House Swap

by Olivia Beirne

  I scan the path to make sure Isaac is out of sight, then quickly open the door. Bruno practically grins by my feet as I grab the box and slip back inside.

  ‘That was your fault,’ I say to Bruno, skirting past him. ‘You can’t be that excited to see him all the time, all right? You’re supposed to be on my side.’

  I walk back into the living room and open the box. Six fat eggs nestled in a bed of hay smile up at me. There is a note on the top.

  Fresh from the farm, enjoy.

  Even if I hadn’t seen Isaac drop off the package, I’d have recognised his handwriting. He used to pass me notes all the time in school.

  I turn the note in my hands and sink into the sofa, my brain humming.

  It’s no big deal. He probably does this for all the neighbours. It might even be a subscription that Rachel has set up, a delivery of fresh eggs every morning. That sounds like something she’d be into.

  Although she is a vegan, so she wouldn’t eat eggs. Maybe he usually drops off a daily cluster of carrots.

  Urgh. She is going to be so mad that I’ve been lying about being a vegan. I shouldn’t have sent her all those pictures of vegan cakes I found on Google Images and tried to pass them off as my own; that was definitely a step too far. As was suggesting I was a key player in organising a vegan rally outside the House of Commons.

  But she seemed to find being a vegan so easy, and what was I supposed to say when she asked me if I was finding it hard? I couldn’t tell her I gave up after a day after we’d both bought that really expensive cookbook. I spotted her copy the moment I stepped into the kitchen; it still looks absolutely pristine.

  I glance up at Bruno, who is sitting on the opposite side of the room staring at me. I offer him a limp smile, but he doesn’t move.

  I pull my laptop towards me and shake the mouse pad, making the screen swirl into life. There’s no harm logging on a bit early. I doubt anybody will have sent me any emails yesterday, and maybe it will put me in Fiona’s good books when she arrives at work fresh from the school run to see that even when I’m hundreds of miles away, her coffee is still waiting for her on her desk (Starbucks deliver, you know).

  As I wait for my emails to load, Bruno pads past me, head high in the air, and disappears into the kitchen.

  I look back at my laptop, and an email from Fiona pops up. I feel heat fizz through me as I notice she sent it two hours ago. Why was she emailing me at six in the morning?

  Katy,

  Need to speak to you today about this week. Also, don’t mean to alarm you but we think there is someone asleep in the cabin. Do you know anything about this? My phone is broken, so please email me.

  As I stare at the screen, the calm mist of relaxation I’ve been enjoying all morning vanishes.

  Oh shit.

  CHAPTER TEN

  RACHEL

  I stare up at the wooden ceiling. Small planks of wood have been carefully slotted together to make the arch of the roof and a glistening nail is winking at me in the sunlight. I feel like I’m sleeping in a Wendy house.

  I move my head and look at the photos Katy has stuck to the wall, right next to her pillow. I smile at the one of the two of us with Grandma. It’s the best photo I’ve ever taken, and I somehow managed to be in it as well.

  The baby grabs hold of my bladder and I wince, trying to fight my desperation to go to the toilet. It took me the best part of half an hour to climb up the stupid bloody ladder that leads to Katy’s bed – if you can call it that; it’s more like a nest. I’m not going down until I’m absolutely ready, and that won’t be until I’ve worked out what I’m going to do next. Right now, I’m sleeping, or at least I’m pretending to be sleeping. Once I’ve got up, I’ll have to be doing something else.

  Sitting? Reading? Fighting off the niggling reminder that I’ve run away from my problems, again, and that sometime soon I’ll have to confess all my failures to my sister? Or googling nice villages on the other side of the world that I could flee to without a trace, like somewhere quaint in the Netherlands?

  I’m not sure if I slept at all last night. It didn’t feel like I did. It’s all well and good running away to London in the dead of night – it almost feels a bit glamorous and exciting, like something you see in films. But they never show the cold realisation once you arrive that you’re just miles away from everything you know and still very much alone.

  I move my gaze away from the walnut-brown ceiling and peer over the side of the bed. I practically tiptoed around Katy’s clutter when I arrived, and now the bright sun is skimming the mess like it’s going to sweep it all away. She doesn’t have any food in her cupboards (I checked) and I would bet every penny I own that she doesn’t possess a hoover. Or if she does, it will be a stupid Henry one.

  My eyes land on the Super Bike and I instantly scowl.

  I still cannot believe she bought that bloody thing.

  My bladder tingles dangerously and I take a deep breath. I don’t know if I can face the ladder yet. I don’t have the strength.

  I pick up my phone. I feel a small wave of guilt as the screen blinks up at me, free of any notifications. Katy hasn’t responded to the email I sent last night. Not that I blame her; it was a bit of an attack.

  I take a deep breath as my mind replays the moment I decided to run away to London. At the last second, paranoia sank in and I scanned my house as though I were Katy, trying to spot any clues that I was pregnant. I’d been hiding all my pregnancy bits in the loft for weeks; the only thing I hadn’t put up there was a tiny babygro that I keep under my pillow, and I took that with me.

  My bladder spasms for the third time and I feel my body jolt in shock, as if the baby has jabbed the side of my uterus with an elbow.

  Right, I need to get up before I wet the bed. Regardless of how highly impractical this weird bunk bed is for a pregnant woman, it is the only place I have to sleep for the next week. I simply cannot wee in it.

  With great effort, I push the duvet off my body and grab hold of the ladder. It swings about dangerously and my stomach lurches.

  Christ, and I thought getting in and out of a car was difficult.

  I steady the ladder and hook a foot into it.

  Come on, Rachel. It’s just a ladder. You’ve climbed plenty of ladders before. You climbed this exact ladder last night without falling off or snapping it clean in half under your enormous weight. You haven’t put on an extra stone overnight; it will still be able to hold you.

  I start moving my feet, trying to count the rungs to control my fear.

  That’s it, just keep going, right, left, right, left.

  I look over my shoulder to try and gauge how close I am to the ground, and then nearly fall off entirely as I spot two children with their noses pressed against the window, as if I’m a wallowing hippo at Whipsnade Zoo.

  I cling onto the ladder, suddenly frozen to the spot.

  Why are there children at the window? Are they here to see me? Am I actually in a Wendy house after all and they’re here to kick me out?

  Oh my God, if I’ve broken into a child’s Wendy house by mistake, I will die.

  I wobble down the last few steps and then turn back to the window. The children have gone.

  I scrunch up my eyes, bemused, as my heart hammers in my chest.

  Were they really there, or was I just hallucinating? Is that a normal thing that happens to pregnant women? Do they start picturing children wherever they go?

  I step closer to the window. In the morning sun, I can finally see the house I arrived at last night. It towers over the manicured lawn, dwarfing the little cabin more than ever. I pull the curtains shut.

  I really am in somebody’s back garden.

  The baby gives a final squeeze to my bladder and I lurch towards the bathroom.

  Why does Katy live in someone’s garden? Is this normal in London? Maybe everybody lives in someone’s garden. Maybe it’s a space thing. People are always moaning about how crowded the city is. Perhaps Katy is just rea
lly forward-thinking,

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pull myself back to standing. My hair is taut, jabbing out from my bun like angry blades of grass. My face is as blotchy as ever, with an ugly ruddy quality, and my eyes are slightly bloodshot. Whoever said that pregnant women are beautiful was lying. The only part of my face that doesn’t look like it belongs in a horror maze is my lips, which seem to have bloomed fuller in the last month. Although that might just be because everything has got fatter. My arse has ‘bloomed fuller’ too.

  I creep out of the bathroom, the image of those children playing on my mind. What did they want? They must live in that big house. Do they usually spy on Katy? Isn’t that against some sort of law?

  I grab a blanket from the sofa and wrap it around myself, covering my swollen stomach as much as possible, like I always do. I take another look around the cabin and try to stop my nose from flying in the air like Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey.

  How long am I going to stay here for? What is my actual—

  ‘Hello?’

  I jump as I see a shadow at the window, attempting to peer in through the drawn curtains. I grip onto the blanket, my eyes wide.

  Who is that? That wasn’t the voice of a child. That sounded like a very posh woman.

  Oh my God, what am I going to do?

  ‘Hello?’ she calls again. ‘It’s Fiona, the . . . er . . . landlady. I need to speak to you.’

  I feel a flutter of panic.

  Shit. I didn’t even think about the fact that Katy might get into trouble for me staying here. It’s only for a week, isn’t that allowed?

  I step towards the door, making sure the blanket covers my entire body, and tentatively open the door.

  Oh God, I haven’t even brushed my teeth!

  The woman – Fiona – who has practically bent over to peer through the keyhole, snaps her body up to her full height. She has porcelain skin and glossy caramel-coloured hair that is swept over her forehead in a loose fringe. She is wearing high-waist jeans and a yellow floral blouse. I notice behind her the children I spotted earlier.

  ‘Hello,’ I manage, trying to sound calm and as if this is all perfectly normal, and not as though I look like I’ve crawled out of the drainpipe.

  She can’t throw me out. I only want to be here for a few days. Surely no mother would throw out a pregnant woman. If she tries, I’ll write to Loose Women. I’m sure they’ll have something to say about it.

  Fiona stares at me, failing to control the spiral of questions whizzing across her face.

  ‘I’m Rachel,’ I say quickly, ‘Katy’s twin sister. She said I could stay here for the week while she’s away.’

  I feel my cheeks tingle as the lie flies out of my mouth. Well, how is she to know that I didn’t ask Katy’s permission?

  She opens and closes her mouth.

  ‘You’re Katy’s sister?’ she repeats. ‘Gosh, you look just like her.’ She finally smiles. ‘I live in the main house. I’m sorry if my children frightened you. They’re missing Katy already. I think they thought she might be back.’

  She laughs and I try not to frown.

  They miss Katy? How well does she know them?

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say, smiling in the direction of the young girl, who gawps back at me. ‘I’ll keep myself to myself.’

  Fiona pulls out her phone and scowls as her eyes skim over a message. I wish she’d leave so I can get dressed. I’m standing here without a bra on, for goodness’ sake, and pregnancy nipples are not something to be taken lightly.

  ‘Not to worry,’ she says. ‘The cabin is quite cute, isn’t it? Although living so close to your boss could be seen as hell for a lot of people!’ She laughs again, throwing back her head as though she’s dropped an absolute corker.

  ‘Oh?’ I say, looking around. ‘Where does her boss live?’

  Fiona looks at me as if I have two heads.

  ‘There,’ she says, gesturing behind her, ‘that’s my house.’ She peels the girl from her leg. ‘If you need anything, just let me know.’

  She turns and herds the children back up the garden, holding an arm out behind her in a wave, and I stand in the doorway, trying to ignore the niggle of another one of Katy’s lies being unveiled.

  Why did she never tell me any of this?

  *

  I drop my splitting shopping bags onto the floor and jab the key into the lock as Katy’s answerphone clicks into action. I know she’ll still be mad about the email I sent, but I thought she’d at least answer for the chance to be self-righteous.

  ‘Hi, Katy,’ I say, ‘it’s me. I hope you’re okay. I met Fiona earlier today, she seems nice. Why don’t you give me a call when you get a second? I’m sure we have some stuff to talk about.’

  I say the last bit without thinking and feel an instant fizz of anxiety burn through me. Katy wouldn’t have worked out any of my lies since being in the house because I’ve been pretending all my secrets aren’t real myself. Isaac wouldn’t have told her. I doubt they’ve even seen each other; they’ve both been stubbornly pretending to hate each other ever since they broke up, and I’m sure neither of them will admit otherwise when nobody is around to force them.

  ‘Anyway,’ I add quickly, nudging the door open with my knee, ‘call me when you get a second. Say hi to Bruno. Love you.’

  I start unpacking the shopping, pulling out bottles of bleach, rubber gloves, antibacterial wipes and a lovely new diffuser as a peace offering. Everybody loves the smell of a nice room.

  I’m just pulling the plastic off the gloves when I hear a small knock on the door. I feel my spine stiffen.

  Oh God, what now?

  I force a smile ready for Fiona, but when I open the door, I see the young girl standing there holding a can of tomatoes.

  ‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is this yours?’ she says, turning the tin between her hands.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Thank you.’

  I reach to take it back, but she doesn’t give it to me.

  ‘Mummy says you’re Katy’s sister,’ she says.

  I look down at her. She has long hair that is spun into two French plaits, and is wearing floral jeans and an electric-pink T-shirt. Although her eyes are bright and angelic, she is looking at me as though she is about to flush my tomatoes down the toilet.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I am.’

  ‘You don’t sound like her.’

  I pause. That would be because Katy likes to pretend she isn’t from Wales. She once accused me of hamming up my accent around her to make her feel bad. I’ve seen her Instagram stories where she’s grabbing a coffee and walking along the South Bank at a brisk stroll, as though she’s a born and bred Londoner.

  ‘You look like her,’ the girl adds. ‘Well,’ her wide eyes fall to my stomach, ‘not exactly like her.’

  I raise my eyebrows. At least that’s one thing Katy isn’t keeping from me. I’m the only secretly pregnant sister.

  ‘I don’t look anything like William,’ the girl continues. ‘He’s only seven and I’m nine, so I’m older.’

  I lean against the door frame. How long is this going to go on for? Can’t she just give me back my tomatoes and go?

  ‘Jasmine!’

  I look up at the sound of Fiona’s voice as she charges down the garden. She is now wearing a fitted suit dress with large, clumpy trainers, and carrying her heels in her hand. The boy, William, is skipping behind her, eating a large ice cream that teeters dangerously close to the back of her dress. Jasmine looks at her and quickly launches into a spiral of chatter.

  ‘Mummy, I was just giving back her tomatoes, she dropped them. I was being helpful!’

  ‘Well give them to her then!’ Fiona says, rolling her eyes at me as if this is a private joke we’re both in on.

  I take the tomatoes off Jasmine and mutter a thank you.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Fiona says. ‘You’ve been the talk of the house all day. They were desperate to meet you properly.’

/>   I feel myself blush.

  ‘But I told them to leave you alone,’ she adds, shooting Jasmine a raised eyebrow.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say awkwardly. ‘You look nice,’ I offer as an attempt to steer away from the topic of me somehow being a main attraction.

  ‘Oh.’ Fiona looks down at herself, her propped sunglasses falling onto her face. ‘Thank you,’ she says, pushing them towards her nose. ‘I’ve got a huge meeting. Katy is usually such an enormous help with everything, and my husband is on a work call, so I’m just trying to decide how to go with these two. I think we’re all going to come to the office, aren’t we?’

  She smiles encouragingly down at Jasmine, who throws her head back in dismay. William, who was smiling happily, spots his sister’s reaction and immediately copies.

  ‘No!’ Jasmine wails. ‘I don’t want to go to the office. It’s so boring!’

  I feel a jolt of alarm as William stamps his feet and I suddenly feel like they’re about to riot.

  ‘I want to stay here!’ Jasmine pouts, crossing her arms across her chest. ‘Why can’t we stay here and play?’

  William stomps to stand next to his sister and glares at his mum. Fiona, who has taken her sunglasses off, stares back at them. Standing close to her, I realise that her eyes are shadowed by dark circles and her collarbones jut out as she hunches forward.

  ‘Because Daddy can’t look after you,’ she says, the bright quality in her voice fading away. ‘I’ve told you that before.’

  I see Jasmine’s narrowed eyes shift, and for a moment I think she’s going to give in. This only lasts a second; then, to my alarm, she snaps her head around to me.

  ‘Why can’t we play with Regina?’

  I blink as Jasmine thrusts her skinny arm at me.

  Who?

  ‘Darling, her name is Rachel,’ Fiona says, her smile returning as she shoots me an apologetic look.

  ‘Rachel,’ Jasmine says quickly. ‘Why can’t we play with Rachel?’

  William turns away from Fiona, his big brown eyes blinking up at me. His mouth splits into a smile and I notice that he has two large top teeth, surrounded by a sea of tiny baby ones. He nods excitedly and I feel my face turn pink.