Jennifer Joyce - The Accidental Life Swap

‘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.