‘Oh Katy! You’re here!’
Vanessa’s sickly-sweet voice fills my ears as she stops right next to my desk, coffee in hand. Vanessa is one of the event executives, and even though she’s met me several times over the past three years, she always looks surprised to see me, as though I have crawled in through the fire exit undetected. Needless to say, she fits the Hayes mould perfectly. She has smooth skin and long, shiny hair that reaches her waist and swings perfectly when she walks. She always wears tailored suits, and I once saw her run in a pair of Jimmy Choos.
I mean, if that’s not the sign of a dangerous woman then I don’t know what is.
I feel my top lip quiver as I meet her eye.
Don’t you dare start sweating now, upper lip. That is not the sign of an important, in-control woman. Stay dry, goddammit.
‘Morning,’ I say. ‘Good weekend?’
Vanessa flicks her hair and sinks into the seat opposite. I feel my body stiffen as her wide eyes survey me. I straighten my spine, waiting for her to comment on how sweet I look. She always smiles when she says it, as though it’s a compliment, but it never feels like one. It feels more like somebody giving you a lemon meringue pie made with rotten eggs. And arsenic.
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘just a quiet one. Brunch Saturday, gig in the evening. Hung-over roast in Putney and casual date on Sunday.’
Casual date? What’s an intense one?
Actually, I definitely know what an intense date is. I’m looking at you, guy who invited his mum.
Her piercing eyes flick up to me as she finishes her sentence, as if daring me to challenge how perfectly cool and effortless her weekend was.
I feel my tight smile mirror hers.
‘Oh lovely,’ I say smoothly. ‘I went to an organic painting class, and then did some light yoga on a rooftop in Dulwich. I had a heavy one in Soho Saturday night with an old beau, and then Sunday went to an abandoned cinema to watch David Attenborough documentaries.’
Without quite meaning to, I feel my eyebrows slide up my face in triumph. I mean, I do have an unfair advantage. I knew at least one of Fiona’s staff would ask me this question, as if to prove that I’m not cool enough to work here and should just focus on bringing everyone coffee and fixing the photocopier. So in preparation, I practised the answer while drying my hair this morning.
And how is she to know it’s a lie? The weekend was my weekend off from looking after the children. I could have done whatever I liked. And just because doing whatever I liked actually consisted of sitting in my pants and watching Friends doesn’t mean I have to tell anyone that.
Vanessa’s poised expression stays in place as she looks down at her phone, obviously annoyed that I didn’t give her the dull answer she was hoping for.
‘That sounds nice,’ she says coldly, hooking one leg over the other. ‘So why are you here today? Are you not with the children?’
I feel myself flinch as she bats her hand across her face as though I’m a fly. I wish Fiona hadn’t told everyone that I help with the children. I am employed by Hayes, just like the rest of them.
‘I’m assisting Fiona with the charity ball,’ I say, lifting my chin. ‘I’m organising the auction.’
Vanessa raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh,’ she says, her voice sliding up at the end. ‘I had heard that you were helping with that.’
I open my laptop, trying to hide my pink cheeks.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’m very excited.’
But as I look up, I notice Vanessa has already left and is now throwing her head back in a loud laugh with Sasha, another perfect human who works here.
Sasha is far nicer to me. She at least always offers me a coffee when she’s making one, and we did once bond over who Hedgehog might be on The Masked Singer. Although she kept suggesting people I’d never heard of and thought I was joking when I said I thought it was Philip Schofield.
I flick open my notepad and start compiling a list, trying to ignore my disappointment at Vanessa’s obvious dismissal of me once she’d found someone more interesting to talk to.
It’s okay. That is the level of conversation I have with ninety per cent of the employees here. I’m fine with that. When I work here properly, I’ll have a better relationship with them. I’ll go for drinks with them on a Friday and then I’ll laugh with them over a Monday-morning coffee about what a riot we all had. It’s just because I don’t see much of them at the moment. That’s why I don’t fit in.
‘Morning.’
I look up at the sound of Diane’s slow voice as she slumps into the chair next to me.
‘Fiona said you wanted to speak to me,’ she says, her head drooping into her shoulders as though her neck is made of tissue paper.
My shoulders sag.
My God. She’s like Eeyore with a hangover.
‘Hi, Diane,’ I say, flashing her a grin as I click open a highlighter to colour-coordinate my list. ‘Nice weekend?’
Pink for secondary work, orange for urgent, green for done. Lovely.
‘Not really,’ she says, picking up my fluffy pen and turning it between her fingers. ‘I was ill all weekend.’
I try not to roll my eyes.
Of course she was.
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Well I’m glad you’re feeling better now.’
There is no point asking her what was wrong. I’ve made that mistake before. It’s like opting in to a three-hour special of Holby City.
‘So,’ I say, smiling at her with such force that she might feel obliged to smile back, ‘I think I have everything ready for the auction. We’ve got all the prizes, and I’ve completed the seating plans for the tables.’
‘Where am I sitting?’
I pause.
Why does she want to know that?
‘Oh,’ I say, pulling open my ring binder, ‘I’m not sure. I think you’re at the back.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame.’
My fingers tighten around my pencil.
‘Would you like to be at the front?’ I say.
‘No.’
‘Fine.’
I flick through the folder and hand Diane a sheet.
‘What would be really helpful is if you could type up the table settings for me, please.’
Diane takes the paper from me reluctantly and slouches back through the office. I watch her, my smile staying firmly in place as I catch Vanessa looking at me over her shoulder.
This event is going to be perfect, and I’ll finally prove my place here. I’ll be offered the full-time job in the office and I’ll be able to slot in with everybody else with ease. Maybe I’ll even buy myself a pair of Jimmy Choos.
*
I hold my thumb to the discoloured buzzer, number 18 blinking orange as the low rumble of sound echoes from the speaker.
‘Hi, Dad, it’s me,’ I say, leaning my weight on the door as it clicks open. My hands tighten around the Tesco carrier bags and I start the climb to the fourth floor, my eyes on the brown carpet as I count the stairs. God knows how Dad deals with these stairs every day. I mean, he’s only sixty-two, and he is in good shape. But still, this would be enough to make me move, and he’s lived here for years. There isn’t even a lift!
Dad moved to London a few years after he and Mum separated. He’d lived in Wales for the majority of his life, but he was the one who had an affair, so he had to leave. He said he didn’t want to stay in Wales anyway, and once Rachel stopped talking to him and I moved to London, it seemed like the natural place for him to live.
I puff the air from my cheeks as I start on the next flight, my thighs burning. Have they added extra steps since I last came here? Or have I got more unfit? Christ, maybe buying the Super Bike was more important than I thought.
For years I tried to convince Rachel to forgive Dad. I know he did a terrible thing, but he is our dad, for goodness’ sake, and people make mistakes. But she refused to listen. Although I don’t know why I ever thought she could understand, considering she never makes mistakes. She’s bloody per
fect. It’s her worst trait.
I rap my knuckles on the door, and within seconds it swings open and Dad appears in front of me, his arms wide in a ta-dah! motion and his mouth pulled into a beaming smile, as though he’s just performed a magic trick and climbed out of a top hat. Even though he always answers the door this way, and I’ve seen him every other week for the past two years, I still laugh.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I say, as he pulls me into a hug, shaking me from side to side as though I’m a wet dog being quickly rubbed by a towel.
‘Hello, my girl,’ he says, finally letting me go. ‘Come in, what have you bought me? Any cakes?’
I push my shoes off my feet as Dad clicks the door shut behind me. His flat is light, with pale walls and a shiny wooden floor, and it would be as neat as Rachel’s teenage bedroom if it wasn’t for the pet tornado that he insisted on buying when he moved, even though I warned him that a dog in a London flat would be a terrible idea.
As I open my mouth to reply, Betsy, the feistiest dachshund I’ve ever met, charges round the corner, yelping madly.
‘Oh come on, Betsy,’ Dad laughs, flicking the kettle on as I sink into one of his wooden chairs, ‘you know Katy well enough by now. Oh,’ he turns to face me, his bushy eyebrows raised, ‘when is the big event? I haven’t missed it, have I?’
I feel a spike of nerves as I start unpacking the shopping. ‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s Saturday.’
He nods, tapping his head as if to try and retain the information. ‘Saturday,’ he repeats. ‘I’ll try my best to remember.’
‘I bought us some Battenberg,’ I say, plucking the cake from the depths of a carrier bag and waving it at him. ‘I couldn’t find any bara brith.’
Dad cocks his head, pulling two mugs down from the cupboard. I feel a flicker of embarrassment as I look at them. They’re both mugs I made (badly) as a teenager. I have tried to make him buy a new set, but he refuses. I once bought him a mug for Father’s Day and he told me it was the worst present he’d ever received. He wasn’t joking.
‘Ah well,’ he says, spooning sugar into his mug and dropping three heaped spoonfuls into mine. ‘Your grandma loved cake, didn’t she? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind what sort. You spoken to your sister today?’
My stomach fizzles with guilt as he turns his face away from me. He always tries to laugh and smooth over the fact that Rachel hasn’t spoken to him in almost ten years, but I know what it does to him really. Sometimes I think that if she could see him now, she would forgive him.
‘Er, yeah,’ I say, ‘briefly.’
‘Is she okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, unwrapping the Battenberg. ‘Think so.’
‘Good,’ Dad says, dropping the tea bags into the bin. ‘And your mum?’
I shrug as he puts the mugs down on the table. ‘I’ve left her a voicemail,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if I’ll hear from her today.’
Dad picks up a barking Betsy and settles her on his lap. ‘Ah well, it’s a hard day for her, isn’t it,’ he says. ‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate the message. Any news on the ashes?’
I hold the steaming mug to my lips and try not to scowl. Mum has kept hold of Grandma’s ashes since the funeral and refused to give them to Rachel for us to scatter.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Rachel said she still won’t let them go. I don’t bother asking her.’
Dad catches my expression and smiles, sliding a knife into the thick marzipan of the cake and handing me a piece.
‘Everyone grieves differently, love,’ he says kindly.
He holds his piece of cake in the air and I grin, copying him.
‘To Violet, your lovely grandma,’ he says. ‘May she be eating cake in heaven for all eternity.’
I smile, sadness prickling through me as Grandma’s face creeps into my mind, the dull ache of missing her banging against my heart.
‘To Grandma.’
CHAPTER FOUR
RACHEL
Steam billows against my face and sticks to my glasses as I open the oven door, the sweet smell of vanilla sponge filling the kitchen. I smile as I pull out another perfect cherry cake and place it on the cooling rack. Even though I know the recipe by heart, I check it one last time.
Step 7. Put the kettle on, gather the family and enjoy!!!
Grandma’s neat handwriting flows across the page, each exclamation mark bigger and more exaggerated than the one before. I can hear her excited, upbeat voice calling us, finally breaking the cold silence that was cast after my mum had slammed the door for the final time that day. Every time Mum and Dad argued, Grandma would scoop the two of us up and try and pretend nothing had happened. A lot of the time this ended in us eating cake, until Katy got told off at the dentist so Grandma started making soups instead. They weren’t nearly as exciting.
I catch sight of my reflection in the toaster and try not to flinch at my distorted face.
Katy and I are practically identical. We’re both five foot six with dark hair and dark eyes. My face is round, just like our dad’s, whereas Katy inherited our mum’s pretty heart-shaped face. She also has a tiny point on the tip of her nose where it turns up, like a fairy-tale creature, whereas mine sits plainly on my face. We have fairly ordinary lips, but where Katy’s teeth gleam in perfect formation after years of braces, my teeth crowd together, slightly crooked.
I turn my misshapen mug in my hands as I rest against the counter. Cherry cake is Katy’s favourite, and she’s always said that she’ll never find another version as good as Grandma’s. I’ve followed the recipe precisely.
The thought of Katy cues my stomach to tighten.
I think Grandma thought that once Dad had left and Mum had moved to France, the arguing would stop in our house. But it turned out that Katy and I were ready to step into their angry shoes. We went from being joined at the hip to disagreeing on almost everything – worst of all, our parents. Grandma made us apologise and forgive each other every time, her stern eyes boring into us until we mumbled an embarrassed apology.
But then, right before we were about to move to London, I told Katy that I didn’t want to go with her. That time it didn’t matter that Grandma forced us to apologise and forgive each other; I could tell neither of us meant it. I know Katy has never forgiven me for leaving her, just like I’ve never forgiven Dad for leaving us.
I smile as Bruno pads over to me, flopping down by my feet.
‘It could just be me and you, boy,’ I say, ‘and the little one. Do you think we’ll— AARGH!’
I scream as a face appears at the kitchen window. Bruno scrabbles to his feet and begins to howl, launching himself at the back door. I am about to drop to the floor and pretend to be dead when a hand appears next to the face and begins to wave.
It’s Isaac.
I wrench the door open, ‘You scared me half to death!’ I cry, gripping the door frame as Bruno barrels past me, immediately forgetting that Isaac could have been a mass murderer.
God, that’s the only thing about living in a tiny village: everyone just pops by whenever they feel like it.
‘Sorry,’ Isaac grins. ‘Catch.’ He throws a packet of Smarties at me and I catch them ungracefully.
‘You need to stop buying me these or the baby will be born bright blue,’ I say, cracking open the tube. ‘Are you coming in?’
Isaac nicks a green one and pops it into his mouth. ‘No thanks,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to say that you won’t see much of me for the next week. I’m going to spend a lot of time at the farm to stay out of your way.’
‘To stay out of my way, or to avoid seeing Katy?’ I say, raising my eyebrows at him.
Isaac hasn’t seen Katy since she left for London. I wasn’t the only one she argued with.
‘She’ll be happy to see you,’ I tell him, knowing full well that I have no idea what Katy feels about anything these days. ‘She’ll probably be happier to see you than to see me.’ My thinly veiled attempt at a joke falls flat as my voice quivers.
Isaac shakes his head. �
��You need to have some faith in her,’ he says. ‘This is Katy, she’ll be fine.’
I crunch an orange Smartie viciously.
‘Anyway, it’s about time you put this rift behind you,’ he adds.
A gust of wind shoots past him and I drag him into the kitchen and shut the door.
‘It’s freezing,’ I mutter as he looks at me in surprise. ‘And if you’re so into mending rifts, then why are you planning on hiding from Katy on your farm?’
He tucks his hands into his pockets.
‘I’m not hiding,’ he says gruffly. ‘I have a lot to do, and anyway, it’s best we don’t see each other. We don’t get on.’
He can’t even meet my eye, and before I can argue, he swings the door open and slips back outside.
‘Have fun with Katy,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you in a week.’
CHAPTER FIVE
KATY
My foot taps against the floor, the sharp heel of my pointed shoes clicking against the marble as I watch the waves of expensive-looking people swan through the hotel reception. All chuckling and tittering to each other, focusing intently on pronouncing their ‘t’s and adding an extra ‘r’ into every word to make it very clear that they too are exceptionally posh.
My smile aches. I’ve been standing here in shock for what feels like hours.
I pretend to scribble something on my clipboard as a glamorous couple glide past me.
I can’t believe how many people are here. I mean, I’ve seen the guest list. I know everybody arriving (not that a single person will know me), but I can’t believe so many of them came.
I feel a bubble of excitement rise inside me. Fiona is going to be thrilled. If all these rich people bid at my auction, we’re going to make a fortune!
I catch sight of myself in a mirrored pillar. I’m wearing a gold sequinned dress that fans out into a skirt just below my knees. My skin is sparkling under the glitz of a spray tan, and my freshly blow-dried hair is falling down my back like a waterfall. They say ‘dress for the job you want’, and so tonight, Matthew, I am successful events executive, professional woman and social butterfly. I look fantastic, and so I should, considering this dress cost almost an entire month’s pay packet.
House Swap Page 4