The Accidental Life Swap Page 5

  ‘So no more late starts and early lunches then.’ He winks at me to show he’s kidding, but he’s scratching at the back of his neck again. ‘I take it you’ll be staying in the guesthouse and not the main one. Bit bare and chilly in there at the moment. I’ll get Todd to take your luggage through, if you haven’t done so already?’ He glances across the drive and turns to me with a puzzled look. ‘Where’s your car? You haven’t parked it out on the lane, have you? Because that thing’s so narrow, you won’t have wing mirrors left by the end of the day.’

  ‘I didn’t drive over.’ Which sounds most unlike Vanessa, who’d drive to the corner shop. ‘I’m trying to be a bit more green, you know?’ I’m about to add that I don’t need Todd to help with my luggage as I’ve only brought a holdall before I realise Todd’s help could guide me to my accommodation. I can’t ask where the guesthouse is as Vanessa would already know and I’m enjoying being her far too much to admit who I really am at the moment. I’ll tell them later, once I’m settled in the guesthouse and they’ve made a start on the flooring.

  *

  The guesthouse, like most places, is bigger than my flat. It turns out I’ll be staying in the long, one-storey building and not the dilapidated shed. This outbuilding has been fully restored and furnished and I gape at the spacious dwelling as I follow Todd inside. Before us is a modern open-plan living and dining area with two huge windows overlooking the canal. There’s an L-shaped kitchen in the corner, with a breakfast bar separating the cosy seating area, complete with a massive, wall-mounted TV and a cabinet stuffed with DVDs.

  ‘Where shall I …?’ Todd lifts the holdall and glances around the room. I’ve been too busy gawping to take it from him.

  ‘Thank you for your help.’ I relieve Todd of the holdall and lead him back towards the door. ‘I’ll pop over to the house in a little while to see how you’re getting on.’ Again, my tone comes out rather menacing and Todd bolts from the guesthouse, stumbling over a large loose rock on the drive in his haste. I’ve never had this effect on anybody before and I only wish I could bottle it up to dispense on Lee when I get back to the flat.

  Closing the door, I take in the room again, noticing all the little touches, from the exposed polished beams, plush carpet and log burner that give the place a snug, homely feel. I feel like weeping when I picture my flat waiting back in Manchester, with its drab, peeling wallpaper and flaky paintwork, the plumbing that likes to announce its presence by squealing every time the hot tap is turned on, and the flatmate whose idea of good hygiene practice is brushing his teeth sporadically with my toothpaste and washing his clothes when the smell starts to bother him (which is long after it’s started to bother everybody else). But no, I will not cry, because I have a whole month to enjoy the luxury of living without Lee in a beautiful home. Why did I ever think being Vanessa’s project manager was a bad idea?

  Flopping onto the sofa with a contented sigh, I prop my feet up on the coffee table in front of me and spread my arms out wide. This whole sofa is mine. This whole room is mine. I can watch what I want on the TV without having to turn the volume up to its maximum to drown out Lee’s racket. I can cook without having to hunt for crockery beforehand. I can cook without replacing the ingredients that have been stolen from the fridge. What extravagance!

  My feet are aching from the silly boots, so I ease them off before padding towards the door leading off the living area, the thick pile of the carpet caressing my sore, battered feet. As suspected, the door opens to reveal the bedroom. And what a bedroom it is. I actually gasp out loud when I clock the huge four-poster bed that reaches up to ceiling height. There are more beams in here, and another huge window overlooking the canal. A red and blue barge is passing slowly, decorated with painted flowers and swirls, and a little dog sits on its roof, watching the world pass by.

  At the opposite end of the room is a pair of French doors that lead to what was once a small garden but is now a series of pots full of weeds and the last wilting flowers from the summer. There’s another log burner in here, and an oversized mahogany wardrobe that looks like it could lead to Narnia. Another door leads to a small but opulent bathroom, with a claw-footed bath taking centre-stage. I can have a bath without having to pluck pubes from the plughole beforehand. I can leave my washbag unattended. I can use a towel before having to give it a tentative sniff first. The indulgence!

  I’m overwhelmed with the urge to fill the bath with hot, bubbly water and sink into it, but I have work to do. I need to unpack. I need to find a shop for supplies. And I need to re-introduce myself to the builders before I find myself in a super-awkward situation. But first, I need to take a few photos and send them to Emma. Hopefully she’ll show them to Sonia, who will be green with envy.

  I’m in the middle of sending a bunch of smugtastic photos to Emma when I hear a knock at the front door. Todd is standing on the doorstep with a small box of PG Tips in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other. A jar of coffee and a bag of sugar is tucked under each arm.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could use your kettle?’ He flashes me a sheepish look as he waggles the box of teabags in my direction. ‘Nic used to let us make brews in here.’

  I reach out and take the teabags from him. ‘Let me do that. I’ll bring them over to you.’ It’s the least I can do after I dragged them away from their untouched pints earlier. ‘What am I making?’

  ‘Three coffees – one black, no sugar, the others with milk and two sugars.’ Todd follows me into the kitchen, dumping the coffee, milk and sugar on the counter. ‘And one tea. Milk, no sugar.’

  I repeat the order back to Todd, to make sure I’ve got it right in my head, before sending him back to the main house. I slip my boots back on while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, pretending I don’t feel the now familiar pinch as I hobble back to the kitchen. There’s a small collection of matching mugs in the cupboard and I find a tray tucked beside a set of saucepans. Loading it up with the drinks, I carry the tray carefully across the uneven drive to the main house, setting it down on the steps so I can open the door. The sound of upbeat music hits me as soon as I step into the hallway, and I follow the sound into what will one day be the kitchen again.

  ‘Tea break!’ I raise my voice to be heard over the radio and the drill with attached paddle that Vincent is using to mix up a large batch of plaster. He switches off the drill and swipes at his forehead with the back of his arm.

  ‘You’re a pet. You should have made this one do it.’ Vincent thrusts a thumb towards Todd before he drags himself to his feet. He grabs the black coffee and takes a tentative sip before turning to Todd again. ‘Take Oliver his tea up before it gets cold.’

  Todd scrambles to his feet and reaches for the tea, but I move the tray out of the way. ‘I’ll do that. You have a break and enjoy your coffee.’ Todd shrugs and takes the remaining coffees, handing one to Harvey, who is still on the floor but now lounging, his legs spread out before him. ‘Where is Oliver?’

  Vince takes another slurp of his coffee. ‘He’s making a start on the first-floor bathroom. Up the stairs, second door on your left.’

  My footsteps echo loudly on the uncarpeted stairs, even as I take careful steps to avoid spilling the tea. I’d forgotten how cold it is in here and I shiver as I reach the top. I’m not surprised when I see the thick jumper the builder in the bathroom is wearing, the collar of a T-shirt visible at the neckline. I’d need a few more layers to stand working in the cold, and it’s clear why Vincent risked a scalded tongue by drinking his coffee so quickly, eager for some source of warmth.

  The builder has his own radio up here – the small digital one I’d spotted earlier – and it’s currently blaring out The Bangles’ ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’. It’s so loud, he hasn’t heard my ascent up the stairs and has no idea I’m observing him from the doorway, watching as his bottom jiggles to the music. And it’s a lovely bottom; round but firm and full of rhythm, it seems. Setting the tea down carefully on the floor, I grab my phone and open
the camera. Emma will never believe just how perfect a bottom this builder has, so I need photographic proof.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Stepping back with a yelp, I only just manage to avoid kicking the cup of tea over. ‘I, er, I was just …’ I look down at my phone and discreetly close the camera app. ‘I was just making a phone call.’ My thumb taps on the contacts app a split second before I turn the phone to show him the screen.

  ‘No.’ Oliver shakes his head as he folds his arms across his chest. ‘You weren’t. You were trying to take a photo of me.’

  I don’t like his accusatory tone, even if the thing he’s accusing me of is absolutely spot on.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I too can adopt a shirty tone. Even if I’m in the wrong, and even if said shirty tone has been pilfered from Vanessa’s repertoire of snotty attitudes. ‘I can assure you I wasn’t taking a photo of anything, and especially not of you.’ I’m quite proud of my sneering use of the word ‘you’, and the way my lip curls in distaste.

  ‘Whatever.’ Oliver twists and reaches for the radio, shutting off the music. ‘Who are you, anyway? And does Vince know you’re up here snooping?’

  Snooping, indeed! My mouth starts to gape before I snap it shut. Vanessa doesn’t gape. Ever.

  ‘Yes, Vincent does know I’m up here.’ Tilting my head to one side, I arch an eyebrow as high as I can manage. Admittedly, it isn’t very high as I haven’t had much practice in the art of snootiness. ‘And I wasn’t aware you could snoop in your own home.’

  I expect Oliver to falter, to start falling over himself in his eagerness to please, like the others had in the pub earlier. Maybe he could wipe the palms of his hands down the thighs of his jeans while I stand by and enjoy his slack-jawed reaction to my statement. I’m usually the flustered one, so it would make a welcome change to be the cool, calm, collected one for once.

  Except this dude doesn’t give me the satisfaction of wavering. There are no sweaty palms, no slow realisation that I am The Boss. He is the cool, calm collected one as he narrows his eyes ever so slightly and looks me up and down.

  ‘So you’re the infamous Vanessa Whitely then.’ He gives me another full-length once-over before giving a lazy shrug. ‘You’re not what I was expecting at all.’

  ‘And what were you expecting?’ Cruella De Vil, I should imagine, and I smile sweetly at him, watching him through lowered lashes, to show that I’m far from the hard-nosed picture he’s built up in his head.

  ‘I’d thought you’d be more rottweiler than chihuahua.’

  I’m not sure whether this is a compliment or not, but by the sly smile creeping onto Oliver’s face, I assume it wasn’t intended to be flattering. Instead of the fierce, don’t-mess-with-me guard dog, he sees me as a tiny, quivering pooch who’s more likely to make a puddle on the carpet than defend its property. I should unleash the Vanessa Whitely effect and put him in his place, but I’ve never been very good at confrontation. I’m definitely more chihuahua, not that I’ll tell him that.

  ‘I take it you’re Oliver?’ I attempt an air of indifference, to try to claw back a bit of poise.

  ‘Oliver Rowe.’ He holds out a hand, and I’m worried mine will be trembling as I reach out to take it. I make the handshake as swift as possible to mask any of the anxiety I’m feeling over the exchange.

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ I smile sweetly again, even though Oliver’s glowering at me. ‘And about earlier … shall we just forget that and start again?’

  ‘Forget that you were perving on me, you mean?’ Oliver folds his arms across his chest. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that’s sexual harassment in the workplace.’

  ‘I wasn’t perving on you. I was making a phone call.’ I waggle the phone at him, even though the screen is locked by now. ‘I wasn’t trying to take a photo of your bottom as you so arrogantly assumed.’

  ‘I never said anything about my bottom.’ A smug smile creeps onto Oliver’s face while I will the ground to open up beneath me. This is not going well at all. I need to get the upper hand back and quickly.

  ‘I actually meant we should forget about the fact that you accused me of snooping around my own home.’ There, take that, you smug git! ‘Now just get back to work.’ Giving him my best withering look, I march from the room, only to sneak back to pick up the cup of tea. If he wants a tea break, he can make his own bloody refreshments.

  Chapter 8

  I should probably head back to the guesthouse to unpack but I find myself wandering from room to room, sipping Oliver’s tea as I take my time to have a good nosy at the first floor of this magnificent house. It felt a bit creepy earlier when I was alone in the bare bones of a giant, cold house, but knowing Oliver is just along the hall and with the sound of the radio drifting from the bathroom again, I feel more at ease. I’ve counted six bedrooms so far, three with en-suite bathrooms, and I know there are more on the second floor. I’m about to head up there for another mosey around when something catches my eye out of the huge arched window at the end of the hallway. The window looks out over the land at the back of the property and there is something moving out there. I’m not sure what it is, other than non-human and far too large to be a dog. I scurry closer to the window and gasp when I realise what I’m seeing.

  ‘Oh my God.’ My eyebrows have all but lifted off my face as I cover my gaping mouth with my hand. I can’t believe it. Surely it isn’t …

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  I turn at the sound of Oliver’s voice. He’s standing in the bathroom doorway with a plaster-covered trowel and board in hand.

  ‘Is it just me, or is there a donkey in the garden?’ I point out of the window, where the beast is ambling across the long grass, tail swishing.

  Oliver joins me at the window and I’m relieved when he nods. I’m not hallucinating then.

  ‘That’s just Franny. She must have found the gap in the fence I was fixing earlier. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it later.’ He’s striding back towards the bathroom while I remain at the window, staring at the donkey as she bends her head to nibble at the overgrown grass. ‘I’ll take her home now and then I’ll patch up the fence as soon as I’ve finished here this evening.’ Having deposited his equipment back in the bathroom, Oliver is striding along the hallway towards the stairs. Tearing my eyes away from the donkey, I scurry after him.

  ‘Where does she live?’ I’m not sure why I’m so interested in this donkey – probably because it’s such an unusual sight. It isn’t as though you see donkeys wandering around in Manchester. An unleashed dog, perhaps, and plenty of pigeons, but no donkeys or other farmyard friends.

  ‘Just along the lane.’ Oliver has already reached the bottom of the stairs while I’m still carefully treading down each step so I don’t slip in my silly boots and break my neck.

  ‘Can I come and meet her? Before you take her back?’ Forgetting to channel Vanessa for a moment, a huge grin spreads across my face and I risk a tumble down the stairs as I pick up speed to join Oliver in the hallway.

  ‘Do what you want.’ Oliver shrugs. ‘It’s your house.’

  Oliver’s words are hardly warm and welcoming, but I almost whoop out loud as a rush of pure joy erupts inside me and I’m transported back to the days of being a carefree child, of plodding along the sand on the back of a gentle donkey, of feeling content and unburdened. Of feeling so happy I could burst. I can’t recall the last time I felt so jubilant; perhaps it was when I was offered the job at Vanessa Whitely Events, back when I assumed I’d managed to get my foot through the door to my dream career. When I assumed I’d soon have a more inspired input in the business.

  ‘Give me a minute.’ Holding up a hand, Oliver strides into the kitchen but I tiptoe after him, catching the end of a conversation he’s having with Todd.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me she was here?’

  The way Oliver spits out the word ‘she’ is as though he’s just scraped it off the bottom of his shoe and caught a rank smell. Oliver Rowe, it s
eems, is not Vanessa’s biggest fan and I’ve done nothing to persuade him to change his perception.

  Todd shrugs as he piles plaster onto his board under Vincent’s supervision. ‘You didn’t ask.’

  Oliver throws his hands up in the air as Vincent shrugs. ‘I assumed he’d told you.’ He tuts at Todd. ‘You’re really as thick as mince sometimes, boy.’

  I feel a bit sorry for Todd, especially as neither Harvey or Oliver jump to his defence and he simply gets on with the job of plastering the wall.

  ‘I could have got myself sacked up there just now.’ Oliver’s words are hissed and poor Todd flinches.

  ‘Why?’ Harvey sniggers. ‘What did you do? You didn’t hit on her, did you?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t hit on her. Why would I?’

  I feel a bit stung by Oliver’s instant dismissal at the very notion of hitting on me. The cheek!

  ‘You know what she’s like though. You’ve seen the emails she sent to Vince back in the beginning, and the way she treated Nic. The woman’s a Grade-A bitch.’

  I don’t want to hear any more, whether it’s about me or Vanessa; I don’t think my ego could take another bruising. Creeping backwards, I make sure my heels clip-clop to their maximum as I march back towards the kitchen to announce my presence.

  ‘That donkey’s still out there, you know.’ With my hands on my hips, I’m projecting pure rottweiler. Oliver responds by saluting me, which isn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for, but at least he starts to move across the kitchen. Flashing poor Todd one last reproachful look, Oliver leads the way through the hallway, swinging the heavy oak door open and holding it for me to go through. It’s a gentlemanly act, but I don’t thank him for it. His words to the others are ringing in my ears on a loop.

  Oliver leads me around to the back of the house without a word. Franny is still munching on the grass and seems in no hurry to leave.

  ‘The grass must taste better on this side of the fence.’ I’m trying to make light of the situation because the silence stretching between us is so awkward it’s making me itch.