Michael, white haired and smart in a pinstriped suit, appeared at Sarah’s desk.
‘How was your trip?’
Sarah looked up. ‘To the zoo at Upminster? Good thanks, looking forward to the event there,’ she lied. She didn’t want to tell him how tedious it had actually been.
‘No, your trip yesterday. Up the catwalk.’ Michael smiled. He was teasing but in a friendly way. Sarah could tell he wasn’t in the least cross.
‘Ah. That. That was … unfortunate.’
‘I heard your foot got caught in the wedding dress. Not that John James should have made you wear it in the first place, and send you down the catwalk,’ added Michael. ‘He was out of order to have put you in that position.’
‘What John James wants, John James gets,’ said Sarah.
‘Well, I’m sorry that happened and well done for making the best out of it,’ said Michael kindly. ‘There’s photos of you and Clarissa in all the press today.’
‘Is there?’ Sarah wondered if Meg would see them, and what she’d make of it. Her friend and her sister, holding hands at the end of the catwalk.
‘Yes, great publicity for John James, all the drama. A fainting model, a plucky events organizer stepping in to save the day and recovering from a spectacular trip. He’s very pleased. So pleased he’s apparently biking over to the office a turquoise merkin for me and a designer bin liner for you.’
‘Lucky us,’ giggled Sarah.
‘Oh, the perks of this job are still endless,’ said Michael. ‘Well done, again.’
‘Thank you.’
Michael walked back to his office; Sarah looked over at Felicity. She hadn’t noticed Michael and was conducting a very animated phone conversation. Sarah could hear a ‘Stop it!’, an ‘I can’t wait to see you, too,’ a ‘Naughty!’ and a ‘No, you put the phone down.’ She willed Michael to overhear, but Michael didn’t notice Felicity either. He was now talking to Hamish, on the other side of the office. Damn! Sarah really wanted Felicity to get her comeuppance, but she just couldn’t bring herself to tell tales. It just wasn’t her style. Keep Calm and Carry On, thought Sarah, returning to her work. What else could she do?
*
It was hot in Meg’s flat. After a quick trip to Tesco and a dinner of spicy chicken and mashed potato, plus a cold glass of sparkling apple juice, with the tiny balcony doors flung open to the London street below, Sarah checked her phone.
How’s the hangover?☺ Meg.
Better now, just tired, Sarah typed.
Clarissa told me what happened yesterday and I’ve just seen the photos online. How funny, you did really well!
Thank you, replied Sarah. Clarissa helped me. She didn’t say it was as a response to Meg’s whole ‘nurturing’, ‘she’s my rock’ thing; it seemed too much detail. A bit too heavy.
She’s a star, that girl! And you looked fabulous.
Can’t really see a career in modelling but there you go.
It is a rather particular skill, texted Meg. And actually not a life I would wish on many people. Sarah was surprised. The whole modelling scene was Meg’s life, surely? She loved it; fashion, modelling, the shows. She’d said so in that interview. So, I wanted to pick your brains about catering for Saturday. If you don’t mind.
No, I don’t mind. What kind of thing were you thinking of? I’m a little sad I’ll be missing the Jamboree this year. I love a bit of Morris dancing!
A text pinged back with a laughing face this time.
Really?
Yes, I sometimes used to join in.
I can’t see you doing something like that!
You’d be surprised. And Sarah was surprised Meg didn’t realize she’d hardly be the same Sarah she was twenty years ago. It’s a fun night. So, food for party? What are your current ideas?
Cupcakes and finger sandwiches? Canapés, but I haven’t got a clue how to do them?
Cupcakes always go down well. What about cheese straws and vol-au-vents – a little old school, but they can be cooked in advance and you just need to put them out.
Great, idea, thanks! Who doesn’t love a vol-au-vent?!
How did the kids get on with helping you today?
Great! Good little workers! They’ll help me at the launch party on Saturday too, I hope.
Sarah quickly consulted her mental calendar. That’s fantastic! I think Olivia’s got an Accommodation Viewing Day at Durham on Sunday, she texted. Driving up with a friend.
There was a ten-minute time lapse before the next text came from Meg. Meg must have been feeding Monty or something. In that time Sarah slowly finished her sparkling apple juice and poured another.
OK. Great. By the way, did you know Connor had been cooking for us?
He mentioned something about a beef Bourguinon the other night.
He’s been cooking most nights. He’s really good. Remember mum’s cottage pie? He made us one really similar the other night.
Sarah certainly did remember Mum’s cottage pie. Hadn’t she attempted to replicate it herself, when she was looking after Meg? She remembered the night she finally got it right, Meg didn’t come home and the dinner went in the dog, or rather, the stomach of Monty’s predecessor, Sukie. That memory left a bitter taste in Sarah’s mouth even now. She and Meg were getting on just fine at the moment, with this texting – surface level, only – she didn’t want to go deeper, delve into long-buried memories, talk about those two years.
That’s great, she texted. I’m pleased.
By the way. I’ve got a date with Jamie, the vet!
Oh really? Well, he’s nice. He looks after Monty really well. Good luck. Jamie was nice, Sarah thought; a real catch. He always garnered quite a lot of interest in the vet’s. People bringing in cats with nothing wrong with them; women ‘popping in’ to ask advice about worms. She hadn’t seen him with anyone for a while. Where are you going?
To the pub.
Sarah wondered if she should say something about her own date, with Dylan? She decided not to. It would all sound a bit too chummy, a bit too double-datey. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Instead she added, I hope you have fun.
Thank you, Sarah.
OK, nice talking to you. I’m going to have to go now. Sarah had a bit of work she needed to catch up on.
OK. Bye, Sarah.
Bye, Meg.
Sarah put down her phone and walked over to Meg’s desk to open up the laptop. She’d do an hour’s work and then she’d google the restaurant Dylan had talked about again. And try to picture herself there. On a date. She got an unsettling sort of tingle in her every time she thought about it.
Sarah had some notes to make and had left her favourite Paper Mate at work; she wondered if the drawer under Meg’s desk contained any nice pens. Sarah had never looked in it before. There was a neat pile of papers and files inside and to the right of the papers was a modern-looking photo album. Sarah pulled it free of the drawer and opened it, full of renewed curiosity about her sister, but was surprised to see it was full of old family photos. Photos of Mum and Dad, holding hands on the beach in Majorca – Dad caught unawares and pulling a funny face. Meg and Sarah standing on the same beach, in towelling dresses – Sarah’s too short, Meg’s too long – looking windswept and a bit grumpy. Meg and Sarah messily eating shortbread in the café at Mashbury Hall. These were reject photographs, Sarah realized; ones that didn’t make it into the albums at home. Meg must have taken them from the square, lidded cardboard box marked ‘Family Snaps – Miscellaneous’, in the old sitting-room sideboard, before she left for London.
Sarah flicked through all the pages, smiling as the memories overtook her. The photo on the last page was them all together, standing outside Orchard Cottage. Dad had his top off and was leaning on the lawnmower. Mum was squinting into the sun. Meg and Sarah had their arms round each other and were giggling, Sarah four foot taller. Sarah didn’t know why this photo was ever considered a reject: it was wonderful.
Sarah closed the album, put it back in the d
rawer and sat at Meg’s desk for a long while, staring out of the window, before she got on with making her notes.
Chapter Seventeen
Meg
‘Bye!’
Meg shut the back door softly behind her. As she set off across the fields to the village, she kept getting crumbles of mud between her toes and having to shake them out. It had rained this afternoon and the ground was quite soft. This was a good distraction. Her heart was beating a little faster than usual, her stomach felt a bit fluttery, but she didn’t know why. It was only Jamie. It was only a drink and a bowl of chips, if she could manage that much. A casual country date – no biggie.
She’d only had Monty to say a cheery, totally non-nervous goodbye to. He was lying resplendent on the prickly mat in the boot room as though it were the Golden Fleece. Nobody else had been at home all day. Connor was at work and Olivia was at Jude’s, hopefully not spending the afternoon planning how to turn down her place at Durham. Meg was glad she hadn’t mentioned anything to Sarah about Olivia possibly not going to university. It was not a fait accompli and they were getting on so well, via text, she didn’t want to spoil things. What Sarah didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, especially as it would probably all come to nothing, and in September Olivia would pack up her lava lamp and her spider plant, or whatever it was kids took to their ‘digs’ at university these days, and trot up to Durham.
Meg waved to the surly bull in the next field.
‘Hello!’ she called out, but she noticed her voice was a little unsteady and a little wavery. She was nervous and it was a very alien feeling. She was never nervous on her endless dates in London; she could take them or leave them – leave them, usually. She’d never had her heart beat fast or her stomach flutter when she went to meet a succession of Mikeys and Mattys … It must be the country air.
Meg reached the village green. Pop-Up Vintage was right before her, all shiny and new, so she did a quick detour to gaze in the window. It looked amazing. Almost ready for launch night and Meg couldn’t wait. It was a shame Sarah couldn’t come down for it, actually. Apart from seeing her in magazines, Sarah had never witnessed Successful Meg in action. The last time the sisters had clapped eyes on each other, Meg had had an unsuitable man’s hand on her crotch as he’d driven her away from Uncle Compton’s funeral with a swiped stolen bottle of Southern Comfort stashed on her lap…
‘Meg!’
Meg turned round and Jamie was standing in front of the pub, backlit by the plummeting sun and looking all wholesome and just washed. He was in jeans and a checked shirt. He looked like a cute cowboy who never gets too dirty. Meg had gone casual, too. Leather (slightly muddy, now) flip-flops, rolled-up boyfriend jeans, white ribbed T-shirt and ponytail. An outfit which said, Hey! So, I’m on a date? It’s really no big deal!
Jamie had a canvas bag dangling from one hand. His vet’s bag, Meg presumed, unless he’d brought his own dinner out.
She flip-flopped over to him.
‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I have to be on call tonight. I could have cancelled our date, but I didn’t want to.’ He grinned. ‘Nothing will happen though, I’m sure, and if it does, you’ll just have to come with me.’
‘Great!’ said Meg. ‘I’m really up for de-fleaing a mangy cat or cleaning a dog’s gnashers with a toilet brush, or something, tonight!’ This was so different from a London date already, she thought. In London it would be cocktails and amuse-bouches and flirty eye contact over chargrilled salmon. Not veterinary call-outs. It was really quite refreshing.
Jamie laughed and returned her sarcasm. ‘Fantastic! I’m so glad. And if it’s the dog with the teeth, I’ll let you go first.’
Actually, Meg didn’t mind if Jamie went on call. So be it, and she would happily go with him, as long as she didn’t actually have to wield a toilet brush.
‘OK,’ she said chirpily.
‘I’m joking,’ said Jamie. Well, she knew that. ‘If it happens, I promise you don’t have to participate. Spectator sport only. I’m not sure I would let you loose on the animal kingdom, anyway, with your track record.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, with mock umbrage.
‘Garfield. You seem to have some weird power that sends animals doolally, like a sort of reverse Doctor Dolittle.’
‘The opposite of the horse whisperer,’ considered Meg. ‘The horse shouter?’
‘Or the hoarse shouter?’ suggested Jamie, clutching at his throat.
‘Oh ha, ha. Good one.’
The beer garden was buzzing, absolutely packed – she hoped a lot of these people would be coming to the July Jamboree. Several of them were young and rather hip looking, and one rammed table had the whole rockabilly vibe going on. The perfect market for Violet’s frocks: if they had pennies in their pocket for beer and towering plates of nachos and chips, they might have pennies for her fledgling business.
There wasn’t a free table in the garden, unless she and Jamie perched at the end of someone else’s. ‘Let’s sit inside,’ he suggested. ‘It should be cool in there at this time of night, and empty, if everyone’s outside.’
He was right, of course. The famous Through Draught was in operation again and the place was deserted. Taking their seats at a minute table, on wooden stools, there was no opportunity for people watching: they had to only have eyes for each other, which made Meg feel a little unsettled. Jamie smiled at her and asked her what she’d like to drink.
‘A vodka, lime and lemonade,’ she said.
‘Very cosmopolitan.’ He nodded. ‘Most people round here drink cider.’
‘Is that what you’re having?’
‘I’m having a beer. Just the one, in case I have that de-fleaing later. Don’t want to be drunk in charge of a flea comb.’ Jamie grinned and she grinned back at him. He did have a lovely smile, the sort that may make her stomach flip if it wasn’t just a totally casual country date, and if her stomach ever flipped because, well, it just didn’t.
Jamie went to the bar. She admired his bum and the back of his head. Both were nice. He was a very attractive man, for a vet. When he sat down again and handed Meg her ice-cold glass, clinking with ice, he said, ‘So, how are the plans for your little party on Saturday coming along? Olivia told me about it, when I was doing the excellent job of cleaning that window.’
‘You did do an excellent job. And it’s not a little party,’ said Meg, a little indignant. ‘It’s going to be a major event in this village! And it’s going really well, thanks.’ Connor had organized some flyers, via a mate who worked at a local printers, with an illustration of a dress Olivia had drawn, and he had also amazingly offered to make canapés – vol-au-vents with various fillings, and cheese straws, as Sarah had suggested. Meg was sure they would be fantastic; he was turning into a really good cook. ‘Have you not seen my flyers? They’re in the village hall, Binty’s, the phone box library …’
‘Quite a change from being an agent, and everything, in London,’ suggested Jamie.
‘Yes, it’s a massive change.’
‘You’re not just sorting out other people, looking after your models and stuff,’ mused Jamie, looking thoughtful. ‘This is just for you.’
‘Well, yes,’ replied Meg. Surprising – his mum had said exactly the same thing.
‘Do you prefer it down here?’
‘Prefer it?’ Now, there was a question! ‘Well, I didn’t really have a choice about coming here. A meanie doctor pretty much booted me to Suffolk.’
‘A doctor? I thought you were here for a break.’
‘An enforced one.’ Meg smiled. ‘I didn’t want to come. I’ve got high blood pressure. I fainted at work. I had to come to the country to de-stress.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Jamie. He looked quite concerned. ‘And do you think it’s worked? Being here?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve got a check tomorrow morning, in Chipping Burton.’
‘Hopefully it has,’ said Jamie. ‘You do look different now to when I first met you. Fresher �
� somehow – and your face looks more open.’
‘Younger?’ prompted Meg teasingly.
‘Oh, yes.’ Jamie nodded, mock seriously. ‘Definitely younger. Seriously, though, I think it suits you. Country life.’
He looked at her intently, suddenly. He really did have lovely eyes, Meg thought, and she permitted herself one, very small, stomach flip. There, let that be the first and last.
‘Thank you. I do feel pretty great,’ she admitted, and her words immediately surprised her. But they were true. She felt both relaxed and invigorated, chilled out and recharged. If she had been burnt out, she now felt a new spark inside her. For the vintage pop-up shop, she told herself firmly, not Jamie.
‘And I bet you sell all of Mum’s dresses. Will you source more stock, once they fly out of the shop, keep things going?’
‘Well, I haven’t thought about it,’ said Meg.
‘You never know,’ said Jamie, ‘it could be such a big success, you could end up staying in Tipperton Mallet for ever!’
‘Why, Mr Chase,’ laughed Meg. ‘Are you saying you’d like me to?’
‘Maybe I am,’ said Jamie slowly, and suddenly serious.
‘Oh!’ said Meg.
‘All right, Jamie?’
‘All right, Mitch?’
A burly man was standing by the table. Bald head. Trousers hitched up with what looked like garden twine. ‘Zippy’ from Rainbow T-shirt.
‘How you keepin’?’ asked Mitch.
‘Great, thanks, you?’
‘Good. Can I just ask you a quick question?’
‘’Course you can.’
‘One of my ferrets has got a crook foot again – should I bandage or use the ointment?’
The Sister Swap Page 22