The House Swap(2)

‘Yeah, as far as it goes. Couple more hours and we could have been in Paris,’ Francis says mournfully, grinning at me. ‘Romantic walks along the Champs-élysées. Nice cup of café au lait and a croissant would have hit the spot right about now.’

‘I know,’ I admit, ‘but it just felt too complicated, and a bit far to go, leaving Eddie and all that. Think of it as a trial this time round, see how it works. Maybe next year.’

This is old ground. Right from the start, Francis’s plans for this week away had been more ambitious than mine. Still, his enthusiasm had spiralled out of nowhere when I had tentatively floated the idea of a house swap, lurching from apathy to manic energy in the space of seconds. He had been so appreciative of what he saw as my initiative that I had shrunk back from telling the truth: that I had signed up to the house-swap site on an idle whim months ago and forgotten about it. I had only seen the message notification by chance, sifting through my spam folder in search of a mislaid communication from a friend. Someone wants to swap with you! It was an intriguing little hook, tugging me forward. I clicked on the link and there it was: a polite, featureless message from someone who signed themselves S. Kennedy, expressing an interest in our Leeds city-centre flat and offering their Chiswick house in exchange, if a suitable time could be found.

I had flicked through the pictures of number 21 Everdene Avenue – the unremarkable decor and the cool, pale walls, the nicely kept front lawn – but, in truth, I had barely taken them in. All I could think was that here was a chance for a change of scene at minimal expense, a week away for just the two of us, if my mother could take Eddie. Close enough to London for sightseeing day trips, far enough out of the centre to feel like a break from city life. We had toyed with the idea of a holiday in Spain months ago and abandoned it. Too much money and too much effort, or at least so we had told each other. Perhaps Francis, too, had been secretly daunted by the implications of an exotically hot hotel room and candlelit evenings on a mimosa-scented terrace.

Francis is ferreting beneath the plant pots at the side of the house, locating the key. ‘Brace yourself,’ he says, brandishing it. ‘This is where we find out they’ve left a load of dead bodies festering in the kitchen.’

I roll my eyes, ignoring the decisive shudder that passes down my spine. Ridiculous as his words are, I can’t help feeling that it is a weird thing to be doing, squatting in the house of a stranger. I remember a programme I watched months ago: some crack-pot psychic floating around a supposedly haunted house, wittering on about how its past tragedies were ingrained in its walls. I had scoffed, but that night I had dreamt of walking through silent rooms and cool, dark corridors, breathing in the infected heaviness of their air.

Francis unlocks the door and lets it swing open, and we stand there in silence for a few moments on the threshold. ‘Well,’ he says at last, ‘we needn’t have worried. The cops have already been here and cleaned the place out.’

I half smile, intent on taking in our surroundings. It’s the emptiest house I have ever seen. Nothing on the walls, not even a mirror. Pale pine floorboards and smooth, blank doors opening on to near-vacant rooms. A lounge containing a black leather sofa, monolithic and stark, and a sparsely filled bookcase. At the end of the corridor, I glimpse the kitchen – the bare pinewood table and a gleaming oven that looks as if it’s just been installed.

‘Is this … normal?’ Francis asks, moving gingerly through the hallway and peering into the rooms one by one, then following me up the stairs. ‘I mean, it’s not very …’

‘Cosy,’ I finish, as we reach the bedroom. It’s like an exhibit in a modern-art show. The double bed is made up neatly with a dark chocolate-brown duvet and two pillows, and there is a bedside cabinet, as well as a wardrobe looming in the corner of the room, but it’s just as devoid of personal possessions as the other rooms.

There is a sheet of white paper lying on one of the pillows, folded precisely in half. I cross the room and unfold it; it’s typewritten, in a small type size, centred. Dear Caroline, it reads, I hope you enjoy your stay. Information in kitchen folder. Please help yourself to anything you find. S.

I read the note out to Francis, who starts wheezing uncontrollably with laughter before I have even finished. ‘What?’ I say irritably. ‘What’s so funny?’

Francis takes a moment to compose himself. ‘Where do I start?’ he says. ‘The way it’s only addressed to you, like I’m chopped liver. The idea of you helping yourself to precisely fucking nothing, which is all that’s on offer, as far as I can see. The fact that it’s been left on the bed like some sort of love letter, only it’s the least romantic note I’ve ever had the pleasure of receiving by proxy. The whole thing is—’

‘All right, all right.’ I screw the note up into a ball and throw it at him, laughing despite myself. ‘I’m sure the intention was good. And yes, it’s a bit basic, but it’s not like we have to spend all our time here, is it? We can go up to London, go out for dinner. That was the point, wasn’t it?’

Francis shrugs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Well, one of the points.’

I glance at him across the room, and just like that the atmosphere shifts and changes, our laughter sucked up into the space between us. The silence lasts a little too long for recovery, and I let it stretch, leaning back against the bedroom wall and shifting my gaze to the chilly brightness of the sun striking the skylight window. I don’t have to look at him to see the expression on his face: lost and vacant, a strange mixture of mutiny and regret.