The Sister Swap

by Fiona Collins

  ‘You look like an electric blanket,’ she said. Dylan smiled. He looked down at her lips and she looked back at his – god, they were gorgeous – and he moved towards her and his head was coming close to hers and his lips were inches away from hers, centimetres, millimetres … and she panicked. She couldn’t get close to anyone; she couldn’t let herself. It would only end in tears, and pain, wouldn’t it? She knew it would. So she flicked her head to the side so his lips landed not on her lips but on her cheek, and then she fled to the taxi where she dived in the back seat and yelled, ‘Tottenham Court Road, please!’ at the driver.

  They sped off. Sarah pressed the button to wind the window down and stuck her head out of it. The opposite window to the kerb, of course. She couldn’t bear to look at Dylan. Was he sauntering off down the pavement as though nothing had happened? Or was he staring at the cab thinking, What happened there? She didn’t want to know. She needed air. Like a hot dog on the way to the seaside, she kept her head out of the window all the way back to Meg’s flat and when she arrived she slunk straight to bed, like a wounded animal, without even taking off what was left of her make-up.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Meg

  ‘Ugh, do we have to?’

  Meg was striding across the fields with two recalcitrant teenagers stomping behind her, scowling and kicking up mud with the toes of their trainers. Meg ignored the constant scatter of earth that kept landing on the back of her calves and told herself it wasn’t deliberate, even though she knew it was. Connor and Oliva might not be happy this morning, but she was.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You do have to. You’re helping me do up and fit the shop today and that’s that. The fresh air and the physical exercise will do you good, Olivia. You can’t spend every day of the summer just going from your bedroom to Jude’s like some sort of bat. And you, Connor, I need your man power today.’ Meg almost laughed at the look on their faces; they looked like a pair of stroppy toddlers being dragged to nursery. She’d only got them out of the house on the promise of a pub lunch at The Duke of Wellington. ‘I’m pulling rank, basically. I know you don’t like me very much and resent me being here, but I am, so we just need to make the best of it, and I really need you both today.’

  Quite a rousing speech, thought Meg, glancing at her niece and nephew who still just looked ‘meh’. Oh, let them, she thought. She was excited and raring to go, and she was also really, really happy, because this morning she’d been chatting to her sister.

  There’d been an email on her phone, from Sarah, when she woke up early at 6 a.m., all excited for the day ahead, which Sarah had sent at half five. It was in reply to Meg’s, from the middle of last week. She’d given up expecting to hear anything, to be honest, and she opened the email quickly.

  Hi Meg, (well, that was a good opening for starters …she didn’t think her sister had used her name for twenty years…) Thank you for doing the library and the art class – did you use Roger and his todger?

  Meg had laughed. Her sister had a sense of humour, these days – well, wonders would never cease. The email continued, new paragraph.

  The vintage dress pop-up shop sounds interesting and fun, and a launch party at the Jamboree sounds like a fabulous idea – is it this Saturday? I’m glad the old hairdresser’s is getting a new lease of life. Will cheer the place up no end. Sarah knew Les then …

  And her final paragraph: Yes, I remember the library game. I was pretty bossy, as I recall. Sarah.

  Yup, thought Meg. Wasn’t she just. Well, this was surprising and fantastic. Short and sweet, but not only a reply, which she hadn’t been expecting, but a friendly, jokey reply, with a nice acknowledgement of a shared memory.

  Meg had seized the moment and emailed straight back …

  Sarah! Thank you for your words of encouragement. Yes, the Jamboree is Saturday! I’m going to fit the shop today and am really excited. Meg. She pressed send and waited. An email immediately pinged back into her inbox.

  Sounds good. Will Connor and Olivia help you? Sarah.

  Well, she wasn’t going to ask them, but now Sarah mentioned it …

  I’ll ask, she wrote.

  How have they been? Obviously I speak to them, but I can’t get much out of them.

  They’re fine, wrote Meg. She didn’t want to say they hated her and hardly spoke to her, so she thought of something nicer to relate. Connor is really funny and Olivia so lovely and so beautiful, model material if not so brainy!! Gosh, this was so slow, all this emailing. She added, quickly, Hey, I’ve never had your mobile number. If you give it to me we can text, instead?

  Meg had waited for a reply, suddenly nervous. Would Sarah give her mobile phone number, after all this time? Meg tried to distract herself with looking at the Tempest work emails she wasn’t all that interested in now – Lilith appeared to be doing a sterling job.

  An email from Sarah popped back, with the number. Meg immediately texted her; the first text, she realized, she had ever sent her sister.

  Ah, there you are, it said, and Meg had smiled as she typed it.

  Here I am. And then, to Meg’s great surprise … I’ve got a hangover.

  Oh, Meg was delighted. A hangover!

  Were you out last night? she asked cheerfully.

  Yes, for a drink.

  Date? asked Meg. She grinned to herself. This was going so well! It was almost like they were real sisters, just having a chat.

  No, not a date.

  Meg didn’t know what to say now, but she was just pleased. Pleased they were talking. OK, she knew nothing of the state of her sister’s love life, but that could change, couldn’t it? In time. Oh, look, Sarah was asking about hers!

  A guy came to the door for you, night I moved in. Jumper across shoulders, designer shoes. Your boyfriend?

  Meg giggled to herself, in bed. No, not my boyfriend. Just some guy. I doubt he’ll call again. She’d completely ignored him since their night together, so it was hardly likely.

  No boyfriend?

  No, you?

  No.

  No nice men at work? Meg regretted sending that. Was she being too nosy? Too familiar? It was only because she knew nothing about her sister’s life or her love life. She was so curious now.

  No. Only a colleague who looks like Mr Tumble and my old boss!

  Meg wondered who Sarah had gone out for a drink with. I have no idea who Mr Tumble is!, she typed, then added, How’s the job going?

  Really well, thanks. I’m enjoying it.

  That’s good. Everything OK with my flat? Meg immediately regretted saying that, too. Did it sound like she was asking if there’d been any damage or something? Did she sound accusing?

  Yes, I love it. So tidy! Sorry about my clutter! Are you missing your job?

  Meg thought of the magazine clipping. The one that Sarah had kept. The knowledge of that gave her a warm glow. She also remembered how much she had adored her job when that interview was done.

  Yes, at first. Not so much now. I’m quite liking country life.

  Oh, great!

  There’s paracetamol in the cupboard above the sink. For the hangover.

  Thank you. OK, well I’d better go now. Got to get ready for work.

  OK, nice to speak to you.

  You too.

  Well, I never, Meg had thought, as she’d tucked her phone back under her pillow. She couldn’t believe her and Sarah were actually texting. It was a near miracle, and however belligerent the twins were today, Meg would have a smile on her face the whole day because of it.

  ‘How’s lover boy?’ Connor asked Olivia, from behind Meg, as they walked. Olivia kicked another mound of dried mud which clocked Meg on the right ankle, before crumbling. Meg knew it was only the thought of pie and chips and a shandy which was remotely motivating her niece across the fields.

  ‘Good, thanks,’ replied Olivia tersely.

  ‘Still stunting your growth?’ Connor asked. He had picked up a long stick from the garden on their way out and Meg could hea
r him striking the ground with it as he walked.

  ‘He’s not stunting my growth!’ protested Olivia.

  ‘Ow!’ shouted Connor. Meg looked behind. Olivia now had the stick in her hand and Connor was nursing his left buttock. ‘Jude’s an idiot,’ scoffed Connor, grabbing the stick back. ‘Writing those heinous plays. He thinks he’s gonna come up with the next Waiting for Godot. Or should it be Waiting for Godawful?’ He laughed heartily at his own joke, his shoulders going up and down in his Batman T-shirt.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ said Olivia sarcastically. ‘And wrong genre.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the tiresome kitchen sink drama,’ said Connor. ‘He’ll have you tied to one of his own before you know it!’

  ‘What do you mean by stunting her growth?’ enquired Meg. She’d dropped back so she could walk next to them.

  ‘She’s not going to Durham in September,’ said Connor, a glint in his eye. ‘Because of Jude.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Meg. ‘What do you mean? You’re not going, Olivia?’

  ‘I might not be going.’ Olivia pouted, shoving both hands in the front pockets of her jeans. ‘I haven’t completely decided yet. I just think why waste three years of study when I could be living real life.’

  ‘Hunkering down in Jude’s million-pound house helping him write rubbish?’ Connor sniffed. ‘Sorry, beg pardon – his parents’ house.’

  ‘What would you know about his writing?’ countered Olivia.

  ‘I remember him from school,’ said Connor. ‘He got Ds across the board in his GCSEs and was a pompous twat, wandering round looking like Oscar flippin’ Wilde all the time, in a silly cloak and a cravat. All style and no substance.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on a minute,’ said Meg. This was a very big deal, if Olivia was going to give up her place at Durham. ‘Why would you not go to university? Why would you throw away the opportunity of a lifetime for some boy?’

  ‘He’s not just “some boy”,’ cried Olivia. ‘Besides, he’s twenty-two! Whether I go to Durham or not, I’m going to help him with his work, be his agent for his plays and … market him as a leading new light in the dramatic arts.’ Connor gave a loud snort. ‘But I might not go to uni, so I can devote myself to him full time. I haven’t decided yet,’ she repeated.

  ‘Does your mother have any idea about this?’ asked Meg.

  ‘No, and please don’t tell her,’ Olivia begged.

  ‘I can’t promise that,’ said Meg. Oh dear, she thought, this put her in a bad position. Grass on Olivia, when it wasn’t actually set in stone she was giving up her place at university? Go running to Sarah, making her sister all angry in the process? They had only just started speaking to each other again. Like spiders building a web, they had extended a delicate thread to each other, and she really didn’t want to jeopardize that … especially if it was over something that might not happen. Plus, everyone knew what people said about shooting the messenger!

  Olivia wasn’t happy with Meg’s answer. Her face darkened and she kicked at a clump of dried mud with her trainer. ‘Well, why would you tell her?’ she spat. ‘You’re not close! You don’t even like each other. Mum told us!’

  Oh. Meg wasn’t surprised by that, but she was hoping that was about to change now. Maybe. No way was she going to Sarah with this news, not until it was definitive. She would try to talk to Olivia, instead, encourage her to do the right thing …

  ‘That’s by the by,’ she said. ‘Your mother would be so disappointed to hear this, Olivia. We can discuss this, surely? I might be able to advise you.’ Olivia pulled a sceptical face. ‘I’ve had a long career,’ continued Meg. ‘I was in London and working at eighteen.’

  The twins rolled their eyes as kids do when elders tell stories of when they were cool and fabulous in their former lives. If Goldie Hawn were to meet them in the street and tell them she was once in a mile-high foursome with Prince, Mick Jagger and a Jack Russell, they’d be overcome with boredom and start reaching for their headphones before anyone could say, ‘Ejector seat.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Olivia, sullenly, ‘I don’t want advice. And why don’t you ask Sandwich Boy what he’s doing with his life?’ she retorted. ‘Apart from wearing a hairnet every day, like a loser!’

  ‘My life’s fine, actually.’ Connor sniffed and shoved both hands in the back pockets of his jeans. ‘I’m just considering my next move.’

  ‘Which is?’ scoffed Olivia.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Olivia turned to Meg. ‘Auntie Meg, please don’t tell Mum I might not be going!’

  ‘OK, I promise.’ Auntie Meg liked being called ‘Auntie Meg’. She liked being asked for her loyalty. Olivia had given her such a hard time since she’d arrived in Tipperton Mallet, being placed in her confidence was a novel position. ‘I will be talking about this to you, Olivia, but we’ll say no more about it for now.’

  Olivia shrugged, but looked relieved. They had reached the stile. Checking for no hurtling Garfields, Meg jumped down and her niece and nephew followed. It was still early and the village was quiet. Les Misérables was waiting outside the salon for them with a huge set of keys, like a melancholy jailer.

  ‘Here you are, miss, it’s all yours,’ he said, as he unlocked the door. ‘A chap’s coming at eleven to cart all the old sinks and stuff away. I’ll get a bit of money for them. The rest is up to you.’ He eased one of the keys off his bunch to give to her. ‘You can keep the desk – it’s had it, really, but it might be of use to you. Good luck.’

  He ambled out across the green, as though the world were about to end, and they stepped into the shop. It was bare of all hairdressing paraphernalia, apart from the sinks, and tall mirrors had been left on the walls down one side, which was good as Meg already had her vision: Violet’s rails and all the clothes on the left-hand side, mirrors on the right, Violet’s antique silk screen creating a changing room to the rear, and the desk by the front door. Meg was going to make the place lovely.

  First things first, though: the former salon was absolutely filthy, so Meg set Connor and Olivia to work scrubbing the walls (there was still water connected to the little bathroom/office out the back), sweeping the floor, dusting, and cleaning. Meg had been to Binty’s yesterday to buy cleaning products, a broom, and a bucket, and Les had let her keep them inside the salon overnight.

  ‘Use the bleach,’ she told them. ‘Everything needs a really good scrub.’

  Connor and Olivia got to work – slowly and reluctantly, but after a while they seemed to get into it and became embroiled in a kind of sibling competitive ‘scrub off’. B&Q came and delivered supplies of paint and brushes which Meg had ordered. She set to work painting the desk a shabby chic white so she could leave it outside in the sun to dry while she tackled the walls. It was a scorcher of a day; with the front door of the shop wide open, the paint on the walls wouldn’t take long to dry, either.

  At half eleven a driver came and took all the sinks and the pipework away. By then the mirrors had been dusted, the front window cleaned, the floor swept and mopped and two out of three walls emulsioned. At half one, all the walls were painted – and the ceiling.

  ‘Brilliant, well done,’ said Meg, looking round. ‘Let’s down tools and go to the pub.’

  *

  It was still nice and cosy in here, thought Meg, as she looked around The Duke of Wellington’s interior. As it was such a lovely day, both trestle tables outside and all the picnic tables in the tiny beer garden behind were taken, so they had to sit inside, but both back and front doors of the pub were open, creating what Meg’s mum would have called a ‘lovely through draught’. Connor and Olivia sat mute, on their phones, desperately catching up with all the crucial stuff they’d missed while they’d been cleaning and painting, and Meg casually peered out to the beer garden. She half expected Jamie to be here, but he wasn’t, and she told herself off for even looking.

  They ate fish and chips, and had ice cream with chocolate sauce in those old-fashioned steel bowls, then went back
to the shop.

  ‘Ah,’ said Meg, as they rocked up outside. ‘We missed a bit.’ The sun was beaming brightly on the large front window, showing all its grime. They’d cleaned the inside but forgotten to do the outside. Meg grabbed the sudsy bucket from inside the shop, but then said, ‘Oh, sod it! I can’t face doing more dog work now. Let’s go and get the stock, and we can do the window when we get back.’

  They left the sudsy bucket where it was and walked to Violet’s to get the rails. Meg had the key in her back pocket, in case Violet was out – she’d collected it from her yesterday. As they walked up The Shambles to Lavender Cottage, Meg was surprised to see Jamie standing in the front garden and skimming a pair of clippers over Violet’s lavender. Was he ever at that bloody vet’s?

  ‘Hello?’ said Jamie, looking up as he snipped. ‘What are you up to now? More art classes or coming to get pissed with my mum again?’ Meg wondered if he was tempted to add, or having men over for the night?

  ‘Neither,’ said Meg. ‘We’re fitting out the pop-up shop.’

  ‘Ah, the shop,’ said Jamie. ‘Do you need a hand?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Well, we could do with a hand,’ said Olivia, looking between Meg and her brother. ‘Couldn’t we? We’ve got all the rails to wheel round, then all the clothes to take and it’s really hot and …’

  ‘Then a hand you shall have,’ said Jamie. He laid down the clippers on the lawn and held out his arm to usher them all into the house. Meg smiled uncertainly at him; she really didn’t want him helping them, but what choice did she have?

  ‘Mum’s out,’ he said, as they all trooped up the stairs. ‘A day trip to the local distillery with her bridge club.’

  ‘How fabulous!’ said Meg. She was trying not to look at Jamie’s bum as he climbed the stairs.

  ‘Not for the distillery,’ replied Jamie dryly. ‘Last time they got kicked out for almost depleting the stock. Come on then!’ The rails were all wedged together in Violet’s spare room. Between the four of them they had to bump them down the stairs, along the narrow hall and out through the front door. It wasn’t easy. The whole exercise reminded Meg of the episode of Friends with Ross’s couch. They wheeled the rails out onto the lane then trundled them through the village to the new shop.