Jamie was really putting his back into it. He didn’t need to be doing any of this and Meg felt a bit guilty, for how she’d dismissed him at Sarah’s front door and then rebuffed him in the village. She wondered for a second if Jamie really had wanted to ask her out, if he did actually like her.
‘Oh, Dad called,’ said Olivia, as they trundled. She had an uncooperative rail, like those wayward trollies at the supermarket which veer off in the opposite direction; Jamie swapped his more well-behaved one with her. ‘Last night. He said he left his charger here, that night he got drunk and stayed over. Must have fallen out of his pocket. Have you seen it?’
‘Yes,’ said Meg. ‘I found it. It’s in the kitchen drawer.’ Harry had left early that next morning, before anyone was awake. She’d found the charger under one of the cushions.
‘I’ll post it to him,’ said Olivia. ‘He also said sorry for crashing on the sofa and he owes Mum a couple of bottles of red.’
‘OK,’ said Meg. ‘Thank you.’
‘Maybe next time he could bother to see us,’ said Connor with a grunt, but Meg wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at Jamie, who was staring at her with an amused smile on his face. She raised her eyebrows at him then looked away.
‘Where do you want them?’ asked Jamie, when they reached the shop. He looked a bit sweaty and had a stray kiss curl on his forehead, like Little Jack Horner. It was quite cute. He swept it into the rest of his hair and gave her a grin.
‘All down the left-hand side, please.’
‘At your service!’
Once all the rails were in position, Meg remembered there was a random selection of gloves and scarves in an old Selfridges bag on top of Violet’s wardrobe. Connor and Olivia couldn’t be persuaded to go back again and Jamie was busy re-attaching part of one of the rails, which had come loose, so she went to get it herself.
When she got back with the bag, she was surprised to see Jamie standing in front of the window outside the shop, the sudsy sponge in his hand and the bucket at his feet. As he saw her approach, he threw the sponge in the bucket and stepped back sheepishly to reveal, written in dripping Fairy Liquid soap suds and swiftly slipping down the window, the words, ‘Will you go to the pub with me on Thursday night, Meg??’ and underneath, ‘Please?’
Meg burst out laughing.
‘Well, this is a surprise! You’re asking me again?’
‘I’m asking you again.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because I’d like to go to the pub with you, that’s why. Unless you fancy somewhere else, though there’s not a lot of choice. We could check out Whispers, maybe, dodgy nightclub in Sadlington – sticky floors, warm beer, all hope and humanity checked out at the door. Or you might not be available, of course. You might have plans for someone’s shoes at your door …’ He winked.
‘Whispers actually sounds quite good,’ pondered Meg, ‘and I am available, as far as I know … What about your vet girlfriend?’
‘What vet girlfriend?’
‘The one you were sitting outside the pub with the other day.’
Jamie laughed. ‘That was Nancy. She’s a colleague, not a girlfriend. And she’s married. So, are you up for it? The pub, I mean?’
‘I don’t know …’ said Meg, teasing now. He liked her. He’d written her name in suds and he liked her!
‘Just go for it, Auntie Meg,’ said Olivia, rolling her eyes again. ‘It’s only the pub.’
‘Yeah, go,’ said Connor, cringing, but at the same time photographing the window with his phone – probably for his friends’ amusement on Snapchat.
‘OK, I’ll go to the pub with you on Thursday, Jamie,’ said Meg. ‘But only if you clean that window.’
Jamie laughed. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He picked up the sodden sponge and started attacking the window with gusto. Meg grabbed another, from inside the shop, and joined him.
*
The clothes were on the rails, arranged beautifully in an ombre sweep of colour: at the front of the shop the vintage items started in white and pale yellow, then graduated to greens and blues, before culminating, at the rear of the shop, in deep reds and violets. Against the white painted walls, it looked stunning. Opposite, the mirrors gleamed and the desk, now dry and looking very pretty, was in place. Meg would bring a nice box or something, on Saturday’s launch night, to put the money in, if she got any. The floor had been scrubbed sufficiently to reveal a lovely faded oak, under all that grime and the front window was sparkling, thanks to Jamie; he’d done an excellent job and had now gone to the surgery to do some actual work with animals. As he’d left he’d said, ‘See you on Thursday, then’ and Meg had replied, ‘Yes, see you on Thursday.’ They’d grinned at each other.
She had a date. In a place she’d never have come back to, given the choice, with the kind of man she would never have gone for. Nobody flash, nobody London. A nice man, a kind man, good with animals, a vet for god’s sake. She had a date with a vet! But she really liked him – after everything – and she was really looking forward to it.
‘Hey, Olivia?’ Meg called. Olivia was outside admiring the shop through the glass. She seemed to have quite enjoyed herself today in the end. ‘You’re arty! Can you do me a sign please? Emulsion over the old one and write a new one? I bought a tiny tin of black paint and a brush for it – it’s around here somewhere.’
‘OK. What do you want to call it?’ asked Olivia, going to look in the B&Q carrier bag.
‘Pop-Up Vintage? What do you think? Might as well say what’s “in the tin”.’
‘Perfect.’
Olivia went outside with the paint and the brush. That window really was fantastically clean, thought Meg. She sat on the chair behind the newly painted desk and started making a few notes – time to start thinking about her launch party. What would the Jamboree involve again? Face painting, Morris dancers, a hog roast … What food should she supply? Lovely cupcakes? Some finger sandwiches? What else would she need? Welcome drinks? Home-made business cards? She really should be the sister who was the events organizer, she thought. She might text Sarah again tonight. Capitalize on this morning’s successful communication. See how she was. Tell her about Jamie, maybe, and the date.
‘All done,’ said Olivia. She was standing at the door with her paintbrush. Meg went out and checked the new sign.
‘That was quick! And you’ve done a fantastic job, Olivia.’
Olivia beamed and Meg felt great. This was the first time Olivia had smiled properly at her since she’d arrived. No way was she going to tell Sarah about the Durham thing! Meg thought. No way. She would just have to hope that Olivia came to the right decision. Instead Meg started composing tonight’s light, cheerful text to her sister, in her head, with news of her date and questions on how to host a successful launch party, with all the right canapés.
Chapter Sixteen
Sarah
Sarah was exhausted as she plonked down with relief onto a seat on the Tube. She’d just been at a five-hour meeting cum tour of premises with prospective client, Bob Marshall, which had felt like seven. Bob had a very monotone voice and a habit of repeating himself; he’d droned on and on and on like a very boring, repetitive bee, until Sarah had wanted to whack him with a bag of monkey nuts. Bob owned one of those private urban zoos, at the very end of the eastern branch of the District Line, and was holding a fund-raising event there in the autumn. All sorts of unpleasant smells had assaulted Sarah and amplified her hangover. She’d had an emergency bottle of orange juice to swig and kept pilfering the monkey nuts, to keep her going; the only refreshment Bob had offered was a dry scone, which nearly made her gag, and some weak tea with too many sugars.
‘Or are you sweet enough?’ he’d ‘joked’, as he’d handed it to her, and he’d laughed like a braying donkey which had made her headache far worse than it already was.
Sarah had woken far too early, on the inevitable morning after the night before, with her head splitting. And as soon as she opened her eyes, at 5
a.m., it all came flooding back to her – the fashion show, the trip, the whisky and her turning her head away when Dylan tried to kiss her. At least she thought he was trying to kiss her. Perhaps he wasn’t. She’d been so drunk she didn’t really know now. She was just left with a hanging feeling of regret and shame and acute awkwardness that things had gone rather wrong. Still, at least she and Dylan didn’t have each other’s mobile number, so there was no chance of any uncomfortable post-mortems. No fake and chirpy ‘I had a bit too much to drink last night – oops!’ explanations or sheepish ‘Are you OK?’ enquiries from either party. She would try to forget all about it. She wouldn’t see Dylan for a week or two, anyway. Not until the next event.
As she lay in bed, not daring to move too much, Sarah had checked her text messages. Then looked at her emails. Read Meg’s again. She would reply, she’d decided, and she was just hungover enough do it there and then.
The email conversation had gone well between the sisters and they’d switched to texting, which was quite a step. Thinking about it now, though, on the Tube, Sarah noted they’d both been quite reserved – Sarah certainly had thought carefully each time before she’d replied – but it was a start. They didn’t have to comment on the past, dwell on past misery; they could just keep things light, chat and be friendly. Not wait for apologies, apportion blame, or anything else. Sarah could take Meg as she was now. The new version.
It was a long Tube journey back to the office. Sarah pulled Little Women from her bag. It had been there since she’d picked it up. She’d forgotten what this book was all about, really. Sisters, yes, an absent father away in the civil war, a loving mother … She started reading. Oh yes, it began at Christmas, with Jo bemoaning the lack of presents. Sarah got quite into it as the train clattered from stop to stop. She remembered what an emotional book it was – that there were lots of laughter and tears ahead in the March family. She almost stopped reading. She had enjoyed it, when she used to read it aloud to Meg; could she still enjoy it now, decades later, when half her family was gone?
When Sarah finally got off the Tube – having nodded off for the last three stops, the March sisters forgotten – she bought a bottle of Lucozade from a newsagent’s and a very stinky pasty from the shop next door. She needed both sustenance and shoring up for handling the rest of the afternoon in the office. Felicity would be there – a young ambitious woman, trying to bring her older work rival down … It sounded ridiculous, really. Almost farcical. Sarah was a strong woman who should not be brought down easily. She was a survivor; she had handled a Harry, a divorce, motherhood and bringing her sister up for two years when her parents had died. What had Felicity survived? A broken nail or two and The Inbetweeners ending?
The lift doors opened. Sarah walked, carrying her hangover survival kit, across the office, but stopped halfway. Hamish was standing by her desk, laughing and in conversation with someone. And that someone was sporting a scruffy suede jacket, a crumpled shirt and a camera bag. Hamish said something about ‘offside’; Dylan replied with something like ‘jumpers for goalposts’ and they both laughed heartily. What was he doing here? Dylan never came to the office!
‘Hi,’ said Sarah, as she got to them. She sheepishly placed her drink and her stinky pasty on the desk.
‘Hi,’ said Dylan. ‘Hamish and I were just talking about the Champions League.’
‘Oh right.’ She wanted to add, ‘riveting’, in sarcastic tones, but didn’t quite feel brave enough for it today.
‘Are you OK?’
Hamish, clearly sensing a modicum of awkwardness, sloped away with a ‘nice to see you, Dylan.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Sarah. ‘What are you doing at the office?’
‘I have a query on a payslip,’ said Dylan; she could tell from his face he was lying.
‘Oh, right. All sorted?’
‘Yeah, all sorted. So, are you really OK?’ he asked, glancing down at her Stash of Shame.
‘No, actually,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit hungover.’
‘Ah. I thought you might be today.’
‘Yeah, I drank way too much, sorry.’
‘There’s no need to apologize,’ said Dylan, looking all kindly and – frankly – far too gorgeous. Damn him! ‘I enjoyed our drink last night … sort of … although it was very … fast.’
Sarah laughed nervously, which made her head hurt. ‘Sorry, I’m not a big drinker. That whisky went right to my head.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Dylan. ‘I shouldn’t have bought you so many. My bad.’ He shrugged. ‘I hope I wasn’t such terrible company, though, that you had to run away?’
‘Of course not!’ replied Sarah, blushing a little. She reached for the Lucozade bottle and distracted them both by unscrewing the lid and taking a welcome swig. Please don’t burp, please don’t burp, she told herself. She swallowed down a tiny burp and gave a sheepish smile. London Sarah had seemingly deserted her today. Ragged-round-the-edges Country Sarah had come back, and her brain felt so woolly and cluttered she didn’t trust a single sensible word to come from it. Especially as Dylan looked so handsome and she just wanted to leap on him, quite frankly. Stupid hangover! She was never drinking again.
‘Well, good,’ said Dylan. ‘That makes my next question a little easier.’
‘Your next question?’
‘Yes.’ She was fiddling with the Lucozade bottle, rustling the paper bag with the pasty in it. He took both from her and set them on her desk. Then he looked straight at her. His fringe was falling into his denim eyes and he looked adorable. ‘Look, Sarah, would you like to come out with me? On a date? A proper one, dinner, or the movies, or something, a stroll around Hyde Park with an ice cream, whatever you like really … Though I favour dinner,’ he added, with a grin. ‘I like to eat. No whisky; we can drink mineral water and Shirley Temples.’
Sarah smiled. She and Meg had loved those, once upon a time. They’d served the sweet mocktails, with the grenadine and the ginger ale, at the café at Mashbury Hall. Dad would have coffee, Mum would have tea, and Sarah and Meg would have Shirley Temples and shortbread.
‘Dinner …’ she said. She was casting round her hungover, woolly mind for excuses. Dinner was intimate. Dinner you had to stay for three courses for. And possibly coffee. No running away allowed.
‘You don’t have to,’ said Dylan. ‘It’s not the law. I can retract the offer. Perhaps Baroness Trott is free for the evening, if she’s not busy on a night shoot of her movie or something.’
He was smiling so mischievously. He had such a twinkle in those dark eyes. And Sarah just really, really liked him, however frightening that was.
‘Dinner sounds nice,’ she said finally, after what had seemed to her a ten-minute silence. A real date, she thought. She was excited, she was terrified. She hadn’t been on a date since David the bastard married solicitor. It had been to a darts match at the Black Plough in Chipping Burton. A pub miles away from anywhere for good reason, as she had later discovered. Oh god, should she really be going on a date with Dylan when she liked him so much?
‘OK, great,’ said Dylan. ‘Thursday night? Or is that too soon?’
It probably was. Way too soon. Sarah should really give herself a lot of time to mentally prepare. But Thursday night she could do. She was free, after all. She was free every night.
‘I can do Thursday night.’
‘Great,’ said Dylan. He looked relieved and rather pleased. ‘I was thinking of this fantastic retro restaurant that I know called Spam! Seventies, gloriously kitsch. Do you fancy it?’
‘Yes, sounds great.’ Sarah had heard of it, too; she had come across it in her research.
‘Great!’ echoed Dylan. ‘That’s a date then. If you happen to change your mind, it’s OK. Just let me know and I’ll wangle the Baroness’s number out of you.’ He thought she might cancel. Well, she didn’t blame him; she had certainly given him mixed messages last night. She’d told him she wasn’t looking for anyone; then she had called him her electric
blanket, or something equally embarrassing. He’d possibly thought she might be receptive to a kiss; then she had turned her head away. She wondered why he was even bothering to pursue dinner with her to be honest.
They both stood there looking at each other. Sarah didn’t have a single clue what to say next. The impasse was relieved by Felicity clattering in behind them, nude platforms clacking, and carrying something healthy-looking in a plastic Tupperware box. Dylan raised his eyebrows and motioned his head in Felicity’s direction. Sarah knew what he meant; what was she going to do about Felicity?
‘So Thursday it is, then,’ Dylan finally said. ‘I’ll call you once I’ve booked the table to let you know what time. I can call the office, or would it be awfully presumptuous to suggest we swap mobile numbers?’ He was teasing again.
‘It would be practical,’ said Sarah, so they did so. As she tapped in his number as a contact, she wondered what on earth she was going to wear.
‘See you on Thursday then.’
‘See you on Thursday then.’
And with a grin, and a rustle of his suede jacket, Dylan left the office.
Sarah sat down at her desk. She didn’t want her pasty now; she was too nervous. She threw it in the bin. Instead she had the Lucozade and some extra strong mints, then decided they didn’t go very well together. She got her head down and got on with her work, replied to emails, researched canapés for a party in September, and arranged the printing of some charity ball invitations. She thought of Meg and her pop-up shop, the launch party. It sounded a lovely idea for Tipperton Mallet, actually; it might shake things up a bit. The whole village, including her, had been slumbering under the summer sun when she’d left, full of inertia. Especially the twins; she’d had no success in persuading them to come up to London for some sightseeing and was pleased Meg had managed to rope them into doing up the grotty old hairdresser’s. It was something, at least. The swap had worked out OK, so far, and when she thought of her sister and the conversation they’d had by text this morning, Sarah allowed herself to smile. OK, they weren’t going to be Jo and Beth of Little Women – adoring each other, reading to each other by the fire and darning each other’s socks – and they probably wouldn’t ever get back to how they’d been before the accident, but a chat by text was a start.
The Sister Swap Page 21