The Accidental Life Swap Page 3

  Vanessa gives me an indulgent smile. ‘I’m sure we’ll cope, sweetheart. And Emma can step in and help out if needed.’

  Emma’s head pops up from the reception desk as she hears her name and Vanessa briefly fills her in.

  ‘Of course I’ll help out.’ Emma smiles at Vanessa, but the corners of her mouth droop as a frown takes over. ‘Um, what’s going on with your hair, Vanessa? It’s a bit …’ She wafts a hand above her head while Vanessa’s eyes widen. My stomach lurches as Vanessa reaches up and discovers the unruly strands. I should have told her earlier, as soon as I stepped into her office. Why couldn’t I be more like Emma? There’s no way she would have allowed Vanessa to attend a meeting looking a hot mess.

  There’s a strangled cry as Vanessa scurries away from the meeting room, only pausing to glare at me before she pushes her way into the ladies’. She’s going to be super late for that meeting now.

  ‘Um, Rebecca?’ Emma peels a pink post-it note from the pad in front of her and waggles it in my direction. ‘Your sister called. Again.’ She flashes me an apologetic smile, knowing I’ve been avoiding Kate for the past few weeks. When I’d ignored her calls enough times, she’d changed tactic and started to badger me at work.

  ‘I haven’t got time for that.’ I wave away the slip of pink paper and start to back away towards Vanessa’s office. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

  *

  The sun is out now, shining bright in the almost cloudless sky, but it is freezing as I stand on the platform at Piccadilly train station, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my coat. I’m still wearing the ridiculous peep-toe boots and I can feel every breath of the wind that is whistling along the platform, my toes turning blue with the chill. I should have changed into more suitable footwear whilst I was at the flat, but I barely had time to shove a few essentials into the holdall before I had to jump into the taxi beeping with irritation outside. I’ve packed enough to last me until the weekend, when I’ll make the journey back home, because Vanessa can’t seriously expect me to uproot my life for a whole month – however tempting the thought had been when I’d stepped into the flat and caught the lingering whiff of my flatmate. Having a little break from Lee is the only silver lining of this whole debacle. I toyed with the idea of leaving my absence to his imagination – had I been kidnapped? Run over and left for dead on the side of the road? – but I was afraid he’d have rented out my room by the time I returned if I didn’t let him know I’d be back soon, so I’ve left him a note on the fridge.

  Tugging my hands from my pockets, I rub them together to try to create a bit of warmth as I peer down the tracks, hoping to glimpse the train that was due eight minutes ago. I’d rushed to make it to the station but I needn’t have been so speedy as there’s no sign of the train. I’m half-tempted to nip to the kiosk at the top of the steps to grab a cup of coffee to warm me up but I know without a doubt that the train will have pulled up and left again by the time I’ve clattered back down the steps, probably spilling hot liquid down myself in my haste. So I’m forced to stand, teeth chattering, while I wait for a train I don’t even want to catch.

  This is absurd. Why am I putting up with this change in job role? I should have been firm. Said no, I will absolutely not take on the task of project managing a house renovation in the middle of nowhere, and if you even think of firing me over the matter, I will drag you to court for unfair dismissal. But I didn’t, because I’m as firm as unset jelly, and now I’m about to board the train that is rumbling down the tracks towards me at last.

  I feel a bit sick as I bend down to grab the holdall at my feet. This is it. I’m really doing this. I’m actually taking a break from my role as Vanessa’s PA, moving away from the office and my dream profession, to oversee the transformation of a house I have zero interest in. How am I supposed to earn a promotion now I’ve been shoved out of the way? I can’t impress Vanessa with my ideas from Little Heaton. This is career suicide!

  Unless … Hooking the holdall onto my arm, I join the melee of people waiting to board, scanning the crowd for the end of a queue to join. Or any hint of a queue in the chaos, at least. There isn’t one and I find myself jostled out of the way as a D-bag with a briefcase barges past with his elbows out. I apologise (what the hell?) before edging my way back into the pack, earning myself a glare from a woman with a pushchair, who runs over my exposed toes before I can leap out of the way. I’m silently seething by the time I limp onto the train, shuffling along the carriage in search of an empty seat with my holdall clutched to my chest. This day sucks. I thought Lee using my toothpaste without permission had been bad enough, but the morning has been on a steady decline since I stepped into Vanessa’s office and spotted her dishevelled hairdo. So much for those good vibes I’d fooled myself into feeling on the way to work.

  I make my way into the next carriage and the feeling of dread lifts ever so slightly when I spot a free seat at the end. Not only is the seat free of either body or bag, it is a window seat and it is facing forward. The positive me from this morning would have taken this as a Very Good Sign, but all the buoyancy has been sucked out of me by now so I simply slot my holdall into the luggage rack above my head and sink gratefully into the seat. The voice over the tannoy system announces the opening of the onboard kiosk, but although I’m in desperate need of a coffee for both the caffeine injection and the warmth, I’m fearful that my seat will have been appropriated by the time I get back. No, it’s safer to remain where I am, as settled as I can be whizzing past fields of sheep at a hundred miles an hour. Besides, there’s something more urgent than my need for coffee prodding at me. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s bugging me, a thought that I can’t quite grasp hold of.

  My phone beeps in my pocket and I see a message from Emma when I pull it out.

  Good luck with your ‘new job’ – show Vanessa what you’re made of! xxx

  And that’s when it hits me. The thought that’s been niggling at me since I picked up my holdall on the platform. I need to use this as an opportunity to really impress Vanessa, to show her that I have all the skills required of a good events planner: exceptional organisation, the ability to multitask and problem-solve while working under pressure, and meeting tight deadlines while retaining a high level of attention to detail. I’m going to be the best, most efficient project manager and keep the refurbishment on track. I’m going to prove to Vanessa that I have what it takes, that I would be an asset to her team if she would only give me the opportunity to shine. I’m going to earn myself that promotion, get a foot back on the career ladder and find myself a decent flat-share so I can finally live the life I dreamed I would when I left home and moved to Manchester. This is the start of a brand new life and a brand new me.

  Chapter 5

  Vanessa hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said Little Heaton was in the middle of nowhere; I haven’t seen any sign of civilisation for at least fifteen minutes as we delve further into the Cheshire countryside. Even the sheep-filled fields have given way to wild moorland and I’m starting to panic that instead of taking me to the address I’d hastily jotted down earlier and am now clutching in my hand, the taxi driver is finding the perfect spot to bury a body. My body.

  I know I’m being paranoid – or at least that’s what I’m telling myself as I take deep, even breaths while watching the meter clocking up pound after pound – but I’m not the most adventurous of people. I’d felt super-sophisticated when I moved to Manchester from the tiny town I’d grown up in, though any sense of refinement diminished rapidly when I moved into the flat with Lee, obviously – but I was still proud of the leap I’d made. Now, though, I want to take a giant step backwards. I want to return to a place of safety. A place I know, even if I don’t particularly love it. My grubby little flat doesn’t seem so bad when faced with the prospect of being transported into the wilderness with a maniac.

  The taxi driver hasn’t given me any hint that he’s a maniac. In fact, he’d seemed quite pleasant as he’
d hefted my holdall into the boot of his car, and he’d attempted to make small talk as we’d left the town somewhere on the outskirts of Warrington behind, only giving up when it transpired it would be easier getting blood from a stone than having a two-way conversation with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him about the weather or how many weeks there are until Christmas, but I found all my attention was focused on not having an anxiety-fuelled vomit over the backseat of his car. I’d bought a bottle of water once I’d disembarked the train at Warrington and have been taking tiny sips of it ever since, but it’s doing little to ease the nausea I’ve been feeling since I stepped onto the hot, stuffy bus that eventually led me to a town I’d never even heard of until I’d Googled how to get to Little Heaton. From there, I’d managed to locate a taxi rank to take me the rest of the way. Or at least that’s what I hope is happening right now. The taxi driver is pleasant and I didn’t spot a shovel in the boot of his car earlier, but you just never know. I should ask if it’s much further, to try to gauge the driver’s intentions, but I find myself mute and clammy-handed as I sit ramrod straight in my seat, wincing as the meter continues to tick over.

  ‘I don’t come this far out very often.’

  I jump a mile as the driver’s voice suddenly speaks over the radio, interrupting Mike and the Mechanics urging the listeners to appreciate their loved ones while they’re still with us. Seriously though, why am I worrying so much? A taxi driver who listens to Mellow Magic is hardly a threat, right?

  ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’ The driver nods his head, indicating the scenery surrounding us. To the left of us, the greenery curves up high, the hilltop reaching for the blue, clear sky, while to the right there is a sharp drop where we can see down into the valley, as one field merges into the next, with only the odd ramshackle outbuilding breaking up the greenery. There are no other cars on the road, no people or animals that I can see from my vantage point. Nobody to hear me scream. It is beautiful and eerie all at once.

  ‘So peaceful, innit?’ The taxi driver shakes his head in wonder without waiting for an answer to his original question, as though he knows I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. ‘I used to come up here a lot with the missus, back in the day. Walked for miles, we did.’ He laughs and pats his rounded stomach, accentuated by the belt tethering him to his seat. ‘Long time ago now, though. Don’t think I’d have it in me anymore.’

  I nod and twitch a smile at him, though I say nothing. My mouth is dry, my tongue fat and sluggish, my mind a garbled mess unable to put together a sentence. I take a sip of my water. It’s almost gone.

  ‘Not much further now, love.’

  ‘Really?’ My voice is a rasp, despite the water. I haven’t uttered a word for miles, not since the meter was displaying below a fiver.

  The driver is watching me through the rear-view mirror, his bushy eyebrows raised. ‘Five minutes, I’d say. Ten, tops.’

  My shoulders relax, even as the fleeting thought that he’s toying with me – all part of his sick game – flashes across my mind. I screw the lid back onto my water and slip it into my handbag before taking out my phone to text Emma. I haven’t dared to communicate with the outside world since we entered the deep depths of nowhere, in case the driver knew I was on to him and was raising the alarm.

  I am an idiot, but in my defence, this has been a really weird and extremely stressful day so far.

  ‘You on holiday then?’ Having coaxed one little word from me, the driver is having another stab at small talk and I feel I owe him after thinking the worst of him.

  ‘I wish.’ A holiday would be nice. I haven’t been away since I was little, back when my parents were still together and we spent a couple of weeks in Italy. I remember the heat and the gelato and the feeling that life couldn’t get any better than this. It didn’t. My parents split up shortly afterwards and we never returned to the glory days of that summer holiday.

  ‘Oh?’ The driver is raising his eyebrows at me in the rear-view mirror, and I assume he isn’t enquiring about my desire to jet away to sunnier climes.

  ‘I’m going to Little Heaton for work.’

  ‘I see.’ The driver nods, his eyes back on the road. ‘What kind of work?’

  I’m about to explain that I’m in events management, but that isn’t strictly true anymore. But I can’t tell him I’m in property development either, as I’d feel like a fraud.

  ‘I’m helping out with a house refurbishment.’ This is much closer to the truth of the situation, and luckily the driver doesn’t probe any further. Instead, he regales me with tales of his own home improvements, from DIY disasters to DIY triumphs. He’s in the middle of a story about the dodgy plumbing he discovered beneath his kitchen sink when I spot the first sign that we are indeed on the right track. We’ve wound our way down the hillside and though I have yet to see another human being, there are at least fields of sheep and cows again. And then, nestled in an overgrown bush and only just visible through the foliage, is a hand-painted sign:

  Buy fresh eggs @ Little Heaton Animal Sanctuary

  There’s an arrow pointing ahead and everything. We’re almost there!

  A couple of minutes later, we’ve turned off the tarmacked road and onto a little lane that is barely more than a dirt track. We jiggle and bump over the loose rocks and potholes until we reach a bridge stretching over a canal. I strain to look out over the side as we drive over, the knot in my stomach loosening for the first time since Vanessa landed this gig on me. Little Heaton is beautiful. The water of the canal is sparkling in the sunshine, throwing out shades of green from the trees and hedges lining the towpath. All is still apart from the ripples following a pair of swans as they glide alongside a moored barge.

  We cross the bridge, emerging fully into the village. There is so much green, from the lush, leafy trees, the beautifully presented gardens sitting proudly in front of quaint cottages, and the hills in the distance. We are a world away from the bustling city centre I’m accustomed to.

  I finally spot my first human for many miles; a dog-walker in hunter green wellington boots pulled over worn jeans. He raises his hand in greeting as we pass, pulling tight on the lead to keep his dog away from the tiny lane we’re passing along.

  ‘Now then.’ The driver slows as he peers at the sat nav. ‘Can’t be far from here.’

  We pass an assortment of houses, from squat, crumbly-looking cottages to three-storey newbuilds, until we reach the high street. There’s a small community garden in the centre, facing a terrace of shops. There’s a tanning shop, which jars against its picturesque surroundings, but it makes me think of Sonia, who is probably laughing her socks off at me back at the office. There are more houses, lots of greenery and even a castle in the distance, which makes me do a proper double-take as I catch sight of it. We pass a couple of pubs – which I fully intend to make use of during my stay – then end up back alongside the canal. The car stops and I peer out of the window, my brow creasing with confusion. There are no houses here, just the water and trees.

  ‘Just give me a minute, love.’ The driver is tapping at the screen of his sat nav, tutting and sighing as he jabs harder and harder.

  ‘Are we lost?’ Just when I thought things were looking up. Maybe this isn’t the right place after all.

  ‘Ah, no, nothing like that.’ The driver is still stabbing the screen with his finger. ‘It’s just this stupid thing …’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s sending us that way.’ He points across the canal. I look both ways, looking for another bridge, but there is nothing but the narrow wooden footbridge we’ve parked alongside. ‘We must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.’ He jabs at the screen one last time before he spots another dog-walker heading our way. Winding down the window, he leans right out and waves a hand to catch her attention. It’s as she approaches the car that I realise she isn’t a dog-walker at all. The animal plodding behind her isn’t of the canine variety but of the woolly kind. She’s taking a sheep out for a stroll. What the …?r />
  ‘We’re looking for Arthur’s Pass, love, but the sat nav’s playing up.’ The driver thrusts a thumb at the malfunctioning equipment. ‘What’s the best way to go?’

  The woman stoops to pet the sheep. She’s only young, early twenties at the most, with long blonde hair plaited to the side. She’s wearing bright red wellies over skinny jeans and a matching parka with a furry hood.

  ‘You’d need to go all the way back to the iron bridge.’ She pulls an apologetic face, as though she’s responsible for the balls up. ‘Arthur’s Pass is on the other side of the canal and we only have the one access across the bridge for vehicles. It’s a bit of a nightmare, actually, but you sort of get used to it.’ She shrugs and pets the sheep again. ‘Are you just dropping off?’ She’s looking at the side of the car, at the taxi’s markings. ‘Because you’d be better off jumping out here and walking the rest of the way.’ She’s peering past the driver now to address me. ‘It’s just over this footbridge and down the lane.’ She points across the canal, towards a cluster of trees. ‘I’m heading that way myself so I can show you.’

  ‘That would be so kind, thank you.’ As much as I appreciate the driver getting me here safely, without turning out to be a bloodthirsty maniac, I don’t fancy driving all the way back through the village. I’m still feeling a bit queasy and desperate for a bit of fresh air.

  I pay the driver, fighting hard not to wince at the number of notes I’m forced to hand over, and grab my holdall from the boot. With a cheery wave goodbye with one hand and the receipt for the journey clutched in the other, I set off across the footbridge with my volunteer tour guide and her woolly friend.

  Arthur’s Pass is a tiny, tree-lined lane that leads to a clearing in which stands what can only be described as a manor house. The house is made of pale stone, with wide stone steps leading up to the heavy wooden door, which is set under its own pitched roof. The house is magnificent, but it isn’t the only building on the land. Set back from the main house is a long, one-storey building, with three large windows and a smaller version of the wooden front door. Both buildings are angled so they’re facing the gorgeous, unobstructed view of the canal, and there are a couple of smaller buildings to the side. Clusters of trees surround the land, creating a barrier to the outside world.