The Accidental Life Swap

I’m almost at the main road when I hear the distant rumble of a double decker bus. Gah! Pushing myself and praying I don’t break an ankle in the stupid boots, I make a dash for it, gasping and rasping for breath as I sprint towards the bus stop. Yes! There’s a sizeable queue waiting to board, giving me a few more valuable seconds to reach the stop. This must be a good sign of things to come, surely, even if it means I’ll probably have to stand for the entire fifteen-minute journey.

I make it onto the bus, sweating despite the chill, and collapse onto the one remaining seat at the back. I take the available seat as another good sign of things to come, even if it is the seat in the middle, which means I spend the next fifteen minutes in fear of flying down the aisle of the bus every time we turn a corner or brake. I’m not catapulted from my seat (a third Good Sign) and the traffic is pretty smooth going (Good Sign #4), meaning I have plenty of time to get from the Piccadilly Gardens bus stop to the office without breaking another sweat. This is definitely a Good Day. I’m feeling so positive, I practically skip along Lever Street and offer my cheeriest of hellos to the barista as I step into my favourite independent coffee shop. I order three coffees – a gingerbread soya cappuccino, a cinnamon latte with whipped cream and brown sugar, and a salted caramel mocha. Spending my hard-earned cash on fancy coffees is a big indulgence for me, but I feel a Good Day like today deserves it, and so I barely whimper as I slot my debit card into the card reader and jab my pin into the number pad.

Carrying three hot coffees – even if they are helpfully slotted into a cardboard tray – means I can no longer skip, but my mood is still lifted as I make my way to the office. Vanessa Whitely Events is located on the third floor of a converted red-bricked Victorian terrace and while the outside has kept its historical charm, the inside is airy and modern, with exposed brickwork, shiny white desks and chrome lighting fixtures in every conceivable place. The reception area has huge tub chairs in a rainbow of colours, and I can still taste the fear of waiting to be called for my interview three years ago every time I step inside.

‘Morning.’ Emma smiles brightly from behind the reception desk, raising a hand in greeting as I elbow my way through the glass doors. ‘Need a hand?’

Emma is one of the loveliest people I know. Permanently chirpy and always willing to listen to me moan about Vanessa’s lack of faith in me, or Sonia’s latest catty remarks, or life in general, Emma is often the only thing that keeps me going at work. She isn’t just a work colleague; she’s my best friend and I’d be lost without her. I felt a bit out of place when I stepped into the big, wide world of events management alone, but Emma was like a life jacket from the moment she arrived behind the reception desk two years ago, propping me up with friendship and gin.

‘I’m okay.’ I dodge out of the way of the door, allowing it to close behind me as I right the tray of coffees that is slipping from my grasp. ‘Just about.’ I scamper towards the reception desk to relieve myself of the tray and the file that I’ve somehow managed to keep tucked under my arm. ‘Cinnamon latte?’ I de-wedge one of the coffees and hold it out to Emma, whose eyes widen as she grasps the cardboard cup.

‘You’re the best! I am so in the mood for a decent coffee.’

I give a one-shouldered shrug, as though the cost of the coffees hasn’t taken a scary chunk out of my weep-inducingly low bank balance. I really need this promotion. ‘I thought we could do with a treat.’

‘Amen to that.’ Emma raises her cup before she takes a sip, closing her eyes to savour the taste. ‘God, yes. I need this today. Vanessa’s already on the warpath and it isn’t even nine o’ clock.’

‘She is?’ My stomach churns. This information doesn’t bode well for me. I need Vanessa to be in good spirits – or at least neutral spirits – when I present my ideas to her. If she’s in a bad mood, she’s more likely to toss my file aside to ‘take a look at later’ – which never happens – or dismiss them outright.

Bugger.

‘Any idea what’s set her off?’ If I can smooth things over, I could nudge my chances of promotion back on track. Emma is the font of all knowledge when it comes to Vanessa Whitely Events; she usually knows what’s happening and when and to whom, so if you want up-to-date gossip, she’s your woman. But Emma shakes her head.

‘No idea, sorry. She stormed in here earlier, yelling into her mobile, but I couldn’t get the gist of it.’

‘Maybe this will help calm her down.’ I pick up the tray of coffees. ‘Wish me luck.’ Slipping my file of ideas under my arm, I head towards Vanessa’s office, chin held high in determination as I rap on the door.

Chapter 2 (#ue3d4ad87-0845-5d5e-8ba3-1d8c57c46ebb)

Vanessa is sitting behind her desk, her face pinched as she rests her chin on a clenched fist. Her mobile has been tossed aside, landing on the edge of a stack of paper so that it’s being propped up, face-down, on the desk. Her hair – unusually for Vanessa – is looking a bit bedraggled, as though she’s been clutching at her head in despair, disrupting her sleek up-do. Do I mention it? Earn myself a few extra brownie points for my honesty and for saving Vanessa from looking anything but flawless? Or will that put me in the firing line? Perhaps it’s best to keep quiet, just until I’ve established why Vanessa is so clearly distressed, if there is a way I can help, and if my mentioning the state of her hair will be a help or hindrance to my cause.

‘Well? What do you want?’

I’m still dithering by the door, but Vanessa’s bark spurs me into action. Stepping fully into the room, I march purposefully across the large office, noticing with alarm that a pot of pens has been swiped from the desk and is currently strewn across the polished floor. This is not good.

‘Coffee.’ My voice comes out all squeaky, so I clear my throat and try again. ‘I brought you a coffee. Soya cappuccino. Gingerbread.’ I clear my throat once more and step over the scattered pens. ‘A gingerbread soya cappuccino.’

Vanessa’s shoulders rise as she heaves in a breath through flared nostrils. I suspect she’s either going to burst into tears with gratitude or roar that a gingerbread soya cappuccino is no longer her coffee of choice. I’m not sure which option I’d prefer, but it’s a third option that Vanessa plumps for, releasing her breath with a heavy, disdainful sigh. She snatches a cardboard cup from her desk and wafts it at me.

‘I already have a coffee, thank you very much.’ Although Vanessa is using pleasantries, the words are fired at me with a sneer.

‘I could tell Vanessa needed a pick-me-up this morning.’ Sonia’s voice makes me jump, and the file slips from under my arm, joining the mess of pens on the floor. I didn’t realise my colleague was in the office, skulking in the corner. She smiles sweetly – almost patronisingly – at our boss. ‘She’s having a tough time.’

‘Oh?’ Dumping the coffee tray on Vanessa’s desk, I crouch down to pick up the file. Luckily, none of the pages have come loose. ‘Anything I can help with?’

Sonia snorts, and when I steal a look behind me, she’s shaking her head at Vanessa while rolling her eyes. She emerges from her corner by the window and perches on the edge of Vanessa’s desk, as though they’re the best of buddies. Equals. Sitting in such close proximity, I realise how similar the pair look. Both have bleached white-blonde hair, stark against their defined brows and tanned skin (Vanessa’s due to three weeks in Barbados, Sonia’s courtesy of Sunny Dayz, the tanning shop she rushes to every lunchtime to keep her tan topped up). They’re even dressed alike this morning in silk shirts with pussy-bow collars, Vanessa’s a navy, long-sleeved shirt while Sonia has opted for an indigo-and-white striped sleeveless version. I attempted to emulate Vanessa’s style this morning, but Sonia has gone one better. She’s beaten me, again.

‘This problem is going to take more than a coffee run, sweetie.’ Sonia crosses her arms and her eyes flick upwards again. Snotty cow. I wish I was the kind of person who could call others out on their rudeness, but I’m not. I’m a pushover. Always have been, always will be, no matter how much it frustrates me.

Sonia and I started working at Vanessa Whitely Events on the same day. While I’d been offered the role as Vanessa’s PA, Sonia had joined the company as one of the receptionists. We’d both recently graduated, and this was our first proper job. We should have bonded, but instead battle lines were drawn as Sonia made it her mission to rise to the top as quickly as possible, trampling on anyone she had to on the way up. While she was quickly replaced by Emma on the reception desk after being promoted to event planner, I’m still Vanessa’s assistant, with no say in the events the company managed, no matter how many ideas I have whirling around my head.

‘I don’t know about that, actually.’ Vanessa sits upright, her movement so sudden and unexpected that I almost topple backwards in my crouched position. ‘Maybe you can help.’

‘She can?’ Sonia’s brow furrows as she looks from Vanessa, to me, and back again.

‘I can?’ I leap up from my squatted position and beam at my boss. Vanessa is tapping her chin with a manicured finger, her eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits.

‘Yes.’ Her lips spread out into a wide smile until her veneered teeth are displayed, hungry shark-like. ‘Yes, I think you may be the perfect solution, Becky.’

‘It’s, um, Rebecca.’ My response is mumbled – what the hell does it matter if she calls me Becky? She can call me Bogey-Face if she wants to (my flatmate certainly does, and finds it hilarious). Vanessa has just declared – with a witness – that I, Rebecca Riley, am the perfect solution to her problem. Not Sonia. Not any of the others on the team. Me.

‘Can you give us a minute to discuss the matter?’

I assume Vanessa is dismissing me, and start to back away from her desk, careful not to step on any of the pens still littering the floor, but it’s actually Sonia she’s addressing. Sonia seems as shocked as I feel, her mouth slowly forming a large ‘O’ as she blinks at Vanessa.

‘Go on.’ Vanessa wafts her hand, almost shooing Sonia away from her perched position on the desk. ‘You need to prepare for the team meeting anyway.’ Vanessa flicks her wrist to check the time on her chunky watch. ‘Shoot. We’re already running late. Give me five minutes?’

Sonia closes her gaping mouth and manages a grimace-like smile. It switches off immediately as she meets my eye. ‘Fine. I’ll make sure we’re ready to get started as soon as you’ve finished here.’

‘Thank you, Sonia.’ This time, Vanessa’s pleasantries are met with a corresponding smile. ‘What would I do without my right-hand woman?’

Usually, I’d be silently seething at those vomit-inducing words, but right now I’m floating on a cloud of pure happiness. Because while Sonia is Vanessa’s right-hand woman, I am the perfect solution to her problem. I will solve whatever hiccup has sent Vanessa into a rage. I will be the hero that saves the day, and Vanessa will finally value my contribution to the company.

Promotion, here we come.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_a187347a-d8f5-5931-9969-74b0ac438968)

Vanessa pulls her shoulders back so she’s sitting straighter, the frown lines that were moments ago intersecting her forehead all but gone as she turns a mega-watt smile in my direction. She indicates the chair on the opposite side of her desk with an upturned hand as she reaches to align her mobile with the other.

‘Please sit, Becky. We have lots to discuss.’

I do as I’m told, but only after I’ve scooped the scattered collection of pens from the floor and arranged them in their pot, setting it in its rightful place on the desk. I really can’t help myself, but I think Vanessa appreciates the act, even if she doesn’t voice it and merely watches me with an eyebrow cocked in bemusement.

‘So, how can I help?’ I’ve finally plonked myself in the seat and Vanessa is grinning at me again from across the desk. I’m not sure I like it. I’ve worked for Vanessa Whitely for three years and I’ve never seen her beam like this. So toothily. Like a crocodile about to snap up its dinner whole. I’m unnerved, but I’m trying not to show it. I want Vanessa to see me as an equal, or as close to an equal as possible while still being the boss. I want her to see me as she sees Sonia and the others, not as the trembling imbecile I feel inside right now.

‘Is it about the Heron Farm Festival? Because I’ve been working on some ideas …’ I’m sliding my file across the desk towards Vanessa but pause as she starts to shake her head. Her hair is still askew, but we’ve gone way beyond the point where I can point it out by now.

‘This isn’t strictly work-related.’ Vanessa thrusts her chin in the air and narrows her eyes ever so slightly. ‘But it is extremely important to me.’

‘What is it?’ I lean forward, my forearms resting on the desk in front of me. I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I haven’t been catapulted straight into the autumn festival’s plans, but I am intrigued.

‘I bought a little place last year, practically in the middle of nowhere. There isn’t a Waitrose for miles, which sounds hideous, I know, but also a bit romantic, don’t you think?’ Vanessa poses the question, but she doesn’t give me the chance to respond as she ploughs straight on. ‘I couldn’t live there full-time, obviously – can you imagine the commute?’ Her eyes widen momentarily, and she gives a little shake of her head. My eyes linger on her abused hairdo as a stray wisp wobbles on top of her head, and I have to drag my gaze away before I draw attention to it. ‘It’s more of a weekend getaway, a place I can escape to when I need to unwind. You know how it is.’

Vanessa and I clearly live in different worlds, but I bob my head up and down in understanding, as though I, too, am in a position where I can waltz off to a second home to chill out for the weekend.

‘The house is a bit like my sister-in-law; absolutely stunning on the outside but a big ugly mess on the inside.’ Vanessa presses her lips together and her shoulders shake with a suppressed giggle. She clears her throat and she’s back to being professional Vanessa, the bitchiness locked back inside. ‘Anyway, like I was saying, the house is in need of some major TLC. I’ve been working on it for months. My project manager has been brilliant though.’ She heaves a massive sigh and leans on the desk, jelly-like. ‘Unfortunately, she was involved in that pile up on the M60 last night?’ Vanessa’s voice goes up at the end, turning her statement into a question. Her eyebrows rise too as she awaits a response.

‘Oh my God, is she okay?’ Of course I’d heard about the accident – it was all over Granada Reports last night and splashed across the front of The Metro this morning. A haulage truck had ploughed into a car at rush hour, killing the driver and seriously injuring her two young children, and causing a major pile-up on the motorway. Three people had been airlifted to hospital, while several more had been transferred by ambulance.