Kitabı oku: «The Accidental Life Swap», sayfa 3

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 …?

‘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.

‘Here you are.’ I’m so in awe of the building before me that I’d forgotten about my companion. She’s led me the short distance from the taxi to Vanessa’s place, chatting about the village and its amenities once she learned I was new to the area. ‘It’s such a gorgeous house, isn’t it? It’s been empty for years, though. I’m glad someone’s finally giving it the TLC it needs to bring it back to life.’ She starts to back away, whistling at the sheep so it follows. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around, but if you need anything, I’m just along the lane.’ She lifts a hand in farewell and I copy the gesture briefly before I’m drawn back to the house.

Wow. I can’t believe I’m going to be staying here for the next month. I’d already decided that I wouldn’t be making the arduous journey back and forth over the next few weeks as I allowed the paranoid thoughts to attack me during the taxi ride over, but this just seals the deal.

Welcome to your new home, Rebecca, I think – rather smugly – as I make my way towards the front door.

Chapter 6

Although the front door looks as though it’s an original feature, the lock is more modern, meaning there isn’t a rustic, easily identifiable key on the bunch I grabbed from Vanessa’s office earlier. The only way to gain entry is to try each key in turn until the lock gives and I’m able to push the heavy oak door open.

The door opens into a vast hallway, with a wide staircase opposite and light flooding in from the huge windows either side of the door. The space is bare, with exposed brick walls and stripped woodwork, but I can tell this is going to be an amazing welcoming area when it’s completed. I can picture smooth, plastered walls painted in a warm, creamy shade, a coat stand in the corner, perhaps a bench under the window with storage for shoes underneath, and there is more than enough space for a massive tree at Christmas beside the staircase, all lit up and festive. I get a warm, fuzzy feeling despite the freezing temperature inside the empty, unheated house.

My footsteps echo on the bare floorboards as I move across the room, slowly and carefully, as though I’m an intruder, which I very much feel like right now. I expect to hear noises within the house; hammering, drilling, a too-loud radio, voices at the very least. It’s already past lunchtime and there are a couple of vans outside, so I’d assumed the builders were here, but the house is eerily lifeless as I move from room to room. What was once a kitchen has been updated with bi-fold doors that look out onto the land at the back of the property, where there’s a humongous, overgrown garden lined with trees to give a feeling of seclusion, and another outbuilding that has definitely seen better days.

I back away from the sheet of glass, jumping at the sound my foot makes as it meets the concrete flooring. I tiptoe my way through the rest of the house, marvelling at the amount of space available. The ceilings are high and most of the rooms are larger than my entire flat. I make my way up to the top floor and open the door that leads to a small balcony. It’s cold outside but the view overlooking the canal is stunning, the air fresh and earthy and instantly relaxing. I can feel the stress of the surreal morning being plucked away as I close my eyes, taking deep, greedy breaths as I listen to the soundtrack of the countryside. Gone are the roars of traffic, the dozens of conversations mingling into one incessant hum, the busy lives and dramas of people packed in tight. Here, there is nothing but the mesmerising rustle of the wind tickling the leaves and the sing-song chirrups of unseen birds. A smile flashes onto my face as I take another lungful of the untainted air. Imagine living here, with all this space and beauty, instead of being stuck in a hovel with a semi-feral flatmate. I need this, or something reasonably close but still attainable. And to do that, I have to succeed with my new role as project manager.

*

‘Have you tried the pub?’

‘The pub?’ I sit down on the bottom step of the grand staircase and try to stop my teeth from chattering. It really is bloody freezing in this house.

‘Maybe they’ve gone for a skive since they’re unsupervised?’ Emma gives a throaty laugh down the phoneline. ‘I know I’d slope off for a gin if I could get away with it. Instead, I’m stuck at this reception desk as usual. I almost wish I could swap places with you.’

I’ve been in Little Heaton for over an hour and apart from the vans still parked in the driveway and a small digital radio perched on the cistern in the main bathroom on the first floor, there hasn’t been the tiniest hint of the builders.

‘Believe me, you don’t want to trade places with me.’ I rub at my nose. It’s so cold, it’s hurting. ‘It took forever to get here. I’m definitely staying here for the duration.’ If I can stand the cold, that is. Vanessa mentioned a guesthouse; I hope it has some sort of heating system installed. ‘Anyway, I’d better go and find the pub and see if they’re in there. We passed a couple on the way, so hopefully your hunch is right.’ And if not, I can at least warm up for a bit.

Pushing the phone into my pocket, I make my way out of the house, locking up even though there’s only a paint-splattered radio to nick. It actually feels a little bit warmer outside with the sunshine and the brisk walk to the nearest pub. I manage to find the Farmer’s Arms quite easily by retracing my steps over the footbridge. Being the middle of the afternoon, I expect the pub to be quiet, empty even, but I’m blasted by noise as soon as I push the door open. The jukebox is playing a George Ezra track, interrupted by the clunk of pool balls colliding, and there’s the general murmur of conversation. Emma was right. The builders are here, enjoying a day off by the looks of it as they sip pints around the pool table. There are three of them; one older, maybe mid-forties, one who must be early thirties, and a baby-faced kid who has to be late teens at the most. I obviously don’t know for sure that these are Vanessa’s builders – or builders at all – but with their heavy-duty boots and plaster-ingrained jeans, I highly suspect they are. Emma is a genius who is wasted behind that reception desk. She definitely deserves that gin.

‘Everything okay over there, duck?’

I’m still hovering by the door, but I make my way over to the barmaid, whose face breaks out into a friendly smile as I clamber onto one of the high stools at the bar.

‘What can I get you?’ The barmaid places her hands on the bar, displaying a rainbow of fingernails as each one is painted a different colour. I’m tempted to order something large and lethal, but I still have a job to do.

‘Just a diet coke please.’ I sneak a look at the builders as I reach into my bag for my purse. They’re still playing pool, ribbing each other as tricky shots are missed, completely unaware that I’m here. I should probably march up to them and demand they get back to work (after ascertaining that they are, in fact, Vanessa’s builders) but I find myself furtively observing them as I sip at my drink. The older one claps the youngest on the back before he ambles towards the bar, his hand fumbling in his pocket for change. He orders a round of pints before counting out the pound coins in his fist.

‘Won the jackpot earlier.’ He nods towards the fruit machine and my cheeks burst into flames. I hadn’t realised I’d been staring.

‘Well done.’ I offer a tiny congratulatory smile before I turn away completely, concentrating on my drink and willing my face to cool down. Just minutes ago I’d been about to succumb to frostbite and now I may as well be sunning myself on a Mexican beach in the midst of a heatwave. I should introduce myself, let him know the impromptu day off has come to an abrupt end. But I don’t. I sit and stare at my diet coke.

‘You’re new around here.’ The barmaid gives a statement rather than poses a question as she sets the first pint down. ‘Sorry.’ She gives a one-shouldered shrug and grabs another glass. ‘It’s a small place.’

‘It’s okay. I’ve only just got here.’ I sneak a look at the builder as I continue. ‘I’m here to take over as project manager for the refurbishment on Arthur’s Pass.’

If I had any doubts that these guys were my team of builders, they disappear as the eyes before me widen to unnatural proportions.

‘You’re taking over? What happened to Nic?’ He shoots a look over his shoulder, where the others are still playing pool. The younger one is swaggering towards the table, slowly chalking the end of his cue, while the other is shaking his head and telling him he doesn’t stand a chance, but in much more colourful language.

‘There was an accident.’ I hold up a hand as his eyes widen again. ‘Nicole’s okay. Hurt, but she’ll recover.’ I slide off the stool and hold out a hand. ‘I’m Vanessa Whitely’s PA.’ There’s a roar from the pool table as the never-gonna-happen shot does indeed happen. The young lad is jumping around giving a victorious cry, while the older one, still shaking his head, flails his arms around as he tries to convince his pal that it was a complete fluke (again, with more colourful language).

‘You’re Vanessa?’ The builder’s eyes are like saucers as he turns back to me after the interruption. ‘It’s so good to finally meet you after all those emails early on.’ He takes my hand and pumps it up and down, his eyes still very much rabbits-in-headlights wide. ‘You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here, right?’ He gives a chuckle while I simply frown back at him. He thinks I’m Vanessa? The bellowing from his team obviously cut off the end of my introduction, so I’ve been inadvertently upgraded from PA to the boss herself. I’m jolted by the realisation that I was supposed to get in touch with this guy to explain about the Nicole situation and how I – Rebecca – would be replacing her for the last few weeks of the project. Bugger. I never forget to carry out tasks set by Vanessa – I’d be a pretty poor PA if I did – but I did forget to do this during the panic and disorder of the morning. I need to rectify this, and fast.

The laughter dies as the builder lets go of my hand. ‘We’re not slacking off or anything. We went to the house. Waited ages. Even phoned Nic, but there was no answer. So we came here to wait for her. No key, you see. There isn’t much we can do without access.’ He chuckles again, but it’s much weaker this time and he turns towards the pool table. ‘Hey, guys. Get over here.’

‘Run out of cash already?’ The older of the two stops his tirade so he can turn to his boss with a smirk. ‘I’m skint, pal. You don’t pay me enough.’

‘Did you see that shot?’ The other builder grins, his whole face lighting up and somehow making him look even younger.

‘That was nothing.’ The smirk falls from the older builder’s face as he leans over the table with his cue. ‘Check this out.’

I reach out to touch the head builder’s arm lightly, the frown still furrowing my brow. ‘Excuse me, but there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I’m not …’ My words are swallowed as another roar goes up from the pool table, but instead of victorious, this roar is of the mocking variety. The older builder is elbowed playfully in the ribs as his mate falls about laughing at his terrible shot.

‘Guys! Seriously, get over here.’ The head builder flashes me an apologetic smile. I open my mouth to try to explain who I am – or rather who I’m not – but he’s already turned back to the lads. ‘Come and meet Vanessa Whitely.’ I see his eyes bulge as he attempts to convey the importance of his words. It works like magic. The lads stop mucking about, their faces turning to stone as they stand upright and rush towards the bar, each thrusting their hand at me to shake in turn.

‘Hi Vanessa. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Harvey.’ The older of the two pool-playing builders is acting as spokesman as he points out his workmate. ‘And this is Todd.’

‘And I’m Vincent Mancini, obviously.’ The boss shakes my hand again and I see his forehead is starting to shine with sweat. ‘I should have said that earlier. Sorry. You can call me Vince. If you want to, that is.’ He chuckles, though the sound is strained rather than joyful. ‘I’ll answer to anything, really.’

I’m astonished by the reaction my mere presence has caused. Or rather, the reaction Vanessa’s presence has caused. I should clarify who I am, but I’m rather enjoying the power Vanessa clearly holds, so I keep it zipped. I’ll tell them later, obviously, but not until I’ve chivvied them along and got them back to work.

‘Shall we get going then?’ I tap my watch in a way I’ve witnessed Vanessa do many times. ‘We’ve lost half the day already.’

‘But my pint …’ Todd, the youngest builder, looks longingly at the bar. I could relent, let them finish their drinks, but I feel a surge of authority shoot through me, straightening my spine and raising my chin.

‘You can have a pint on your own time, not mine.’

I have no idea where those words came from, but I quite like the firm, assertive tone they’re accompanied by, and I get a real kick when the builders march out of the pub instead of snubbing my request. Being Vanessa is strangely satisfying.