is going to love them.’

  Dylan took his camera from his shoulder bag and started snapping shots of the garden and the florists at work. Sarah hoped Clementine was going to love everything. Apparently, she was even harder to please than Laura-Faye.

  A young woman came out of the house, holding a plump toddler with tears streaming down her cherubic face. ‘Sorry, Laura-Faye, it’s really confusing Arabella, having you around today. She says she wants you to play builders with her.’

  ‘It’s all about gender neutral, these days,’ whispered Laura-Faye to Sarah conspiratorially, taking the toddler from what Sarah guessed was the nanny’s arms. ‘Although not when it comes to my clothing line. What do you think of Arabella’s darling little dress?’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ said Sarah. It was linen and in a raspberry pink ticking stripe.

  ‘One of my best-sellers,’ said Laura-Faye. ‘Can you take care of everything? I’m going to go and have a quick play. Oh, by the way, Tina,’ Laura-Faye said to the nanny, ‘guess who Sarah’s sister is? Meg Oxbury. She signed that model friend of yours, didn’t she?’

  ‘My friend Cat? Yeah, that’s right. She said Meg’s amaaazing. So lovely.’

  Another one, thought Sarah. Did they have the right person? Was there another Meg Oxbury, Miss Thang model agency owner, strutting around London?

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Sarah, to Tina, and to Laura-Faye she said, ‘Of course, I’ll take care of everything.’

  Laura-Faye and the child, trailed by the nanny, went into the house and Sarah’s suppliers started arriving. Her vision of the perfect, upmarket baby shower slowly came into fruition as an army of men and women set up the garden like a stage. The white trestle table was swept with a lace tablecloth and scattered with dozens of pretty, hand-tied flower arrangements; tiny vintage mismatched cups and saucers were precision-placed at each setting; and a wicker basket of personalized napkins for each guest, embroidered with their name and their favourite flower, was added to the table. Gorgeous paper garlands in all colours were hung from the resplendent oak tree which presided at one end of the table.

  ‘Do you want some close-up shots of the teacups?’ said Dylan, suddenly beside her as she ticked off details on a clipboard. Was he being sarcastic?

  ‘Yes, please, Dylan.’

  He saluted her. Yes, he was being sarcastic.

  ‘Hi, Sarah!’ Felicity arrived, all pink-cheeked and in a powder-blue, polka dot shift dress with a Peter Pan collar Sarah was sure she hadn’t been wearing in the office. Had she got changed?

  ‘Oh, it’s all just… darling!’ she pronounced, looking around her at the garden and the beautiful table. ‘Your very first event!’

  ‘Well, it’s not my first event,’ said Sarah calmly. ‘I did do this job before.’

  ‘Well, not for a hundred years,’ tittered Felicity, fiddling with her collar. ‘It’s not the most modern of schemes,’ she added, beginning to wander around. ‘But I suppose it’s quite nice …’

  The caterers arrived, bringing endless pl
atters of dinky canapés, delicate sandwiches, pastel-hued macarons and an enormous pink, three-tiered creation that could have been a wedding cake. So cute, thought Sarah, but she could hear Felicity muttering ‘old school’ under her breath as she circled the table like a shark. What would she have done? pondered Sarah. Trendy industrial metal seating and curly kale tarts, in a monochrome colour scheme? Sarah was happy; she felt she’d done a great job.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ pronounced Laura-Faye. She’d returned from the house wearing a tiara and a sugar-pink lip gloss you could almost see your face in. She stuck herself in front of Dylan and started posing, her hands on her hips, and after the merest hint of an eyebrow raise he dutifully started snapping away.

  If Sarah had thought Laura-Faye was glamorous, compared to the other guests she was Stig of the Dump. They entered in a cloud of perfume and wafty, chiffony fabrics, and tight pale-pink sheath dresses and kitten-heeled slingbacks and designer handbags and silver jewellery and those bracelets that wrap around your wrists fifty times. There was a cascade of ‘darling!’s and air kisses and shrieks of delight over boy babies in sailor outfits and stiff collars, and girl babies in cashmere cardigans and pink leather booties. As a little rabble of toddlers ran, released, around the garden – making Sarah fear for the safety of the cake, which was already slightly on the slant on its stand on the grass – Dylan mooched among them, taking photos, Felicity adjusted the spacing of two canapé plates and Sarah walked briskly over and un-adjusted them.

  Finally, Clementine the bountiful arrived. She was huge, accentuated by a skater dress with a huge bow across the stern of her bump, and Laura-Faye immediately organized everyone into a group photo, Clementine at the centre. Then into various other group shots, herding people around like a fragrant shepherdess. Sarah had to laugh when she saw Dylan holding a screeching, designer-clad baby in each arm, while someone fluffed up their hair for the next photo – he was like the coyote in The Road Runner holding two sticks of cartoon dynamite before they went off.