The Switch(32)

So now I’ve got Dr Piotr on side, at least. And a car.

‘That’s that, then!’ says Betsy, with a clap. ‘Moving on … May Day! I know this isn’t an official committee meeting, but as the committee is all present, and there are some urgent matters that can’t wait until next meeting, perhaps we could cover one or two things here?’

Everybody nods. I’m pretty sure the May Day Committee is comprised of exactly the same people as the Neighbourhood Watch Committee, so I could point out that two separate meetings are not entirely necessary. Better not, though, on reflection.

‘Theme! I assume we’re all happy with Jackson’s suggestion? Tropical?’

‘Tropical?’ I say, before I can stop myself.

Betsy swivels in her chair to glare at me. ‘Yes, Leena. Tropical. It’s perfect for a sunny spring festival. Don’t you think?’

‘Well, I …’

I glance around the circle, then look at Jackson, who is raising his eyebrows a little, as if to say, Oh, do go on.

‘I’m just not sure it plays to our strengths. People will be attracted to this as a quaint village fair that they can bring their kids to. “Tropical” feels a bit … night out in Clapham.’

I am faced with a circle of blank stares.

‘Do suggest an alternative theme if you would like, Leena,’ Betsy says frostily.

I glance at Jackson again. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms folded, and there’s something so very cocky about that posture that my plan to forbear and win this lot around before I make any changes goes right out the window.

‘How about “Medieval”?’ I say, thinking of Game of Thrones, which I’ve been re-bingeing since I got to Hamleigh. Ethan always laughed at me for collecting my favourite shows on DVD, but who’s laughing now that I’m in the land of no superfast broadband? ‘We could serve mead, and have storytelling “bards” for kids to listen to, and the May King and Queen could wear beautiful gowns with flowing sleeves and flower wreaths, like King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.’ I’m not actually sure that King Arthur was medieval, but this isn’t the time for pedantry. ‘And we could have falconry and jousting, and the music could be all harps and lutes. I’m imagining flower garlands draped between lamp posts, stalls overflowing with fresh fruit and sugary treats, bonfires, hog roasts …’

‘Hmm. Well. Shall we have a vote, then?’ Betsy says. ‘Leena’s plan to drag us all back to the Middle Ages, or Jackson’s idea that we’d all by and large settled on last week?’

I let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘That’s kind of a leading question, Betsy.’

‘Hands up for Leena’s idea,’ Betsy says, very deliberately.

Everyone looks at each other. Nobody raises their hand.

‘And hands up for Jackson’s idea,’ says Betsy.

All hands go up.

‘Well! Good try, Leena,’ Betsy says with a smile.

‘Give me a couple of weeks,’ I say. ‘I’ll do a proper thought shower, come up with concrete ideas, pull together something to show you all. Let’s vote on it properly at the next official May Day meeting. After all, can May Day business be settled at a Neighbourhood Watch meeting?’

Betsy’s smile wavers.

‘That is a good point,’ says Roland. ‘It wouldn’t be proper.’

‘Wouldn’t be proper,’ I echo. ‘Absolutely, Roland.’

‘All right, then. Two weeks,’ Betsy says.

I glance at Jackson. This isn’t about point-scoring, obviously, but I totally just scored one, and I’d quite like him to have noticed. He looks back at me, still sitting back in his chair with his legs apart like a manspreader on the tube, looking just as amused and unfazed as he has all session.

‘That’s all, everybody,’ Betsy says. ‘And Leena, remember you’re bringing biscuits next time.’

‘Absolutely. No problem.’

‘And that’s your chair,’ Roland says, nodding helpfully at me. ‘Remember that, too.’

‘Thanks, Roland. I will.’

‘Oh, and Leena?’ says Betsy. ‘I think you forgot to put Eileen’s bins out yesterday.’

I breathe out slowly through my nose.

They’re only trying to help. Probably.

‘Thank you, Betsy,’ I say. ‘Good to know.’

There’s a general scraping of chairs and shuffling of feet as everyone stands and makes their way to the door. Beside me, Kathleen wakes with a start.

‘Shit.’ She scrabbles to check her watch. ‘Where’ve we got to? Have we done the war on squirrels?’ She clocks my grumpy expression. ‘God,’ she says, ‘did the squirrels win?’





12


Eileen


This just won’t work. I’m going to call Leena and tell her it was daft of us to think we could swap lives like this, and then I’m going home. We can have hot chocolate and laugh about it, and we’ll go back to where – and who – we ought to be.

I am absolutely settled on this plan until Fitz walks into the living room.

‘Holy guacamole,’ he says, stopping stock still. ‘Eileen! You look stunning!’

‘I’m not going,’ I tell him firmly, bending to begin unlacing my shoes. ‘It’s silly.’