Urgh. What are you doing, ankles? Why on earth are you getting fat? No part of the baby is being stored anywhere near you; you have absolutely no reason for swelling up like baked potatoes.
I pull my phone out of my bag and let out a sigh before I can stop myself.
Are you going to speak to Dad today?
Isaac frowns at me. ‘What?’
‘Katy,’ I say, rubbing the palm of my hand against my forehead. ‘She just text me about Dad.’
‘Ah.’ Isaac nods, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘It’s your grandma’s anniversary soon, isn’t it?’
‘Well remembered,’ I say. ‘It’s today.’
We fall into silence and I stare down at the message. I haven’t spoken to my dad in years. I didn’t think I’d ever speak to him again.
‘When is it Katy’s coming down again?’
I lock the phone and look up at Isaac. Although he’s trying to act normal, two red patches have formed on his cheeks.
‘Sunday.’
‘And are you going to tell her before she arrives that you’re pregnant, or see how long it takes her to notice?’
He swings the car around another corner and I roll my eyes at him.
‘I’m eight months gone,’ I laugh. ‘I know we hardly see each other, but I think she’ll notice.’
He smiles, waiting for me to answer the bigger question.
‘I’m not telling her before,’ I say quietly. ‘I don’t want to risk her cancelling on me. I need to tell her while she’s here so that she can get used to the idea.’
‘But you are telling her that your conference has been cancelled?’
I nod, staring out the window at the flashes of green as we shoot down a narrow country lane.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The day before. I’ll tell her it’s cancelled and suggest we spend the week together instead.’
‘Then when she gets here, you’ll surprise her with a niece.’
‘Or nephew.’
‘And then you’ll mend your relationship and go back to being best friends rather than weird estranged sisters?’
My throat tightens as Isaac casually announces what’s lying underneath my heart.
‘That’s the plan.’
*
It’s a good plan. That’s what I keep telling myself. Or rather, it’s the best plan I could think of.
Katy is a flight risk. She hates Pembrokeshire and anything that reminds her of Grandma, and has been happily burying her head in the sand for the past three years. And by burying her head in the sand, I mean sipping posh cocktails and flouncing around London as an elite events something-or-other and pretending she’s far too busy to come home.
And what am I going to ask of her? To come home permanently? To leave her glamorous London life and move back to live with me and the baby as a happy little family in our childhood cottage, where we’ll spend our weekends baking bread (which I’ll do, as Katy is terrible) and making pottery (Katy’s forte)?
I lean back against the sofa and slot a piece of bara brith into my mouth. The sharp, sweet taste of currants floods my senses.
That’s my happy place, imagining Katy flinging her arms into the air in delight and rushing back home. In the depths of my fantasy, she tells me how she’s actually hated London all this time and has been desperate to move back. She settles into the family cottage and everything goes back to how it was when we were fifteen, thick as thieves like twins should be. Not how we are now, only speaking via cold, professional emails and never answering the phone to one another.
The mug in my hand starts to burn and I peel my fingers away. As the steam rises and sticks to my glasses, I lose my grip of the happy fantasy and the cold, dark, nightmare version creeps into my mind.
This is the version that keeps me awake at night. Just as I’m falling asleep, it seeps in front of my eyes and curls around my throat until I’m so deep within its clutches that I can barely breathe. Katy is furious with me for lying to her about my conference being cancelled and for tricking her into coming home. She can’t understand why I would leave Danny, and how I could be so stupid as to have got myself into this mess. She loves her London life too much to let it go, and worst of all, she doesn’t really care. She leaves, and we go back to sending the yearly gift card on our birthday and making awkward small talk at Christmas, and I’m left with this baby and our old house, really alone.
I catch myself as my eyes start to sting and pull myself back into my living room.
That won’t happen. She won’t do that. She would never be that heartless. She loves you.
I close my eyes as I repeat those words in my mind, but each time I say them, they somehow weigh a little less, until they might as well be made of dust. Because the truth is, no matter how much I tell myself that Katy won’t leave me for London again, I’m not sure what she’ll do.
I sip the tea and the hot, sweet liquid burns my throat.
I don’t really know anything about her any more.
The baby gives a determined wriggle and I smile down at my bump.
‘You’re right,’ I say, ‘you are much more exciting than London.’
I wiggle my finger on the mouse pad of my laptop and watch the email come to life, the same email I’ve been reading for the past two weeks and editing at 4 a.m. when the baby decides it’s ready for a rave.
Hi Katy,
I hope your journey is going well! My business trip has been cancelled, so I’ll be here after all. I thought it would be nice to spend some time together, as I now have the next week off too. I need to talk to you about something.
Love you,
Rachel
I steady my breathing as my eyes scan the final sentence. It’s perfect, and all ready to send on Sunday at 5 p.m., when Katy will already be on her way. I have to add the last line about needing to speak to her about something (even though every time I read it, I nearly throw up) so that she knows it’s important. She won’t cancel on me if she thinks something has happened. Although God only knows where her mind will go, considering I’ve been spouting the same rubbish to her for months about how everything is fine, Danny is great and life has never been better.
I chew the inside of my cheek.
I should have told her months ago. Why didn’t I tell her?
I turn my phone in my hand and reread the message she sent.
Are you going to speak to Dad today?
My fingers tense around the phone. I didn’t speak to Dad on the first anniversary of Grandma’s death. I haven’t spoken to him in years. Why would I speak to him now?
Katy speaks to Dad, that’s the deal. She speaks to Dad and I speak to Mum. Not that I’ve been able to for the past few months, seeing as she lives in France now with her new family and I have a stronger relationship with her answering machine than I do with her.
But it was Dad who had the affair. Dad broke our family. I’ve never forgiven him for that.
My phone bleeps again and my heart stutters as I read a second message from Katy.
Also, in response to your email, all fine with HR. So stressed with event, will just work for the week on my laptop while I’m at yours! Wish I had time for a holiday LOL.
Hope conference goes well. Can’t believe they’re sending you to Paris for a week. To be honest, if you come home a day early I’ll probably just leave, got so much to do and will need to get back to London.
Don’t forget to tell me where you’re leaving the key. Love you xx
As I finish reading the message, I notice my eyes are wet.
Well that’s that then. She doesn’t even want to spend a day with me; how could I expect her to want to spend an entire week? How could I expect her to want to spend, oh I don’t know, the rest of her life here with me?
The baby wriggles again and I rest my damp hand on my bump.
She doesn’t need me like I need her.
I close my eyes, trying to fight the hot tears that are seeping out.
I never thought I’d have a
baby without Katy here. I thought we’d have got over this weird rift by then. But then why haven’t I called her? Why can’t I just pick up the phone now and tell her everything?
My heart jumps as I hear my front door crash noisily open. Bruno, my ungraceful St Bernard, comes thundering from the kitchen, sounding his battle cry and crashing straight into Grandma’s lamp. My head snaps round; for one wild second, I think Katy has let herself in using her old key. She’s here as a surprise, or she somehow guessed that I need her, using that twin intuition that everyone talks about. I don’t even need to ask her to move back and help me; she’s already here. Everything is going to be okay.
‘Yoo-hoo! Only me!’ Peggy’s thick Welsh trill sings through the door and I quickly wipe my eyes, trying to ignore her shrieks as Bruno leaps all over her.
Peggy insisted I give her a spare key when she found out I was going on maternity leave by myself. (As opposed to what? Going on it with Bruno?) She didn’t even try to hide her shock when I told her Mum wasn’t rushing home from her second family in France to be by my side, let alone that my dad and sister didn’t know a single thing about it. So she appointed herself my surrogate mother and, by extension, my birthing partner. Both of which meant it was crucial that she had her own key cut and matching T-shirts ordered to wear on the big day.
I mean, crikey. This time last year I was mentally calling her Polly.
She bustles in backwards, her body half bent over an enormous carrier bag and her face red and shining. I’d guess she’s in her early sixties, although I’ll never find out, as I once heard my manager ask her when the ‘big six-five’ was and Peggy looked as if she’d been shot. Her cheeks are always flared with deep rouge patches and she’s the type of woman who has a constant ear-splitting smile on her face. She’s been going to some form of weight-loss class for as long as I’ve known her, and was kicked out of Weight Watchers after she was caught dropping Kit Kats into her opponents’ handbags.
She calls me her ‘little duck’, and as much as I hate letting anybody in (especially someone who is trying to shoehorn their way into the gaping parent gap in my life, something I’ve been quite content with for the past ten years), I’ve grown strangely attached to her.
She scooped me under her wing as soon as she found me crying in the toilets at work, and has barely let me out of her sight since. The moment Tabitha had her baby, she printed out photos and stuck them to the office corkboard (taking down the fire procedure notice to make space). When the baby was four weeks old, she told me over a bubbling kettle that Tabitha and her husband had decided to move to Leeds and that they’d had an offer accepted on their perfect house. Although her voice was bright and laced with Isn’t it exciting? and What an adventure!, I could see the hurt glistening from behind her eyes. At that moment, an unusual friendship was formed. I knew what it was like to feel like everyone had left you behind. To be honest, the more time she’s spent letting herself in and giving me top tips on birthing plans, the more I’ve wondered how I ever survived without her.
She beams at me, her auburn hair spun on top of her head like a Danish pastry and her cheeks glowing with pride as she gleams down at my bump. She keeps doing this. One time she caught me throwing up in the office toilet and dabbed her eyes as though I was the Virgin Mary.
‘Hello, pet,’ she says.
‘Peggy,’ I say, trying to look stern but failing instantly, ‘how often are you going to let yourself into my house with no warning? One day you’ll walk in on me on the toilet.’
‘And good thing too!’ she cries, plucking the empty mug out of my hands and marching into the kitchen. ‘Soon you’ll be needing my help getting back up. You don’t want to be one of those girls who have their babies on the toilet, do you?’
I open my mouth to reply and close it instantly.
Great, well now there’s something else for me to obsessively worry about every time I go for a wee.
I hear Peggy flick the kettle on.
‘Oh!’ she coos. ‘That smells nice. What are you cooking?’
I allow my heavy eyes to shut as I rest my hands on my bump.
‘A big batch of chilli,’ I reply. ‘I read a blog that said the best thing to do is fill your freezer with food, as you’ll be too tired when the baby comes. So far I’ve made a bolognese, a curry and a— Peggy!’
My eyes snap open as Peggy plonks down next to me cradling a small bowl of chilli.
‘That’s for when I’ve had the baby!’ I cry, trying not to laugh as she blinks back at me innocently, holding the spoon towards me. I shake my head, but she looks at me like I’m a child being fed Calpol. Reluctantly I take the spoon and taste the chilli.
She winks at me. ‘Delicious, darling, but it could do with a pinch more salt.’ She springs to her feet and disappears back into the kitchen. ‘I’ve been doing some batch cooking for you too. Lots of hearty stews and a lovely cottage pie.’
The lingering taste of chilli dances on my tongue. I’ll need to somehow tell Katy that I gave up veganism last year. I say ‘gave up’, but can you really give up something you only tried for two days? I didn’t mean to lie to her about it, but she was so into it and doing so well, I felt guilty. I mean, last month she sent me a photo of a spinach cake she’d made. A spinach cake!
Maybe I’ll just tell her that veganism is bad for the baby so I was forced to give it up. She won’t know any different.
‘I’ll drop it round next week.’
I jump out of my thoughts as I realise Peggy is still talking.
‘Not next week,’ I say quickly. ‘That’s when Katy is here, I’ll be a bit preoccupied.’
Peggy pokes her head out of the kitchen and gives me a knowing look. She has been desperate to meet Katy and cannot understand why I’m worried about her reaction. ‘Of course she’ll want to help you,’ she told me. ‘That’s what families do for each other. They help each other.’
But my family isn’t like every other family. We don’t stick around to help each other. We run away.
And although Katy is the one in London, I ran from her first.
CHAPTER THREE
KATY
I catch sight of myself in the reflection of the revolving doors and fight the urge to flick my hair like I’m in a shampoo commercial.
The good news is, this outfit looks just as fantastic outside as it did in my living room when I tried it on last week. The dress skims my body, not too fitted but fitted enough to show off my figure and my toned legs (the only benefit to racing after screaming children for entire weekends at a time). I’m standing effortlessly in my gorgeous new court shoes, as if I wear heels all the time like every other city girl. Honestly, even my hair has stayed in place and—
‘Katy? What are you doing?’
I feel my face pinch with embarrassment as Fiona appears behind me, catching me admiring myself in the reflection. I thought she’d already gone inside.
‘Nothing,’ I say quickly, turning to face her with a big smile. She gestures for me to enter the building first and flicks her sunglasses onto the top of her head. I scuttle in obediently, trying to force a cool expression onto my face when all I want to do is grin with excitement at how fantastic my dress looks.
I hope someone takes my photo today. Or if there’s good light in the bathroom, maybe I’ll take a photo when nobody else is in there. My mirror at home is covered in smears of make-up and dust, which makes all my photos look as if someone has sneezed on them. I glance down at my Apple Watch; it beams 08:57 back up at me.
‘Morning!’ I say brightly to a receptionist, who shoots me a limp smile back.
I follow Fiona into the lift and she pulls out her phone. Fiona has caramel hair, which always glows in the sunlight thanks to the fresh highlights that she gets done religiously every six weeks. She’s tall, almost six foot in heels, with slender arms and a pointy face. She describes herself as a ‘city bitch’ to anyone who will listen, but I’ve seen her in dungarees and Converse, rolling around in the garden
having a tickle fight with William. Not that I’d ever tell anyone that for risk of being fired. Actually, no, not fired. Assassinated.
‘Right,’ she says, without looking up, ‘so I’ll be in a meeting this morning. I’m sure you have plenty to do regarding the auction. Diane has been put on the team, so she’ll help you with whatever you need.’
I feel my bright smile twitch at this new piece of information.
Urgh, Diane.
I really try to like Diane. Every Sunday night, I feel a wave of guilt and vow to be kinder to her. I’m sure she means well, but spending time with her is like taking a bath filled with leeches.
She sucks the life out of you.
‘Great!’ I say, as I realise Fiona is waiting for me to respond. ‘I do need to leave at five today, if that’s okay. I’m seeing my dad.’
She snaps her head up from her phone, her eyes full of worry. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ she cries. ‘God, what type of person am I? I told myself not to forget that it’s your grandma’s anniversary today, I even wrote it on my bloody fridge, and here I am blabbering to you about a bloody auction.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, ‘really.’
‘Do you want to be here? You can go home, I’ll be fine.’
‘No,’ I say quickly, ‘I need to be here. I’d like to have something to take my mind off it.’
She blinks at me for a second, and I raise my eyebrows back at her. Eventually she nods.
‘Okay,’ she says, ‘if you’re sure. We’ll catch up later, okay?’ She gives my arm a squeeze as the lift pings open and she glides out.
Although I have seen Fiona collect snails with William, nobody can deny that she makes an excellent city bitch. She skims through the office like an overly important swan, like she was placed in her five-inch heels the moment she was born with her smartphone in her hand, ready to go.
I force my face into the rehearsed expression of indifference everybody here permanently wears, and make my way after her with my head held high, trying not to wail in pain as my shoes stab my feet like I’m walking on razor blades.
I spot an empty desk in the corner and sit down, pulling my laptop out and quickly making myself at home, as if I sit here all the time and me being here is no big deal whatsoever. Actually I should try and take a picture of myself at my desk to put on Instagram. You know, while I’m here.
House Swap Page 3