The Switch(95)

‘Come in,’ I say instead, stepping aside. ‘The whole fecking village is in here.’

I lead him into the living room, where the Neighbourhood Watch committee members are now assembled, all perched on sofas and armchairs.

Jackson stands for a moment, looking at the room.

‘Why are the chairs all facing that way?’ he asks.

I follow his gaze to the empty space where Carla’s bed once stood. Grandma’s looking, too, and I see her eyes shutter, the emotion quivering in her face. Then I look at the bin in the corner of the room, and there it still is, that awful old photograph of Carla. I should have clocked then how desperate Mum was for change, how much she needed it.

I’m seized by that familiar urge to do something, that same sensation that got me switching lives with Grandma in the first place.

Maybe something less drastic this time. But something for Mum.

‘Let’s redecorate,’ I say. It comes out a bit too loud; I clear my throat. ‘While Mum’s away. She said she wanted to, a while back. We could do it all for her, a full overhaul, not – not clearing Carla out of the house, but just … making space for the new Mum.’

Eileen smiles up at me. ‘That’s a lovely idea. I’ve been practising my redecorating skills, too. Martha taught me all sorts.’

‘What have you been up to, Eileen?’ Penelope asks, in a hushed tone. ‘Was it all ever so exciting?’

Grandma folds her hands in her lap. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘I hardly know where to start …’

*

I stay up in Hamleigh for another night, planning the redesign of Mum’s house, catching up with Grandma, helping her unpack … everything except thinking about Ethan. The next morning I get up early so I have time for a run in the hills – I borrow an old pair of trainers from Kathleen. There is nothing like running here. It’s breathtaking, and as I round the bend on my favourite route, the one that gives me 360-degree views across Harksdale, I feel my heart ache. A thought pops into my head, and it makes me a little afraid, because it says, This place feels like home.

But it’s not home. I have a life in London, regardless of Ethan – I’ve got a career to salvage, a flat, friends.

You have friends here, too, that little voice says. Still, I get myself back to Daredale station, and I take that train back to London, and I walk back to my empty flat, where my real life is, because that’s the sensible thing to do.

The misery hits as soon as I’m home again. It’s worse than the first time, because this time I know for sure: the life I’ve had with Ethan here, it’s gone. There’s the cushion I bought from Camden Market with him one Saturday, and there’s his usual seat at the breakfast counter, and there’s the scuff on the floor from when we silly-danced to jazz music after a long day at work, and all of it means nothing now. I slide down the door and let myself cry.

This is where I am when Bee comes around to see me.

‘Oi!’ she calls through the door. ‘Leena, let me in!’ A pause. ‘I know you’re in there, I can hear you crying. Let me in, will you?’

She bangs on the door.

‘Let me in, Leena, I can hear you!’

She’s like a little London Arnold. I shift to the side and reach up to open the door without standing. She steps inside, takes one look at me, and then pulls a bottle of wine out of a supermarket bag in her hand.

‘Come on, you,’ she says, pulling me up by the arm. ‘We need to start talking, which means we need to start drinking.’

*

It’s at approximately one a.m. the next morning that Bee and I finalise our business plans. This life-altering conversation goes something like this.

‘It’s just like my mum says, why’s it got to be always about London anyway, I mean God I don’t even fucking like this city, do you like this city, Bee?’

‘There’s no men here.’ This comes out a little strangled, because Bee is currently hanging upside down from my sofa, her feet up the back, her hair splayed on the floor. ‘All the good men are in Leeds. All the good men. Oh my God, do I have a babysitter?’ Bee sits up with a gasp and clutches her head.

‘Jaime’s with your mum,’ I remind her, for the fifth or sixth time since the second bottle of wine was opened.

She flops back down again. ‘Mmkay good.’

I take another swig of wine. I’m on the rug, legs spread-eagled; my brain is whirring through the drunken fog. ‘Shall we just go, Bee? Shall we just go and fucking do it? Why are we even here anyway?’

‘You mean like … philosophicalilly?’ She narrows her eyes and tries again. ‘Philosophocally?’ Then, with great amusement: ‘Philofuckitally?’

‘I mean like, why are we in London anyway? Who says we have to run our business from here?’ I rub my face hard in an attempt to sober up. I have the vague sense that what I’m saying is very important, and also, possibly, the cleverest thing anyone has ever said in the whole wide world. ‘We’ll end up travelling all over anyway. And there’s so much business around Leeds, Hull, Sheffield … I want to be up in Yorkshire where my family is. I want to be with Hank the dog and all the gang, and those hills, God, they make my heart fucking sing, Bee. We can get an office in Daredale. Bee, you’ll love it, Bee. Bee. Bee. Bee.’