Jennifer Joyce - The Accidental Life Swap

I remain submerged until I start to shiver from the cool water and I resemble an old, wrinkly prune. I found a huge towel on the shelving unit inside the wardrobe while I was unpacking earlier, and I’ve left it warming on the radiator. Another huge sigh escapes as I wrap it around my body. I’m not sure how to light the fire, but I’m toasty warm anyway when I emerge from the bedroom encased in my fleecy onesie and fluffy dressing gown. The guesthouse is completely silent, but I break the stillness by jabbing at my ready meal with a fork and the hum from the microwave is familiar and soothing. While I wait for the microwave to zap my lasagne, I switch on the massive telly and flick through the channels until I find a repeat of Would I Lie To You . Lee Mack is tossing a teabag across the studio, aiming for a mug on the opposite desk, when the microwave pings. I turn the volume up to drown out the silence – there isn’t a sound from outside, not even the distant murmur of traffic which is pretty eerie after living in a busy town – before I grab my lasagne and settle down for an evening of watching whatever the hell I want without complaint from Lee, or competition from his too-loud music.

I wish I’d thought to buy a bottle of wine from the mini market, but I make do with a cup of coffee and the slab of Dairy Milk I did have the forethought to purchase from its prime position at the till. The novelty of being alone is already starting to wane, so I send a quick text to Emma and selfishly hope she hasn’t got such a fulfilled social life that it’ll prevent her from replying. Thankfully, Emma responds within seconds and we end up chatting until the strangest day of my life takes its toll and I can no longer keep my eyes open. I remember to set my alarm so I’ll be up and out of the guesthouse for my date with the chickens at seven the next morning, and it’s just as my brain switches from conscious to snoresville that I realise I should have come clean about my true identity, that I shouldn’t have spent the day tricking everyone into believing I’m someone I’m not. I’ll tell them tomorrow. First thing. Everyone has been so nice and welcoming to me – apart from Oliver and his ‘Of course I didn’t hit on her. Why would I?’ comment, and Stacey was a bit frosty – but it feels wrong to deceive them. Not that I’ve been lying per se – it’s simply a mistake I’ve been slow to rectify. That’s all.

When Vanessa tasked me with the role of project manager, I assumed I’d spend a few days at a time in Little Heaton before returning home for the weekend, so I haven’t packed a great deal, and my footwear is limited. As well as the peep-toe boots, I’ve brought a pair of ballet flats with me, but neither are suitable for cleaning out chicken coops, so I hope Stacey wasn’t kidding when she said they had spare pairs of wellies at the animal sanctuary.

It’s a chilly morning again, so I zip my coat right up to my chin and shove my hands deep into my pockets as I make my way across the drive. It’s still eerily quiet and I find myself longing to hear the rumble of an approaching bus as I make my way along the lane, but there isn’t any hint of traffic at all, not even a bicycle. I find myself matching my serene surroundings, taking small, gentle steps along the narrow lane, avoiding the leaves that have already started to litter the ground in case they crunch underfoot. My ballet flats, it seems, are much more suited to creeping around the countryside than my boots.

I stand at the gate for a moment when I reach Stacey and Oliver’s house, admiring the property. It isn’t nearly as big as Vanessa’s house, but it’s charming with its yellow stone façade and red tiled roof, a small patch of ivy stretching up between the front door and the sashed window to the side. This house is a world away from the grotty flat above the takeaway I share with Lee and despite my determination to earn a promotion at work, this sort of home feels so far out of reach it makes my chest ache with longing.

The curtains have already been thrown open and I can see somebody pottering around in one of the downstairs rooms. I haven’t got a clear view from here, but I can tell it is neither Oliver nor Stacey from the short, curvy build. Deciding it’s time I stopped hovering, I push my way through the gate, jumping at the sudden sound as it clangs shut behind me. Turning to shush the inanimate object, I don’t see the front door open.

‘You came then.’

I jump again, my hand thumping against my chest as I turn around. Stacey is standing on the doorstep, eyebrow quirked as she watches me scuttle along the path towards her.

‘Of course.’ My voice is a squeak, so I clear my throat and throw my chin into the air, channelling Vanessa. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

Stacey gives a lazy shrug before she opens the door wider and steps aside so I can follow her into the house. ‘Cleaning out chickens isn’t for everyone, and from what I know about you, I’d say it’s as far away from your comfort zone as you can get.’

My brow furrows as I close the front door behind me. ‘We only met briefly yesterday. What could you possibly know about me to make that judgement?’

Okay, fair enough, I’d been wandering around the countryside in a pair of unsuitable boots the previous day, but that doesn’t mean anything. I came to the village in a professional capacity. I wasn’t expecting to be volunteering at the local animal sanctuary. I’d have rocked up in my old, saggy jogging bottoms and greying trainers if I’d had an inkling.

‘This is a pretty small village.’ Stacey leads the way along the hallway, turning to make sure I’m still following. ‘There’s no such thing as a private life around here. Gossip is rife. It’s a local pastime.’

‘But there’s nothing for people to gossip about when it comes to me.’ We’ve reached the end of the passageway, which has broadened to form a small entryway. There’s a shoe rack full of wellies below a row of waterproof jackets. ‘I’m really not that interesting.’

The corner of Stacey’s mouth flickers up before she presses her lips together to stop the smirk from fully forming on her face. ‘If you say so.’ She gives another shrug before she eyes my footwear. ‘What size are you?’

‘Five.’

Stacey is wearing the cherry-red wellies again. She selects a pink pair with white hearts from the rack and hands them to me before turning towards a set of drawers and opening the top one. ‘Thick socks. Don’t worry – they’re clean. We always have plenty of spares.’ She opens the next drawer and pulls out a yellow bobble hat. ‘You might need this. It’s pretty nippy out.’ She reaches into the drawer again and hands me a pair of chunky gloves. ‘I’ll meet you outside when you’re ready.’ She points at the back door before she slips out of it. There’s a chair against the wall opposite the shoe rack, so I sit down while I pull on the socks and wellies. I’m not sure about the bright yellow bobble hat, so I wedge it into my coat pocket and make my way out into the back garden, yanking on the gloves as I go. The chickens are already out of the coop, stalking around the small lawn and scratching at the ground.

‘How many chickens have you got?’ I only saw a couple yesterday, but there are at least half a dozen out here now.

‘Eight.’ Stacey rolls her eyes. ‘We only started off with two. Ex-battery, in pretty poor condition. Bianca and Patty.’ She points out a couple of the chickens. ‘Poor girls. I didn’t have a clue how to care for them, but you learn quickly, and Oliver put together the coop for me. It helps having someone handy with wood and nails on hand, believe me. Saves a fortune.’ Stacey hands me a wicker basket and leads me towards the open coop. ‘We’ll collect any eggs first. Mrs McColl will be starting her cake baking soon, so we’d better be quick. You don’t want to get on her bad side.’ Stacey grins at me and I’m not sure whether to be reassured or not. I have no idea who Mrs McColl is but I’m keen to get the eggs in the basket ASAP.