The Accidental Life Swap Read online

  ‘Hey.’ Placing my hand on Oliver’s chest, which feels firm and delicious even in my drunken state, I push myself away from him. ‘I don’t need propping up, mister.’ Which is when I walk straight into a low stool and almost catapult over it.

  ‘Really?’ Oliver’s smirking as he grabs me around the waist and guides me towards the door.

  I scrunch up my nose. ‘I think I’ve had too much to drink.’

  A laugh splutters from Oliver as he opens the door, but it isn’t the derisive sound I’m used to hearing from him. ‘I think that’s an understatement. I never thought I’d see Vanessa Whitely dancing to The Cheeky Girls. By the way, don’t tell Stacey you asked Dominic Blackwood to touch your bum. She’ll scratch your eyes right out.’

  The door swings shut behind us and Oliver places his arm around me so he can take some of my weight. It’s quite nice to lean on somebody, and not just because I’m hammered. It takes an age for us to totter towards the footbridge, and when we do get there I insist that I’m perfectly able to walk unaided. I proceed to ricochet from the rail on one side of the bridge to the other like a pinball machine, which is hilarious for me, but not so much for Oliver, who has tasked himself with keeping me from hitting the deck.

  ‘I’ve seen a different side to you tonight.’ Oliver takes hold of me again and guides me towards Arthur’s Pass. ‘I thought you were super stuck-up. Conceited. And definitely a ball breaker. But tonight you seem different.’

  ‘You thought I was a Grade-A bitch.’ I tap Oliver’s chest with my index finger, punctuating each word.

  He groans and screws up his face. ‘You heard that?’

  ‘Yup.’ I give my head a good old bob up and down, which makes me feel a bit queasy so I’m forced to stop. ‘I heard it. But that isn’t me, you know. I’m not the bitchy, manipulative woman you think I am. I’m not this either.’ I hold my arms out wide and stumble as we reach the loose gravel of the drive. ‘I’m actually timid and … boring.’

  Oliver snorts. ‘You really are drunk.’

  I shake my head. Too much. There’s that queasiness again. ‘It’s true. I don’t get drunk. I don’t sing and dance in the pub. That was fun, wasn’t it?’ Wriggling free from Oliver’s grasp, I launch into another verse, warbling about the lion sleeping at the top of my voice as I throw my body around in a one-person conga as Oliver tries to shush me. Dodging his arm as he tries to hook me around the waist, I stumble, this time falling down onto the ground. It hurts. A lot. And when I look down at my knee, it’s oozing blood and I’m in real danger of throwing up.

  *

  ‘Brace yourself. This might sting a bit.’ We’re sitting at the breakfast bar in the guesthouse, a well-stocked first aid kit open in front of us. After my fall, Oliver scooped me up off the gravel and is now tending to the gash on my knee.

  ‘S’okay.’ I shrug as Oliver tears open an antiseptic wipe. ‘It already hurts like – aaarrgghh. Jeez, that stings like a mother—’

  ‘Told you.’ I hiss as Oliver presses the wipe to my knee again. ‘Sorry, but it has to be done. You don’t want that gravel getting in and infecting your knee.’

  I bite my lip in preparation for the sting, but it isn’t nearly as bad the third time. ‘There we are. All done and it doesn’t look so bad now. No stitches required anyway.’ Oliver releases my leg so he can rifle through the first aid kit. ‘You definitely need a Mickey Mouse plaster though.’ He holds the strip up before tearing one off and placing it ever so gently on the wound. Still, I wince as it makes contact.

  ‘How did you know about the first aid kit?’

  Oliver holds out his left hand. There’s a pale pink line above the knuckle on his index finger. ‘I had a fight with a Stanley knife. Nic patched me up. Luckily it didn’t go too deep.’

  ‘Did Nic stay here then? In the guesthouse?’

  ‘No, but we all used the kitchen and the, er … facilities over here.’

  I flinch as Oliver applies another plaster as the cut is quite long. ‘What have you been doing for the past few days?’

  ‘Sneaking over to the Farmer’s. Julia doesn’t mind and we didn’t want to bother you.’ Oliver grimaces. ‘I’m pretty sure Harvey has been making use of the big bushes at the back.’

  ‘Lovely.’ I pull a face. ‘You should just use the loo here from now on.’ I’ll just have to be extra careful not to leave my bras lying around the bedroom as the builders will have to pass through to the en suite bathroom.

  ‘Thanks.’ Oliver balls up the antiseptic wipe and gathers up the packaging. ‘There. Your knee’s all done. How are your hands?’ He takes my hands in his and turns them over to inspect the palms but although I broke my fall with my hands, they seem to have survived unscathed.

  ‘You should be a nurse, not a builder.’

  Oliver laughs, his whole face lighting up, and my tummy goes all topsy-turvy. My hands are still in his as neither of us have moved away, and I can’t stop looking at those lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. It’s madness. Utter madness. Oliver hates me – or the person he thinks I am – and his words from a couple of days are still reverberating around my brain. ‘Of course I didn’t hit on her. Why would I?’ So why then am I leaning in towards him, my eyes closing as I bring my lips closer to his?

  ‘Vanessa.’ Oliver’s tone is firm without being harsh as he finally extricates his hands and places them on my shoulders, gently pushing me away so I’m left pouting into the air. ‘You’re drunk.’

  I am, very much so, but all the alcohol in the world couldn’t numb the abject humiliation as Oliver jumps away from me, already backing away towards the door before I’ve had the chance to un-pout. He can’t get away from me fast enough and I stare in horror as he sprints across the room. I think he says something – goodnight, perhaps? – before the door swings shut behind him but I can’t be sure as the realisation of what has just happened rains down on me.

  I tried to kiss Oliver. And he rejected me. How can I ever face him again?

  Chapter 20

  The radio, as ever, is blaring in the main house, which my pounding head doesn’t appreciate one bit, but my hangover – and it’s a biggie – pales into insignificance when Vincent delivers some very good news. I’ve been walking around like a zombie ever since Kate woke me up by calling just before nine this morning (which was a blessing as the builders were due to start work in a few minutes), feeling as though I could throw up or die every time I moved.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it?’ I pad carefully around the kitchen, mindful of the brand new tiles, my churning stomach and my sore knee. By some miracle, the flooring is complete and it’s only mid-afternoon.

  ‘And isn’t it amazing how patronising such a tiny woman can be?’ Vincent quirks an eyebrow at me, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be patronising.’ I turn slowly to take it all in. My knee is throbbing beneath the Mickey Mouse plasters, but I’ve sort of got used to it throughout the day and it’s now a background niggle. ‘It looks great, though. It all looks amazing.’ While most people would be happy with carpet, laminate flooring and lino, the majority of the rooms in Vanessa’s giant house are now laid with either flagstones, ceramic tiles or solid wood flooring. ‘And now we’re ready for the plumber tomorrow!’ I clap my hands together. I can’t quite believe we’ve managed to pull it off. ‘And we can really crack on with the rest of the refurb. I’ve got a new schedule I want us to go through first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’ Vincent bends to pick up his toolbox before he lifts a hand in farewell. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ He yells for Harvey and Todd to ‘get their arses in gear’ if they want dropping off at home as he trudges towards the front door, grabbing the now blissfully silent radio on the way. There’s a flurry of movement in the hallway as the builders race to catch their lift, leaving just Oliver and I in the house. I can hear him on the stairs and I wonder i
f I can hobble out of the front door and across the drive before he makes it down to the hallway. I’ve managed to avoid him all day, sending Todd up with his cups of tea and generally moving about the house like a hungover ninja. If I can just evade him one more time …

  No such luck. He’s on the bottom step before I even make it halfway across the hallway.

  ‘How’s your knee?’

  I look down at my knee, as though it will whisper the words I need while I’m so flustered by Oliver’s presence. I can still feel the light pressure of his hands on my shoulders as he pushed me away and my face is burning with the humiliation of being rejected. I wish I could wave a magic wand and wipe the memory clear.

  That’s it! I am a genius!

  ‘You know about my busted knee?’ Tilting my head to one side, I frown at Oliver. Memory loss will save my pride, even if I have to fake it.

  ‘I was there when you fell over. I cleaned it up and patched you up.’

  ‘Oh, that was you.’ I laugh in wonder, which is maybe laying it on a bit thick. ‘I can’t remember a thing after that second shot of tequila.’ I give a ‘what are you gonna do’ shrug and make a rather slow beeline for the door. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d head over to the sanctuary since I was too hungover to help out this morning, so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m heading that way myself so I’ll walk with you.’

  Of course he’s heading that way too, because he lives there, you numpty.

  Oliver strides ahead, opening the door for me. I smile in thanks while inside I’m shrivelling in shame. I may be refusing to acknowledge the attempted kiss but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

  ‘We got some new guests in last night.’ Oliver waits at the bottom of the steps while I hobble down them as best as I can with a knee covered in plasters. ‘Three kittens. They’re adorable.’

  ‘Aww, how cute. I love kittens. They’re so tiny and fluffy, aren’t they? I’d love a cat but my flat is so small and I wouldn’t trust my flatmate not to torture the poor thing while I was out.’ I’m babbling to mask my discomfort as we head across the drive, not realising I’m putting my foot in it until Oliver manages to get a word in.

  ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of person that would have a flatmate. Successful businesswoman and all that. Fiercely independent. I thought you’d want your own space.’

  I do, desperately, but only because I share a flat with a buffoon.

  ‘She’s not a flatmate as such. More a temporary houseguest. She’s my best friend and she needed a place to stay for a few weeks, until she gets herself sorted.’

  Oliver frowns. ‘You suspect your best friend would torture your pet if you had one?’

  Damn it! Why do my lies keep coming back to bite me on the arse?

  ‘She’s, um, going through a tough time. A bad break up. It’s made her a bit …’

  ‘Unhinged?’

  ‘Prone to acting irrationally. Out of character.’ This imaginary best friend is starting to sound familiar. Almost as though I’m describing myself since I arrived in Little Heaton (cat torture and bad break up aside). ‘She’s muddling through as best as she can though, and if she does act a little … oddly … it isn’t done with malicious intent. She’s just doing what she can to get through this difficult time.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Oliver gives me a sideways look, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Still wouldn’t trust her with a cat though.’

  I nudge him with my elbow and for the briefest of moments, as we both try and fail to contain a giggle, I forget all about last night.

  *

  The kittens are, as I suspected they would be, utterly delightful. There are three of them, each small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, and my heart melts at the mere sight of them as they snuggle together on a fleecy blanket. It’s the first time I’ve been upstairs at Stacey’s house, which has been transformed into a flat as the animal sanctuary has taken over the ground floor.

  ‘You’re just in time to help me feed them.’ My hangover has abated to the extent that I at least feel vaguely human again, but Stacey looks exhausted. ‘I’ve made up the formula and it should be cool enough by now.’

  ‘They have to have formula?’ And I get to help feed them. My heart is a puddle in my chest.

  ‘Yep. They’re only a few days old and should be with Mum.’ Stacey kneels down at the coffee table and starts to fill a small syringe with formula. ‘Unfortunately, we don’t know where she is. These poor little mites were left outside a vet’s in Altrincham so we’re looking after them until they can be rehomed.’

  ‘Who would abandon them like that?’

  Stacey shrugs as she pushes a tiny drop of the formula onto her wrist. ‘Desperate people, I guess. And at least they left them in a relatively safe place instead of …’ She shakes her head and beckons for me to join her at the table before handing me the syringe. ‘This is perfect. Let me just grab Tommy and I’ll show you what to do.’

  Tommy is a tiny bundle of marmalade fur with fine white stripes along his paws and tail. He’s so small, with his eyes still closed, and I fall instantly In Love. Stacey places him on his belly on a fluffy towel in front of me, carefully lifting the kitten’s head and instructing me to place the teat at the end of the syringe into his mouth.

  ‘You want to apply a little bit of pressure on the plunger. We don’t want to fill him up too quickly.’ Stacey nods as I press down gently. ‘Try to match his rhythm. That’s it. You’re doing brilliantly.’ Tommy has started to suckle and I feel such an overwhelming surge of pride as he takes in his feed. No wonder Stacey loves taking care of all these animals if this is the sense of satisfaction you get.

  ‘I think he’s had enough now.’ Tommy has started to turn his face away from the syringe, so Stacey takes it away, making a note of how much formula he’s taken on a chart. ‘Look at your messy chops, mister.’

  I didn’t think Tommy could look any more adorable, but I was wrong. The fur around his mouth is matted with milk and I could burst with the cuteness of it right now.

  ‘There we go.’ Having cleaned Tommy with a baby wipe, Stacey returns him to the fleecy blanket and picks up the next kitten. ‘This is Timmy. He’s a little wriggler, so I’m going to wrap him up like a burrito, otherwise we’ll never get any food into him.’

  Timmy is indeed a wriggler, but together we manage to feed him a full syringe of food, even if it takes a little longer than his brother. When we get to the third kitten, however, I discover that Timmy’s feeding was speedy in comparison. Stacey takes over, expertly holding the kitten’s tiny head while feeding her one drop at a time as she refuses to latch onto the teat.

  ‘I have to do this every two hours,’ Stacey says once all three kittens have full tummies. ‘Which is why I’m walking around like a zombie.’

  ‘I can help out more.’ Oliver peers at the little bundle of fur, reaching out to gently stroke Timmy. ‘I’ll take care of the night feeds.’

  Stacey shakes her head, even as she’s yawning. ‘Thanks, but you’ve got a full-time job to be getting on with for this tyrant.’ Stacey grins at me, to show she’s joking. At least I hope she is. ‘Anyway, I’m starving, so let’s eat before I have to start this all over again.’ She turns to the kittens, but she’s smiling and clearly adores them, and rightly so. ‘You’ll stay and eat with us, won’t you, Vanessa? Mrs McColl has left a vegetable hotpot warming in the oven and it smells divine.’

  I’m about to decline Stacey’s kind offer. It doesn’t feel right accepting such hospitality from these people when I’ve been lying to them since my arrival, plus there’s the added bonus of Oliver’s rejection of my drunken pass last night to contend with. But then I recall the aroma as I stepped into the house earlier, the smell of the dish in the oven creating an irresistible sense of nostalgia, taking me back to childhood dinners, of sitting around the kitchen table, warm and cosy and happy, before Mum left and Kate went off to uni and it was just Dad and I and the coldness remaining.
I should say no, but I’m desperate to cling onto those memories, for just a little while.

  ‘I’d love to. Thank you.’

  We eat downstairs in the sanctuary’s café, which has closed for the day. Mrs McColl’s hotpot is as delicious as the memories it invokes, especially when dunked with chunks of leftover homemade bread. I thought things between Oliver and I might be awkward, but it seems he’s as willing to forget the whole thing ever happened as I am, so I start to relax, enjoying my new friends’ company. We chat and laugh over the meal before Oliver suggests a game of Monopoly. I think it’s a splendid idea, though it’s met with a groan from Stacey.

  ‘Oh, come on. We never get to play it anymore.’ Oliver starts to gather up the dishes, making room for the board game.

  ‘That’s because you’re terribly competitive to the point I would happily strangle you.’ Stacey grabs a stack of dishes and carries them into the kitchen, with Oliver and I following with the plates and glasses. She’s started to stack the dishwasher, but she turns to me with a wry look on her face. ‘Do you know, he once had a major tantrum over a lost game of Kerplunk?’

  Oliver rolls his eyes at me. ‘I was a kid.’

  Stacey gives a hoot. ‘You were seventeen and you didn’t speak to me for a week afterwards.’

  ‘It was a few days at most.’ Oliver nudges his sister playfully. ‘And I’m way more mature now. Go on, you know you want to. And Vanessa wants to play too, don’t you?’ Oliver shoots me a pleading look, but it isn’t needed.

  ‘I’m up for a game of Monopoly.’ I give a nonchalant shrug, but inside I’m rubbing my hands with glee. Oliver may think he’s competitive but he’s met his match. I’m not over-competitive in everyday life, but I’m pretty cut-throat when it comes to board games. One of the things Dad taught me was to play to win, and I fully intend to.

  *

  We start off playing as a trio, but Stacey has to pop back upstairs to feed the kittens and tells us to carry on without her, which I’m more than happy to do as we return her money and property cards to the bank, meaning Mayfair is up for grabs again. I have Park Lane in my portfolio, but it’s pretty useless without its purple partner. I have a full set of green properties, each with a hotel, so if I can get my mitts on the Holy Grail of Monopoly properties, Oliver will be toast when he passes along the last quarter of the board.