Читать книгу The Sister Swap: the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of the year! - Fiona Collins, Fiona Collins, Sylvie Hampton - Страница 13

Chapter Six

Sarah

‘The pavement’s for walking on, you dozy mare. Move out of the way!’

‘Oh, terribly sorry. Sorry about that.’ Sarah looked up from her phone and Google Maps to see a pugnacious man in a football shirt of unspecified denomination glaring at her before he rolled his bulging eyes back in his head and stormed past.

‘Sorry!’ she called ineffectually after him. She’d forgotten how busy London streets could be, even at eight o’clock on a Sunday night, and how she, too, used to get irritated by people who veered all over the pavement, or tourists who came to an abrupt stop when they spotted a blue plaque or some Ye Olde London monument.

She was outside Meg’s flat, or at least she thought she was. She double-checked the address again. Yes, this was it – 44 Raglan Street, W1 – and Meg was Flat 3, fourth floor.

It had been a long, arduous journey to get here – far longer and slower than she had expected – which she had mostly whiled away planning what clothes shops she was going to visit and browsing Pinterest for ‘work looks’ she could probably never pull off. By the time she’d got to Liverpool Street she couldn’t face the Tube, so she’d taken a taxi, with a very chatty driver who’d told her each and every famous person he’d had in the back of his cab. Each time she’d seemed remotely underwhelmed he’d added another one until the ‘celebrity’ pool was well and truly dredged; by Tottenham Court Road it was an H from Steps impersonator and a woman who’d once baked a Cornish pasty for John Major. The taxi had also been very hot and she’d opened the window all the way down and breathed in the smells of London: the food, a different cuisine for every restaurant they flashed past; the diesel fumes from rumbling, brake-hissing buses; the smell of beer and cigarettes from people enjoying a warm Sunday evening outside pubs and bars; and the unmistakable honk of opportunity and new beginnings. She was here; she was back in London. She was actually doing this.

Right, she thought. Meg had gamely said she’d leave a key under the front door mat of her flat for her, but how was Sarah to get into the building in the first place? She hung around for a bit; perhaps if someone turned up she could slip in behind them, like they did in the movies. Not that she belonged in the movies; she was in mum jeans, a creased lilac T-shirt and a pair of supermarket trainers.

Nobody came. She stood there for quite a while. OK, this was no good … Perhaps someone on the list of names and buzzers to the right of the door would take pity on her and let her in.

She pressed the top buzzer. Nothing. The second, ‘C. Clegg’. The buzzer rang twice, then, ‘Hello?’ a clear voice rang out.

‘Oh hi, my sister lives in Flat 3, fourth floor, I’ve got a key for it, but I can’t get into the building. Is there any chance you could let me in, please?’

‘You’re Meg’s sister?’

‘Er … yes?’

‘I didn’t know she had one, darling!’ the voice laughed. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘Sarah …’ The voice sounded like she was mulling it over, trying it out for size. ‘OK, Sarah, I’m buzzing you in.’

A buzz sounded, the door clicked and Sarah pushed it and stepped inside. The hall was blank, devoid of personality or any feature apart from a lift at the back. Sarah didn’t like lifts; she took the stairs, and four floors later she was outside Meg’s front door, as was a blonde in a pair of ripped boyfriend jeans, a white vest and a striped neck tie, who was sitting crossed-legged and bare-footed at the foot of it, tapping away on a phone.

‘Hi, Sarah.’ The woman looked up, and stood up, and Sarah did a massive, quite embarrassing double-take. Bloody hell, it was Clarissa Fenton-Blue! She’d recognize her anywhere. She had calves longer than most people’s full legs. She had sapphire blue eyes that could pierce bubble-wrap. And what Harry would have declared a ‘rack that could stop traffic’. And she completely surprised Sarah by lunging forward and enveloping her in an enormous hug. ‘I’m Clarissa,’ she breathed in the direction of Sarah’s ear. ‘I live downstairs.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Sarah. She wished she’d taken the lift now; why had she thought it a good idea to lug the awkward family case up three flights? Clarissa was (of course) all cool looking and stunning; Sarah was sweating like a pig and feeling incredibly frumpy in front of this goddess. She decided to burn all her clothes immediately.

‘So, Meg’s gone away for a while,’ said Clarissa, releasing Sarah and tossing her long blonde ponytail from side to side. ‘She texted me from a coach.’ She screwed her face up.

‘Yes,’ said Sarah as the ponytail swung like a propeller above Clarissa’s head. ‘She’s gone to stay in my cottage in Suffolk and I’m coming to stay here for a couple of months. We’re doing a bit of a swap.’

‘A bit of a swap? She didn’t mention that! I didn’t know she had a sister, either. She always says I’m her sister from another mister.’ Clarissa laughed, then her beautiful face turned more serious. ‘A bit scary about the blood pressure thing, isn’t it? Probably sensible for her to get out of London for a while. You don’t look much alike,’ Clarissa added, looking Sarah up and down. ‘You’re a lot taller. Rocking body, though.’

Sarah was taken aback. A rocking body? Really? She looked down at her horrible jeans then back up to Clarissa’s clear, earnest face.

‘So, what will you be doing in London, honey?’

‘Events Organizer,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s what I used to do.’

‘Cool!’ Clarissa put her phone in her jeans’ back pocket and suddenly loped off down the corridor, her impressive thigh gap about a foot wide. ‘Come for gin and Hobnobs with me sometime?’ she called over her shoulder.

‘OK,’ said Sarah, to Clarissa’s retreating figure. ‘Thank you.’ And she reached under the mat for the key and let herself into Meg’s flat.

*

It was just as she would have imagined a trendy London studio flat. Super modern: all character features long stripped out and replaced with white walls, a polished floor and one of those modern, inset fireplaces on the wall with nothing in it, not like Sarah’s ever-unswept sitting-room fireplace with its permanently foot-high fire basket of ash, grotty hearth, and accompanying log basket full of sweet wrappers. The whole place was tiny, though; Sarah could virtually see the entire flat from the front door. The kitchen was simply a corner at one end of the room, the ‘bedroom’ another – it was just a bed, a narrow wardrobe and a chest of drawers – and a door to the left was open to a minuscule bathroom which was sparkling white and very clean-looking.

Sarah would never have imagined this to be Meg’s flat. It appeared the sisters had not only swapped dwellings, but domestic ranking. Sarah always used to be the stickler for tidiness; since having the twins she lived in a cluttered pit. Meg used to be a messy little rat; Sarah was astonished to find she now had Howard Hughes’s standards of cleanliness.

Sarah paced around, taking it all in. There were Warhol pop-art prints of Marilyn on the walls, framed arty photos of models on floating shelves, a huge stack of Vogues on the floor, by the ‘fireplace’. The bathroom had black and white tiles and a large canvas of Ava Gardner above the loo. The ‘sitting room’ had a squishy pink suede chair and white voile drapes at the window. It was all rather gorgeous.

‘I bet the cupboards are bare, though,’ muttered Sarah to herself, as she went to the corner where the kitchen was. Her own were always bulging at the seams. ‘Bingo!’ she said, flinging a door open. There was a box of low calorie Cuppa Soup – half empty – and a small tin of sweetcorn. Another yielded a packet of unopened spaghetti and a jar of pesto sauce, use-by date three years ago. The fridge was bare too, except for a miniature bottle of champagne and two of perfume in a Perspex box. Sarah checked the oven expecting it was used to store jumpers, but it was empty, and she saw a pile of cards for posh takeaway places on the counter, weighted by a bottle of vitamin C tablets. She doubted Meg would get any home-cooked meals at Orchard Cottage either – there’d be three of them there now who couldn’t cook.

Sarah lugged her case over to the corner of the flat where the bed was. It was freshly made with white sheets – Egyptian cotton? There were no cushions, no fraying, slightly grubby throws. The whole ‘bedroom’, apart from the Marilyn portraits, was stark, spare and pared down. Perfect. She could do with some pared down in her life, she thought, as she sat on the bed. Clear the decks, start afresh. Get her life back as it had been a long time ago. Although of course she didn’t want it exactly back to how it was, because then she wouldn’t have Connor and Olivia. She sent her son a quick text.

Has Auntie Meg arrived? Everything OK?

Yeah, she’s here, a text winged back. All good thanks.

Expansive, as always. Connor would be on the beanbag in his room, playing Minecraft, eating the last of the Pringles.

Don’t forget to tell her how to work the hot water.

I won’t.

She could see him flinging his phone down on the beanbag, sniffing, then resuming his game. He didn’t really want to talk to her, but that was nothing new. He was a boy of few words. Then she started worrying. Did he sound particularly clipped? Bitter? Despite his chilled nonchalance when he took her to the station, was he secretly angry with her for leaving them? Was he furious she’d abandoned them to go up to London? Sarah smoothed the immaculate top sheet with her hand. Maybe both her children would resent her forever for leaving them.

Her heart started pounding. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be up in London and in this strange flat of the sister she didn’t know any more; she should be home, with her children, cooking them hot meals and looking after them. How could she have been so happy on the way up here, so excited, when she was leaving starving, suffering urchins at home?

Sarah decided to worsen her sudden anguish by pulling a photo of her babies from her handbag and had to suppress a giant sob (thank goodness Monty wasn’t also in the picture or she’d be inconsolable). Look at them! Look at their faces! Placing the photo on one of Meg’s pristine pillows, she stared at it. She’d always been the ultimate helicopter mum, hovering over them, micro-managing their every move; hot-housing them into clubs and activities of every description … and yes, overcompensating for the lack of philandering, adulterous Harry, who’d buggered off down to the West Country after they’d divorced. She liked being all-encompassing, smothering Tiger Mum. She’d poured her heart and soul into it. She’d kind of given up on it in recent years and let the chaos take over, but they needed her. They couldn’t function without her; they would flood the house, burn the kitchen down, forget to put the bins out … and she knew Meg would be no use in stopping these disasters. Sarah had an overwhelming urge to go home. To lock Meg’s door behind her and go. But she couldn’t. Meg was there now; they had promised to swap. She’d also agreed to take this job, which started tomorrow. She’d made her bed and she’d just have to lie in it, so she lay back on her sister’s and took a deep breath.

There was a ring at the doorbell. Who on earth could that be? Clarissa, brandishing Hobnobs? The fashion police come to wrench these heinous trainers off her feet? Sarah got up from the bed and opened the door to a very well-dressed thirty-something bloke sporting loafers and no socks, chinos and a white shirt, and an expensive-looking navy jumper slung over his shoulders.

‘Oh hiiiiii,’ he drawled. ‘I was visiting someone else in the building. My uncle,’ he added, vaguely – Sarah guessed he had used the ‘slip in behind someone’ approach she hadn’t had the patience for. ‘Is Meg here?’

‘No, she’s not here. I’m her sister.’

‘I’m Mikey.’ He looked past Sarah’s shoulder as though she hadn’t been telling the truth.

Very posh, Sarah decided. And sort of good-looking, if you had a thing for reptiles. ‘Hello, Mikey.’

‘I was wondering if she might come for dinner.’

‘Well,’ said Sarah, ‘she can’t as she’s not here.’ She was instantly taken back to her twenties when all sorts of undesirables had come knocking for Meg and she’d sent them away with an increasingly far-fetched range of excuses, depending on her mood: Meg was in the bath, Meg was out at a Girl Guide meeting being presented with her Hostessing badge, Meg had run away to join the circus and wouldn’t be back for three years. That last one Sarah had actually hoped was true on a number of occasions. Then, she wondered, was this man Meg’s boyfriend? Meg always had a boyfriend. ‘Do you want me to tell her you called?’

‘No, I’ll text her.’ He looked fairly jolly about it.

‘Super,’ said Sarah, out of nowhere. Is that what they said in London? And Mikey jogged off in the direction of the lift, the arms of his jumper swinging.

Her sister’s boyfriend. Interesting. Meg had never mentioned anything about leaving someone behind in London. Then again, why would she? The two sisters knew nothing of each other’s life, especially not love life. Meg would have met Harry at distant Uncle Compton’s funeral fifteen years ago (not that she would have paid much attention; she was on her phone most of the time) – it was just before the straw that broke the camel’s back; the discovery of affair number four – but she didn’t know the story of Harry. How after Meg had left for London, Sarah had met him in The Duke of Wellington and had virtually leapt into his arms. How he’d been staying in the room above the pub, that he was an artist, painting local pastoral scenes. That, from his very first word, he had treated Sarah like she mattered – which was just what she needed. She had drunk him in, lapped up his love like a thirsty dog at a bowl; she had moved him in within a month. The twins didn’t take long to follow, but a mere few years after that Harry, a historical loner, clearly found the cottage too crowded. Solitude and solace were sought elsewhere. Many elsewheres, in many beds …

After Harry, Sarah had been war wounded. She’d only met one seemingly decent man since, when the twins were about eight – a solicitor called David – and she’d fallen hard, again, but he’d turned out to be married, inflicting Sarah with another wound as fresh and painful as the first. She decided she was done at that point. That she was better off on her own. Just her and the twins would do from now on – no complications, no upset. Hadn’t she already been through enough? Falling in love and getting hurt really wasn’t good for her and she was determined not to ever do it again.

Sarah closed the door. She decided she needed to get a major grip. What had she told herself? That she was going to get some life back for herself. It was time for her to stop thinking about the past – Harry and all the bad times – and even about the twins too much. Now was the time to focus on her and the return to her career.

She walked back over to the bedroom, unclasped her case and unpacked her stuff in whatever space she could find in Meg’s tall, thin wardrobe and chest of drawers. Meg had a lot of clothes – all neatly arranged and hung and folded, and Sarah enjoyed having a good nose through them. They were still about the same size, she realized – big boobs, non-existent hips – although, as Clarissa had rightly pointed out, Meg was quite a few inches shorter. Sarah pulled out a pair of red suede court shoes – perilously high, in a shoebox with a photo of them glued to the front – and tried to stuff her long size sevens them. They were way too small. Shame.

By the time she was done, and the horrid red case shoved under Meg’s bed, Sarah realized it was ten o’clock. She’d better get to sleep; after all, she had work in the morning. She was thrilled about it, excited, and nervous as hell.

All OK?

She was in her pyjamas and under Meg’s cool sheets. She texted Olivia before she turned out the light.

All’s fine, Mum.

How is Auntie Meg? Do you think you’ll get on?

I don’t know. We don’t know her.

No. Neither did Sarah.

What are you going to do tomorrow?

Probably go to the cinema with Jude.

Jude? Who was Jude? The new boyfriend?

New boyfriend?

Yes. Smiley face.

A casual one I hope?

Night, Mum. Oh, she was being dismissed. Served her right, she supposed.

Night, Olivia.

Sarah slipped further down under the covers. A siren went off in the street below and a car alarm started shrilling angrily. Sarah couldn’t help but smile to herself as she turned her face towards the pillow.

Welcome to your new world, she thought. You’re not in Tipperton Mallet any more, my girl.