Fiona Collins - The Sister Swap - the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of the year!

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.

Chapter Seven

Meg

Meg was woken by a cockerel crowing lustfully from somewhere beyond the window. She groaned. Really? There was still a cockerel here, making a row loud enough to wake the dead every morning? It used to drive her nuts . Stuffing a pillow over her head, she tried to get another five minutes, but the cockerel wouldn’t shut up, so the pillow was shoved off and Meg sat up.

What time was it? Quarter past seven. Oh, pretty early, but country folk always got up early, as far as she remembered. They had boring things to do like livestock to feed and crops to water and stuff. Anyway, she got up earlier than this in London. She’d be on her way to the office by now, doing the first leg of her power walk. God, she wished she was on it right now. What on earth was she going to do here all day?

She checked her phone, her emails. There were loads, all being forwarded to Lilith. It made her blood boil to think of Lilith sitting at her desk, doing her work. Actually, it made her heart race. Palpitations, oh god. She took one of her tablets and forced herself to calm down and breathe . She was here to get better, not worked up, and once she was better she could get back to London. She sent silent pleas to her blood pressure to lower. And then she texted Clarissa.

Hi, lovely, all OK for the Rome job today?

Yes, Lilith already called me. Everything all arranged .

Great. Meg texted this with her teeth firmly gritted. Don’t forget we need to get you a new passport at the end of August.

Yes, I know. Guess what? I met your sister.

Already? Obviously, they might bump into each other, in the lift or something, but Meg hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

Really? How was she? It was strange that after fifteen years, Clarissa had seen Sarah and she hadn’t.

Nice. Nothing like you.

Charming!

I mean looks wise. You’re tiny, she’s tall.

The genetic lottery. She got Dad’s, I got Mum’s. What did you think of her?

She was nice. Friendly. How come you never told me you had a sister? That was a difficult question for Meg to answer. Because she found it easier to not mention Sarah, to not explain why she didn’t see her. Because she was happier trying to breeze through life without thinking about her. Clarissa liked her sister, though. Interesting. Although first impressions did have the tricky habit of being deceiving.

It just never came up , texted Meg, lamely.

OK, replied Clarissa. She was a smart girl; she knew when to let things go. I invited her for coffee sometime.

Oh, not so smart. Why?

I don’t know, I just felt sorry for her. She seems … vulnerable.

I doubt it , responded Meg. When had Sarah ever been vulnerable? Controlling, condescending, strict, and implacable, yes. Vulnerable, no. So, have a great time in Rome. I’ll speak to you soon x

Will do. Hope you’ll be ok down there. Don’t break any farmers’ hearts!

I’ll try not to x

Meg got out of bed. She hadn’t brought her white waffle dressing gown as there hadn’t been room in her bag, but the bathroom was down on the landing and she was wearing her short cotton nightie, the one with the straps that kept falling down, so her eyes darted round the room for something she could put on. Oh, there, on the hook on the back of the door was Sarah’s old faithful – that yellow dressing gown Meg used to hate. Sarah had worn it more than once picking Meg up from various pubs. It was fluffy and made Sarah look like Big Bird; Big Bird had usually sat in the driver’s seat, looking highly disapproving and sour faced. Meg couldn’t believe Sarah still had it.

After a quick shower and a good old nose at Sarah’s toiletries (all supermarket brand and totally uninspiring), Meg, dressed in designer jeans and an old Gentlemen Prefer Blondes T-shirt, walked down to the kitchen. All was quiet – except for the sound of gentle snoring coming from Connor’s room upstairs. Meg opened the fridge, took the plastic milk carton out of the door by the lid and the whole thing fell on the floor, splattering milk everywhere. What the hell? She grabbed a cloth from the side of the sink and quickly cleared it up. Teenagers! She would have to get used to living with them, and living with people in general again. She hadn’t shared anything much with anyone for a long time.

Meg poked about in the fridge and the cupboards and was not surprised to see them all groaning with food. Sarah had always been good at keeping groceries stocked up. When she came back to Tipperton Mallet to be Meg’s guardian she’d primly said, on the very first night, that Meg had always been very well fed when their parents were alive, and she was going to have to keep that up. Meg had been served ‘proper’ home-cooked meals by Sarah – martyring around the kitchen in Mum’s ‘cat’ apron – for two whole years, which Meg still felt resentful about. Every dinner in their mother’s repertoire had been replicated: spaghetti Bolognaise, cottage pie, smoked haddock and cheese sauce, endless casseroles … Each recipe had been un-deviated from. Except nothing had been the same. All those meals had done was make Meg feel sad and angry. Every mouthful had just filled her with further bitterness and grief.

Meg slammed shut the door of the last cupboard, which was stuffed with different types of pasta. She made herself a quick piece of toast and Marmite, then called up the stairs to any teenager who might be listening. ‘I’m just going out!’ She would go for a walk, lower the blood pressure, follow the doctor’s bloody orders … see if, miraculously, there was anything interesting going on around here these days.

From upstairs came the sound of a door opening. ‘Are you going to Binty’s ?’ grunted an almost indecipherable Morgan Freeman. Bloody hell, Binty’s , thought Meg – was that still there?