The Accidental Life Swap Read online

  About the Author

  JENNIFER JOYCE is a writer of romantic comedies. She’s been scribbling down bits of stories for as long as she can remember, graduating from a pen to a typewriter and then an electronic typewriter. And she felt like the bee’s knees typing on that. She now writes her books on a laptop (which has a proper delete button and everything). Jennifer lives in Oldham, Greater Manchester, with her husband Chris and their two daughters, Rianne and Isobel, plus their Jack Russell, Luna. When she isn’t writing, Jennifer likes to make things – she’ll use any excuse to get her craft box out! She spends far too much time on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram.

  You can find out more about Jennifer on her blog at jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk, on Twitter at @writer_jenn and on Facebook at facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites

  Also by Jennifer Joyce

  The Single Mums’ Picnic Club

  The Wedding that Changed Everything

  The Little Bed & Breakfast by the Sea

  The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

  The Wedding Date

  The Mince Pie Mix-Up

  The Accidental Life Swap

  JENNIFER JOYCE

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Jennifer Joyce 2019

  Jennifer Joyce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

  Source ISBN: 9780008348687

  E-book Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008348656

  Version: 2019-07-22

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Jennifer Joyce

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  To the Joyces –

  Chris, Rianne and Isobel.

  Chapter 1

  He’s used my toothpaste again. The tube is flat in the middle and twisted. Twisted? What has he been doing with my Colgate? Other than using my stuff without permission – again. I’m not having it. I’m not. As soon as I’ve brushed my teeth, I’m going to march into his bedroom, without knocking, and I’m going to tell my flatmate exactly what I think of him.

  Lee Williams, I’ll bark in the way my boss has perfected, the way that makes me have to cross my legs so I don’t do a little wee of fear at my desk. You are an inconsiderate, lazy, selfish pig. I regret the day I ever moved into this disgusting little flat with you. If I could afford to live anywhere else, I would. In a heartbeat. Half a heartbeat. You make me want to vomit with your rarely washed body, your farting in the kitchen and your bogey-flicking. I especially dislike the way you walk around the flat wearing nothing but a pair of crusty underpants and a look of indifference, not even registering my discomfort, never mind giving a damn about it.

  Perhaps I will knock on the door before I venture into his bedroom, after all. I fear what I may encounter if I catch him unawares.

  I can’t stand you, Lee. Sometimes I even despise you. And I’m a nice person. I don’t usually despise anyone, not even Sonia at work, who has lodged herself so far up Vanessa’s bum, only the tips of her knockoff Manolo Blahnik mules are visible. But I dislike you. Very much so. You are ignorant and sexist and like the sound of your own voice far too much. I am not your wife or your mother or your maid. It is not my ‘duty’ to fill the fridge with nutritious food for you to pilfer so you don’t have to go to the shops yourself. It is not my responsibility to clean the entire flat myself (and it is a pointless task anyway because no matter how much I scrub and vacuum and dust, the place is permanently grimy due to the years of neglect before I foolishly came along, and your continuous slovenliness). It is not my obligation to provide you with bloody toothpaste.

  I’m working up quite a lather as I release all the pent-up frustration of living with an untrained animal for the past three years on my teeth. I’m going to tell him about his reprehensive behaviour and make it clear that it has to stop. I tried once before, about three months into our flat-share, in the form of a polite note pushed under his bedroom door. I later found the note stuck to the fridge door, with a giant penis and hairy balls scrawled across it in black marker. I don’t think my charming flatmate had taken much notice of my requests for him to buy milk every once in a while or to turn his pounding music down after 11 p.m. on worknights before he defaced the note.

  Still, I’m going to put things straight now. Better three years late than never.

  Popping my toothbrush into my washbag (I never leave my toothbrush unattended in communal areas, having learned the hard way when I discovered Lee’s even grubbier friend working on his molars with a toothbrush of mine back in the early days), I throw my shoulders back and lift my chin high before marching into the dimly-lit hallway and heading towards Lee’s bedroom. The door is flung open before I have the chance to reach it, revealing an almost naked Lee and a cloud of musty fug.

  Right, this is it. I’m going to let rip and unleash the tirade I’ve been rehearsing in my head. He won’t know what’s hit him!

  ‘Morning.’ Flashing the briefest of minty-fresh smiles, I scuttle off to my own bedroom with a sense of shame so severe it makes my stomach ache.

  I’m a wimp. A great big wuss. A sissy pants without a backbone.

  Why am I so pathetic? Why can’t I stand up to him and demand a tiny shred of respect? I’ve put up with his disregard and insolence for three years and I don’t think I can take much more of it. Either Lee has to change or I have to move on, and the only way to do that is to finally bag the promotion I deserve at work.
I’ve already started to squirrel tiny amounts of money away into my savings each month for a deposit on a new flat, but if I could earn a bit more cash, I could move out of this hovel and away from my revolting flatmate much sooner. Plus, it would mean I’d finally earned the respect of my boss.

  I’ve been working as the personal assistant to Vanessa Whitely at her events management company since I graduated from university three years ago, but I’m keen to take on a more creative role within the company. I have so many ideas, but I’ve yet to voice them in a way that will grab Vanessa’s attention. I need to make her listen to me. Be firm, more assertive and all the other strong, positive terms I’ve been reading about in the pile of self-help books crammed onto my bookshelf. There’s a big event coming up, an autumn festival taking place on farmland in the Yorkshire Dales, and I’ve been working on ideas for weeks, perfecting and polishing them until they’re shiny enough to present to Vanessa. This is my chance to show my boss what I’m capable of. That I have skills beyond answering the phone, making coffee and juggling her diary.

  I’m going to do it. Today. Before it’s too late. I’m going to take a huge, positive leap forward in my career. I’m going to march into Vanessa’s office with the file I’ve compiled, set it on her desk and exhibit my ideas with passion and expertise. She’ll be so bowled over, she’ll add me to the team with immediate effect and I can start looking into new accommodation as soon as possible. And who knows – maybe I’ll be moving out of this dingy flat within the next month!

  *

  There are a couple of things I need to do before I march into Vanessa’s office. My first task is to sort out my appearance as I’m currently sporting a pair of lemon check pyjamas and the worst case of bedhead I’ve ever witnessed. I need to present myself as immaculately as my festival ideas, so that Vanessa can take one look at me and instantly see me in the role I covet. Vanessa always appears chic and professional, so I need to emulate her look as best as I can with my limited resources. While Vanessa dresses as though she’s about to step on the catwalk at London Fashion Week, I don’t have quite the same budget for clothes and accessories, but I’ll do what I can. Reaching into my wardrobe, I pull out a sleeveless black dress, cut to just below the knee, that is classic and sophisticated and definitely the sort of look Vanessa would go for. I team the dress with a gold belt and pair of lace-up peep-toe ankle boots that are similar to a pair I’ve seen Vanessa wearing (but while hers undoubtedly cost at least a month’s worth of my salary, I bought mine from the supermarket, marked down to less than twenty quid because of a scuff on the heel, which I’ve coloured in with a Sharpie pen).

  My hair takes a bit more effort. It really is an unruly mop and refuses to stay in any of the styles I twist and grip it into. Vanessa favours sleek up-dos, but my hair is not playing along. In the end, because I’m running out of time, I’m forced to gather it into a messy bun and hope with every fibre of my being that it works with the overall look. I have just enough time leftover to swipe on a layer of mascara and smear on my favourite nude lip gloss before I leg it for the bus. I may be attempting to copy Vanessa’s style, but there’s no way I could get away with her bold red lipstick.

  We’re advancing into late September, still technically summer, but it’s already turning chilly and I zip up my coat as I hurry along the street – not quite jogging but as close as I’m going to get in these heels. The boots may be pretty but they’re not very comfortable and my exposed toes are in danger of becoming frostbitten. Little white clouds puff into the air on each ragged exhale as I urge my body to move faster towards the main road. If I miss my bus, there’ll be a twenty-minute wait for the next and bursting into the office late is not the sort of impression I want to make on this of all days. I have my autumn festival file tucked under my arm, but it’ll be of little use if I don’t catch the 8.22 bus.

  I’m almost at the main road when I hear the distant rumble of a double decker bus. Gah! Pushing myself and praying I don’t break an ankle in the stupid boots, I make a dash for it, gasping and rasping for breath as I sprint towards the bus stop. Yes! There’s a sizeable queue waiting to board, giving me a few more valuable seconds to reach the stop. This must be a good sign of things to come, surely, even if it means I’ll probably have to stand for the entire fifteen-minute journey.

  I make it onto the bus, sweating despite the chill, and collapse onto the one remaining seat at the back. I take the available seat as another good sign of things to come, even if it is the seat in the middle, which means I spend the next fifteen minutes in fear of flying down the aisle of the bus every time we turn a corner or brake. I’m not catapulted from my seat (a third Good Sign) and the traffic is pretty smooth going (Good Sign #4), meaning I have plenty of time to get from the Piccadilly Gardens bus stop to the office without breaking another sweat. This is definitely a Good Day. I’m feeling so positive, I practically skip along Lever Street and offer my cheeriest of hellos to the barista as I step into my favourite independent coffee shop. I order three coffees – a gingerbread soya cappuccino, a cinnamon latte with whipped cream and brown sugar, and a salted caramel mocha. Spending my hard-earned cash on fancy coffees is a big indulgence for me, but I feel a Good Day like today deserves it, and so I barely whimper as I slot my debit card into the card reader and jab my pin into the number pad.

  Carrying three hot coffees – even if they are helpfully slotted into a cardboard tray – means I can no longer skip, but my mood is still lifted as I make my way to the office. Vanessa Whitely Events is located on the third floor of a converted red-bricked Victorian terrace and while the outside has kept its historical charm, the inside is airy and modern, with exposed brickwork, shiny white desks and chrome lighting fixtures in every conceivable place. The reception area has huge tub chairs in a rainbow of colours, and I can still taste the fear of waiting to be called for my interview three years ago every time I step inside.

  ‘Morning.’ Emma smiles brightly from behind the reception desk, raising a hand in greeting as I elbow my way through the glass doors. ‘Need a hand?’

  Emma is one of the loveliest people I know. Permanently chirpy and always willing to listen to me moan about Vanessa’s lack of faith in me, or Sonia’s latest catty remarks, or life in general, Emma is often the only thing that keeps me going at work. She isn’t just a work colleague; she’s my best friend and I’d be lost without her. I felt a bit out of place when I stepped into the big, wide world of events management alone, but Emma was like a life jacket from the moment she arrived behind the reception desk two years ago, propping me up with friendship and gin.

  ‘I’m okay.’ I dodge out of the way of the door, allowing it to close behind me as I right the tray of coffees that is slipping from my grasp. ‘Just about.’ I scamper towards the reception desk to relieve myself of the tray and the file that I’ve somehow managed to keep tucked under my arm. ‘Cinnamon latte?’ I de-wedge one of the coffees and hold it out to Emma, whose eyes widen as she grasps the cardboard cup.

  ‘You’re the best! I am so in the mood for a decent coffee.’

  I give a one-shouldered shrug, as though the cost of the coffees hasn’t taken a scary chunk out of my weep-inducingly low bank balance. I really need this promotion. ‘I thought we could do with a treat.’

  ‘Amen to that.’ Emma raises her cup before she takes a sip, closing her eyes to savour the taste. ‘God, yes. I need this today. Vanessa’s already on the warpath and it isn’t even nine o’ clock.’

  ‘She is?’ My stomach churns. This information doesn’t bode well for me. I need Vanessa to be in good spirits – or at least neutral spirits – when I present my ideas to her. If she’s in a bad mood, she’s more likely to toss my file aside to ‘take a look at later’ – which never happens – or dismiss them outright.

  Bugger.

  ‘Any idea what’s set her off?’ If I can smooth things over, I could nudge my chances of promotion back on track. Emma is the font of all knowledge when it comes to Vanessa White
ly Events; she usually knows what’s happening and when and to whom, so if you want up-to-date gossip, she’s your woman. But Emma shakes her head.

  ‘No idea, sorry. She stormed in here earlier, yelling into her mobile, but I couldn’t get the gist of it.’

  ‘Maybe this will help calm her down.’ I pick up the tray of coffees. ‘Wish me luck.’ Slipping my file of ideas under my arm, I head towards Vanessa’s office, chin held high in determination as I rap on the door.

  Chapter 2

  Vanessa is sitting behind her desk, her face pinched as she rests her chin on a clenched fist. Her mobile has been tossed aside, landing on the edge of a stack of paper so that it’s being propped up, face-down, on the desk. Her hair – unusually for Vanessa – is looking a bit bedraggled, as though she’s been clutching at her head in despair, disrupting her sleek up-do. Do I mention it? Earn myself a few extra brownie points for my honesty and for saving Vanessa from looking anything but flawless? Or will that put me in the firing line? Perhaps it’s best to keep quiet, just until I’ve established why Vanessa is so clearly distressed, if there is a way I can help, and if my mentioning the state of her hair will be a help or hindrance to my cause.

  ‘Well? What do you want?’

  I’m still dithering by the door, but Vanessa’s bark spurs me into action. Stepping fully into the room, I march purposefully across the large office, noticing with alarm that a pot of pens has been swiped from the desk and is currently strewn across the polished floor. This is not good.

  ‘Coffee.’ My voice comes out all squeaky, so I clear my throat and try again. ‘I brought you a coffee. Soya cappuccino. Gingerbread.’ I clear my throat once more and step over the scattered pens. ‘A gingerbread soya cappuccino.’

  Vanessa’s shoulders rise as she heaves in a breath through flared nostrils. I suspect she’s either going to burst into tears with gratitude or roar that a gingerbread soya cappuccino is no longer her coffee of choice. I’m not sure which option I’d prefer, but it’s a third option that Vanessa plumps for, releasing her breath with a heavy, disdainful sigh. She snatches a cardboard cup from her desk and wafts it at me.