I drag my suitcase over the gravel, trying not to rip up the stones. It’s so dark down here; is this really how Katy gets to her flat every day? There must be a better way that the taxi driver didn’t know about.
My foot slips in some mud and I let out a yelp.
I take a deep breath and try and steady myself. It’s okay. Soon I’ll be in Katy’s lovely flat with a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.
Or rather a vegan chocolate biscuit, which I’m sure will be just as nice. Certainly nicer than those awful sweet potato brownies I made from the recipe book she sent me. They tasted like compost.
I would do anything for a chocolate biscuit. A big fat cookie.
I feel my eyes well up.
Don’t think about chocolate biscuits and tea, for God’s sake, Rachel, it’ll just make you cry.
I step round the final corner and suddenly a light flicks on above my head and illuminates a . . . garden. I have to scrunch up my eyes in order to see as I realise I am standing right next to a pink plastic bike leaning against a wall. I furrow my brow and look around me to check I haven’t taken a wrong turn, but the path is straight.
I step forward, trying to see another sign to point me out of the garden and perhaps back onto a normal path. My suitcase knocks into another bike, which tinkles in the wind, and I mumble an apology in its direction, as if it can hear me.
This doesn’t make any sense! Why am I in a garden? Does she live in the house after all? Am I going crazy?
As I peer ahead, I see a little lodge hiding behind a tree in the distance. I start walking towards it, and as I get closer, I notice one of Katy’s ceramic mugs on the windowsill. I feel a wave of relief, reassurance that I am in the right place, but that vanishes almost instantly as I reach the lodge. I don’t understand. Katy told me she lived in a flat.
I step under the porch to take shelter from the rain, and spot the fake rock sitting proudly next to the doormat. I feel anger bubble up inside me. How could Katy lie to me? And why? She’s been singing about her rooftop garden and view of the Shard for the last three years! Surely there must be a mistake. Surely she . . .
But my anger loosens its grip on my thoughts as I begin to carefully lower myself to reach the key and spot a fat toad sitting next to the rock. Its throat bubbles and its beady eyes blink up at me, shimmering under the fat raindrops that have coated its body. I pause for a minute, not daring to move in case I scare it away. As I reach forward slowly to pick up the rock, it leaps into a bush, and just like that, it’s gone.
Even though I am soaked to my bones, for a moment I feel as though I’ve stepped out of a warm bath.
Grandma always said she would come back as a toad. She loved them.
Feeling a fresh surge of determination, I pull myself back to standing and unlock the door.
I can work out what I’m going to do tomorrow morning, but for now, all I need is to be inside Katy’s nice clean flat. Or cabin or whatever it is. To sit on her sofa with a cup of tea and watch some TV. After the long journey, I just want to be somewhere safe, warm and . . .
My heart drops as the door swings open. I step inside tentatively, feeling as if I’m climbing inside a Biffa bin as I take in the clothes, plastic bags and assorted rubbish strewn across the floor. A thick smell hangs in the air, like rotten soup, and I wince as my foot crunches on something hiding in the dark. My heavy, sodden shoulders sag and I suddenly feel myself shiver as the wetness of my clothes begins to seep into my skin.
I look around the room hopelessly, and then, before I can even work out why, I start to cry.
Vegan or not, she definitely won’t have any biscuits.
*
I sink back into Katy’s sofa, the only safe place to sit and look around the cabin. It’s like a doll’s house. The front door opens into a small living room, with the fat buttercup-yellow sofa in one corner and a built-in kitchen slotted in the other. There are stacks of magazines and books piled in various parts of the room; half-eaten containers of food are scattered across the wooden floorboards; clothes are draped across every surface, and a thick layer of dust skims the entire flat, as if Katy has sprinkled it there like fresh flour. The walls are oat white, and the only other room is a dinky bathroom that consists of a bath, a very low toilet and a smeared mirror.
I haven’t dared attempt to make myself a cup of tea yet. I haven’t even taken off my shoes, even though my eyelids throb each time I blink. I feel as if I’m in the wrong place. How can my sister live here, at the bottom of someone’s garden? There is no grand view of the city or rooftop garden like she has always bragged about, and her designer wardrobe seems to consist of one rail of clothes standing next to the television. The only part of the flat that looks clean is the kitchen, which looks as if it’s never been used.
Reluctantly I push my shoes off my sodden feet and try not to wince as they squelch to the floor. I rest my hands on my bump and feel myself scowl as my brain compiles a list of every lie Katy has told me:
1) That she is a hardcore vegan. (I literally tripped over a kebab earlier. I mean, yes, I know I also lied about this, but I spent a fortune on Food Glow membership for her! It’s a bloody vegan specialist shop! And I paid extra for membership to Supper Club!)
2) That she didn’t buy that hideously expensive bike that is now taking up half her bloody living room. I mean, what is the point?
3) That the orchid I bought her is thriving (it’s dead).
I push myself forward so that I’m perched on the edge of the sofa, and before I can stop myself, I grab my phone and send her a message, all my frustrations pouring out into an email. Then I drop my phone back in my bag. I need to sleep. It’s almost 2 a.m.
As I go to open my suitcase, it suddenly hits me. There isn’t a bedroom in the cabin. Where does Katy sleep? I glance down in alarm. Surely she doesn’t sleep here; she can’t have spent the past three years squashed onto a tiny sofa. That would be impossible. But then where does she sleep? The floor?
I glance at it in disgust, trying not to recoil from the stray spring roll that’s sitting by my foot.
There is no way she sleeps among all this rubbish. I mean, I know Katy can be a bit scruffy, but that’s too much.
I throw myself back on the sofa and push the heels of my hands into my eyes.
This is ridiculous! I just want to go to sleep! Where the hell does she sleep? Is there a hammock somewhere? Does she secretly camp each night? Does she sleep at the foot of the bed of the people inside that big house, like their faithful cat?
I pull my eyes back open, and as the black spots blurring my vision vanish, I notice a ladder stacked behind me and feel my stomach turn over.
Oh no.
CHAPTER NINE
KATY
I roll onto my back, the white sunlight from the rising sun skimming through the window and spilling onto my face. The soft scent of vanilla fills my nose as I sink further into the crisp thick bedding. As I slowly wake up, I realise I can’t hear a single sound apart from the faint barking of a dog in the distance saying good morning to the sea. A warm sense of calm ripples over me, as for a moment I’m thirteen again in my childhood bedroom. My parents haven’t split up and my mum hasn’t thrown my dad out and then run off with a new husband; my grandma is alive and all five of us live together in our little cottage. It’s a Sunday, which means we’ll have a roast dinner and play cards. Dad will help us with our homework and Grandma will bake a cake, hopefully cherry, my favourite, and then we’ll get lost in the hills. Not that we could ever really get lost; the coast always led us back home.
If I stay really still, I can almost hear Grandma knocking on my bedroom door with a cup of tea. She was the pin that held our family together when it threatened to fall apart. When she died, everything crumbled.
A slice of sunlight causes me to squint as I look around my old bedroom. Rachel has kept it pristine, and has even filled the vase on the windowsill with fresh daffodils, my favourite flowers. I feel like I’ve woken up in my own personal heav
en.
It’s a stark contrast to what she’ll be waking up to, which will be closer to her version of the fiery depths of hell.
I pull my phone towards me and see an email flashing on my screen from Rachel, sent in the middle of the night. I feel a stab of panic.
Oh God, I hope she got there okay and managed to find the cabin. If she gave my address to a taxi driver, he would probably have dropped her off at Fiona’s front door. What if she proudly knocked on the door and woke Fiona and the children? And then Fiona told her that I didn’t live in the house and pointed her in the direction of her back garden.
I feel my fingers grip my phone tightly.
Rachel should never have invited herself to stay at my flat without any warning! I didn’t tell her about my living situation for a reason. I didn’t mean to lie to her, and I was going to tell her the truth one day, when I was finally living in a block of flats like every other twenty-six-year-old, on my own terms. I mean, I could have moved out of the cabin years ago, but Fiona likes having me around and I could never afford to live by myself in Chiswick. I don’t think I could bear living with housemates now. I wouldn’t be able to walk around in my pants.
I open the email.
Katy
I’ve arrived and I’m fine. Nice to see your ‘flat’ and everything in it. I’ll be fine here once I’ve cleaned away the food and other things. Let me know if Bruno is okay. R x
I feel a wave of heat prickle up the back of my neck. Rachel is my sister, and I know her well enough to know when she’s speaking in code. This is what she really means:
Katy/Scumbag
I’ve arrived and I’m fine, no thanks to you. Nice to see your ‘flat’ that you’ve been lying about and every other thing I disapprove of in it, especially that extortionate bike I told you not to buy, you absolute idiot. I’ll be fine here once I’ve cleaned out all the meat and dairy products (yes, I’ve worked out that you’re obviously not a vegan) and other disgusting things. Let me know Bruno is okay, as I don’t care about you. R (no kiss)
I scowl at the screen.
I mean, she didn’t even ask if I was okay! She didn’t apologise for not leaving me a key so I could look after her precious dog. And yes, I know I’ve been lying about being a vegan, and sure, I did buy that bike, but I really think I have the right to the moral high ground here. I mean, hello? She didn’t even warn me that my ex-boyfriend is living next door. If she’d told me that, there is no way I would have come.
I lock my phone and throw it across my bed. I have a mind to tell her that Bruno ran away. Although I don’t really want to upset her. Maybe I’ll tell her that he humped one of her precious pillows and I’m not going to tell her which one. Ha.
And yes, maybe I have changed and told a few white lies about some tiny details, but she’s secretly changed too. I found some very odd things when I arrived last night. For example:
1) She is suddenly obsessed with pillows. I know a lot of people really get into throws and nice cushions when they reach a certain age, but you could barely see Rachel’s bed with the amount of pillows she has piled up. One of them even seemed to be one of those boyfriend pillows that you wrap your legs around and hug, which she obviously must use when Danny goes away. I mean, no judgement from me. But if she’d shared this pillow addiction, then maybe I could have got her a better Christmas present.
2) She is also obsessed with all sorts of lotions and potions. I nearly got concussion when I was searching for toothpaste and a particularly menacing bottle smacked me on the head.
3) She also has an entire clothes horse with sports bras on it. I mean, I guess that isn’t that out of character considering she loves running (she once said to me ‘Why walk when you can run?’), but still.
And finally, the weirdest one . . .
4) I keep finding Smarties everywhere! Rachel is the neatest person I know, and I have so far found rogue Smarties in the fridge, in the letter box and in the shower (?).
I mean, has my sister turned into some kind of hoarder?
I blink around the perfectly minimalistic room. She can’t be; every inch of the cottage is meticulously perfect. Where would she be storing it all?
On the bright side, she has filled the fridge with all my favourite things. There’s chocolate and sausage rolls and litres of fresh orange juice, which washed my hangover away like a dream.
I lean on my elbows so I can see out of the bedroom window. My room always had the best view in the house; you can see right down to the coast. There isn’t a single soul outside yet; they’ll all be having breakfast with their families. A fluffy cloud skims through the sky and I notice someone walking through the village. It’s Isaac.
What’s he doing up and about so early?
Actually, come to think of it, what’s he doing here? Why isn’t he in Cardiff?
I scuttled into the cottage as soon as he handed over the keys yesterday and then immediately drew all the curtains. Hopefully that’ll be the last time I see him this week. The only time I plan on leaving the house is to walk Bruno, and maybe I’ll wear a big hat and dark glasses and hope he doesn’t give me a second glance.
Isaac and I broke up when I moved to London. We were only twenty-three, the crushing age where love feels like a bubble you must stay in to be able to breathe. We’d barely spent a day apart since we were twelve, right back when we’d catch the school bus together every morning, pretending with our foggy winter’s breath that we were smoking cigarettes.
It wasn’t until Rachel told me that she wasn’t coming to London with me that everything fell apart. We had spent weeks looking at flats to rent together and making lists of all the fun things we could do. The sudden burning fear of moving to a big city by myself and not seeing my sister every day scared me senseless. In that moment, I knew I couldn’t go through that with Isaac, I couldn’t stretch out the pain of not seeing him every day, burning through me like he was my energy source I was forever needing topped up. I couldn’t have it hanging over me, my final piece of happiness waiting to be snatched away. So I broke up with him in the same week. I only had to rely on myself then. Mum and Dad had left, Rachel too. I needed to make one decision for myself.
Isaac saw right through me. He kept saying I was giving up and running away, and he was right, I was. London was my fresh start, away from the memories of my broken childhood in this house. We haven’t spoken since.
Rachel tried to make it up to me, calling and sending letters, but it was never the same. The way I saw it, she’d turned her back on me just like she’d turned her back on our dad.
I lie down again, and to my surprise I feel tears prick at my eyes. I blink them away quickly.
I am not going to waste energy crying over something that happened years ago. There is no point.
I stretch my arms above my head, my eyes scrunching shut as I let out a yawn.
There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen when I arrived last night, and Rachel had laid out a fan of glossy magazines like they do in hotels. The duvet on my bed is thick and heavy and there was a selection of towels in a neat pile, as though she had bought them specially. The only thing out of place was Bruno, who practically roared at me as soon as I stepped inside, as if I was a burglar swinging a swag bag.
I rub my eyes with the back of my hands.
I know I won’t feel this relaxed for long. It might be early, but at some point the clock will hit 9 a.m. and I’ll have to log on to my emails. Fiona will have had time to process the charity ball, and I’m sure we will have had enough complaints to warrant a lengthy prison sentence.
Until then, though, there is nothing I can do, so there is little point worrying. If anything, I should savour this small pocket of time where I’m yet to find out my fate.
I climb out of bed and pad downstairs, holding Rachel’s spa dressing gown around me. I will make a lovely breakfast coffee using her fancy machine, and maybe I’ll drink it in the bath. I bet she’ll have the fanciest of—
I freeze o
n the spot as I hear a knock on the door. Immediately Bruno skids out of the kitchen and starts barking, throwing his body at the living room window. I shoot him a look as my hand clutches my chest.
For God’s sake, does he have to be so loud all the time?
The door rattles again under a knock, and I frown.
Who is that? It’s the crack of dawn! Why is somebody knocking on Rachel’s front door so early?
I creep into the living room and spot Isaac grinning at Bruno through the window. Instinctively I slam my body against the wall.
Isaac. What on earth is he doing here? I can’t see him now! God, this is a nightmare! I haven’t clapped eyes on the sodding man in years and now I’ve seen him twice in the space of twenty-four hours, first when I’ve had my face pressed into a pile of mud and now when I’m in fleece sheep pyjamas. What’s he going to do next? Pop up at the window while I’m on the toilet?
He knocks again and I scowl.
How dare he? Who does he think he is? Like I haven’t got anything better to do than come to the door and speak to him.
Without moving my body, I peer through the net curtains. I could never understand why more people didn’t fancy Isaac at school. He’s got these incredible defined cheekbones, which sit high on his face just below his bright green eyes. His hair is still as floppy and unruly as it has always been, and I smile as I glance down at his ridiculous sheep jumper.
Actually, that’s why nobody fancied him at school apart from me. He always dresses like an extra from The Vicar of Dibley. Brown corduroys or weird waterproof trousers and some version of a thick, bobbly jumper that was knitted by a relative a thousand years ago.
For a split second I think he’s spotted me, but then he gives Bruno a final wave before disappearing.
Oh thank God, he’s leaving.
I peel myself from the wall, my heart rate slowing back to its normal pace. I wait until Bruno has finally calmed down, then creep towards the door. As I peer through the glass, I notice a small box sitting on the doorstep.
Has he left me something?
House Swap Page 8