Life Swap

by Carol Wyer

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

'I laughed, I laughed a lot ... you will be guaranteed to remember it ... my feel good book of 2016 so far!' The Writing GarnetShe wanted a new life and true love. But the grass isn't always greener on the other side.All Polly has to her name is a string of failed relationships and a mountain of debt. She sees herself as a hopeless case and would do anything to change her luck.So when she's given the opportunity to swap all she's ever known for a life of luxury, Polly jumps at the chance. Soon, it's all diamonds, spa days and celebrity parties. Now all that's missing from her life is a bit of romance. Will hunky Matt be the man to heal her broken heart?But money can't always buy you happiness. Can the life she's always dreamed of get in the way of true love?A witty, heart warming read, perfect for fans of Debbie Johnson, Angela Marsons, and Carole Matthews.Praise for Life Swap:'Brilliant and freaking cool ... The ending, OMG it was HILARIOUS. Everyone should definitely read this!' Book Reviews by Jan'Totally didn't see the way this book was going ... witty, funny and a great pick me up.' Mum Reinvented Blog"Life Swap... what a book! It's entertaining, witty, intelligently written and each page makes you smile. All of us have those 'uh-oh' moments in life and this novel makes us see the brighter side and that everything works out in the end. Laughter really is the best medicine - pick up this book and read it for yourself' Celia SawyerPraise for Carol Wyer:'A wonderful writer of light-hearted, funny, witty and entertaining novels. Her books are like pick-me-ups!' Cath 'n'Kindle Book ReviewsAmazon UK Top 30 - Over 29,000 copies sold-

Release date: April 22, 2016

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 358

Sample

Simon Green was drowning in a large vat of fluffy white marshmallows. He flailed beneath the killer’s powerful hands, which were forcing him deeper into the gooey, vanilla depths, each marshmallow stifling his ragged breaths and blocking his respiratory passages. Some primeval instinct warned him this was no dream. He came to in an instant, heart thudding, aware he could neither open his eyes nor breathe. Simon attempted to thrash his head from side to side to no avail. He was pinned down by a leaden weight. One word sprang to mind: Ivan. Now fully conscious, Simon scrabbled to grip his attacker by the neck then tugged with all his strength. He felt a cool draught on his cheeks and gulped in a lungful of air, still clinging on to his assailant. The enormous tabby cat stared back defiantly, irritation visible in its chartreuse eyes. It was the second time in a week the damn cat had cut off his air supply while he was asleep. Was it trying to bump him off? Simon considered launching the animal through the bedroom window. Ivan hissed and instinctively unsheathed his claws.

‘Is that my precious little bundle?’ mumbled a voice from beside Simon. On cue, the cat withdrew its claws and let out a pitiful meow.

‘Simon,’ said his wife, Veronica, in a sharp tone. ‘What are you doing? Put Ivan down at once!’ Then in a grating little-girl voice she continued, ‘Come to Mummy, Ivan. Daddy was going to try and push my furry baby off the bed, wasn’t he? Naughty Daddy. Ignore him. He’s just a big bad-tempered bully because he drank too much last night.’

Simon released the hefty animal. Ivan fell onto the bed with a whoomp. Veronica’s plump arm emerged from under the duvet. She extended her hand towards Ivan and waggled her pasty fingers. Simon removed the cat fur from between his teeth and checked the clock display – it was only six o’clock. Wretched animal. He huffed in irritation then attempted to snuggle down under the duvet. The cat, now on its back and basking in its mistress’s attention, surveyed him with disdain, a sneer almost visible on its face. Veronica cooed at Ivan. The Machiavellian moggy had taken a recent dislike to Simon – a feeling that was reciprocated. It had either taken offence because a few days earlier Simon had booted it from his favourite chair, or it felt some weird rivalry over Veronica. As far as Simon was concerned, Ivan was welcome to her. She was nothing but a right old nag.

‘Poor baby,’ continued Veronica in her irritating voice. ‘You’re pining for Georgie, aren’t you?’

Simon glowered at the pampered cat. It didn’t look too dismayed by the absence of its sulky mistress, their teenage daughter. Simon wasn’t missing her or the sullen strops and general bad temper that Georgina now displayed. Whatever had happened to his little princess? Only last year, when she was a content twelve-year-old, they had been the best of friends. He had always been close to Georgie. They shared the same silly sense of humour and would often sit together on the sofa watching Lee Evans or Harry Hill, snorting with laughter while Veronica surveyed them with a po-faced expression. These days his daughter either ignored him or snapped at him almost as much as Veronica. Maybe she would be in a better mood when she returned from her trip. On reflection, that was as likely as him winning the EuroMillions. He sighed, heaved himself from the bed and pulled on his tortoiseshell-framed glasses. The room swam into clearer vision.

‘Tea, dear?’ he asked, as he did every morning. Veronica made some non-committal noise. Simon shrugged on his dressing gown. The cat stretched languorously, filling the space he had vacated.

‘Don’t forget to fix Georgie’s wardrobe door before she gets back,’ said Veronica, turning over onto her side.

‘I still don’t see why the school decided to take them to China,’ he complained, pushing his feet into his slippers and noting that the sole on one was coming adrift. He examined them. The tops appeared to have been chewed. Bloody cat! He scowled at Ivan. ‘When I was her age we considered ourselves fortunate if we went on the annual day trip to Boulogne.’

‘Not again, Simon,’ mumbled Veronica. ‘It’s cultural, for heaven’s sake. Think of all the marvels she’s visiting and experiences she’s having. It’ll open her eyes to the world.’

‘Opened my wallet, more like – eight hundred pounds. Jesus! We can’t even afford a week in Bognor—’ He stopped ranting. Veronica had opened one eye and was giving him that look.

‘Shut up, Simon. You’re a miserable old skinflint. You couldn’t refuse to send her. She’d have been the only one in the school year not to go. It’ll do her good and, after all, we should make sacrifices for our kids. That’s what parents do. You’re in a bad mood – probably thanks to that second bottle of wine. I told you not to open it. Go and get a coffee and cheer up, for goodness sake. Georgie will be back at the weekend. Try and have the wardrobe mended by then.’

‘Yes, dear.’ Simon had learned a long time ago that the best way to handle Veronica was to do as she said. If crossed, Veronica could make life very difficult. He recalled one particular occasion he’d annoyed her – 3 March 2005 – when she’d lost it big time and threw his prized collection of classic-car magazines into the recycling bin, screamed obscenities at him while he was getting changed from work, then pushed him out the back door and locked him out of the house. Wearing only underpants and socks, he’d spent the night in his shed, sitting on an uncomfortable old deckchair under a smelly blanket. The fumes from his lawnmower had given him the headache of all headaches, which was compounded when he was finally allowed back into the house only to be treated to more yelling. In the following ten years, he’d never forgotten another wedding anniversary.

In his defence, he’d been under a lot of pressure at the time. He’d been trying to get the title of ‘salesman of the month’ to win the extra thousand pounds he desperately needed to help pay the mortgage and all the bills they had racked up by moving to a larger house – a house that Veronica had insisted on buying. ‘It’s in a gorgeous village, Simon. It’s so picturesque there, Simon. It has a wonderful village school nearby – perfect for the children. There’s even a pub up the road, Simon. I know it’s a bit out of our price range, but I love it. Let’s buy it, Simon. Please!’ Funny: the pressure had never let up since.

Simon heaved a sigh. Ivan, still observing his movements, began to lick one leg. It was fine for him. He got oodles of attention and fuss from the female members of the household. He was fed on demand and had no worries. Apart from eating his way through mountains of food, Ivan’s only other interest seemed to be sleeping. Simon lugged himself into the bathroom, ensuring he didn’t disturb the now slumbering Veronica. He lifted his glasses and peered into the mirror. Mistake. The man with dark circles under his eyes who squinted back at him appeared to be in his late fifties, not late forties. He touched the balding patch on the top of his head and cursed. It appeared to have grown larger overnight. He braved a closer look in the mirror and recoiled. The bloodshot eyes were too much to face at this hour of the day. He should not have drunk all that wine. He didn’t normally drink that much and certainly not during the week. Something crashed in the kitchen below. The reason he’d been up drinking into the small hours had finally returned home. Simon headed downstairs to do battle.

His seventeen-year-old son Haydon stood by the open fridge door, drinking from a carton of milk.

‘Do you have to do that?’ grumbled Simon.

Haydon shrugged, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and replied, ‘Didn’t want to cause you any unnecessary washing-up.’

‘Rubbish. You’re just lazy,’ said Simon. He marched over to a cupboard, pulled out a glass and handed it to Haydon. ‘Pour the milk into that. Others have to drink it too and we don’t want your germs. Right. We need to talk.’

‘If this is about me staying out all night…’

‘You know damn well it is. We agreed you would be back by ten-thirty.’

‘You agreed ten-thirty, not me. Ten-thirty is for kids. It’s a stupid time to come home. No one my age goes home at ten.’

‘You said you would be home by ten-thirty so don’t try that line of attack with me. This isn’t the first time you’ve ignored curfews, but it is the first time you’ve blatantly stayed out all night.’

‘I couldn’t get home at ten-thirty. The others wanted to go on to Galaxy nightclub and they’d have thought I was a right sissy if I’d insisted on coming home.’

Simon seriously doubted if anyone would think his six-foot-two-inch son was a sissy. Haydon completely dwarfed him and if he cared to admit it, Simon was somewhat jealous of his son’s strength and height. No one would treat this boy like a doormat. He was always amazed at how his son could be so physically different from him. He decided that Haydon had inherited some throwback genes. Simon’s grandfather had been a man-mountain too – not that Simon had ever met him. The man had keeled over and died one day at work. Simon hoped he himself hadn’t inherited the weaker genes – the ones that led to heart attack and early death. If he took on any more stress he would almost certainly drop dead.

‘If you’d phoned, I’d have come and got you.’

‘Yeah, right. That would’ve looked well cool – my old man tipping up in his dressing gown and slippers to come and fetch me. You’re normally in bed by ten anyway.’

Simon decided to change tack. Haydon was being defensive. He would never win an argument with the lad at this rate.

‘Okay, let’s look at this from a different angle,’ argued Simon, running one hand through his hair. ‘Think about how we felt. We knew you were going out with Ricky and Adam. When you didn’t come home we started to worry.’

Haydon continued to glare. Simon decided to play his trump card.

‘Your mum was frantic.’ He paused. For one brief moment Haydon looked down at his feet. Haydon had always been a bit of a mummy’s boy and didn’t like to upset Veronica. Simon continued, ‘You know how upset she can get. By eleven she wanted to phone all the hospitals in the area to make sure you hadn’t been involved in an accident.’

This wasn’t the case. In truth, Veronica, slumped in front of the television, hadn’t been at all concerned. When Simon complained that Haydon wasn’t home she told him to ‘chill’ and reminded him that Haydon wasn’t a child. Simon had poured another glass of wine and fumed. It wasn’t much to ask for his family to show him a little consideration; after all, he was their provider.

‘I sent a text to let you know. I’m not an idiot,’ muttered Haydon.

‘Ah yes, the text that arrived at eleven-thirty. The one that said, “Wiv Adam. See you tomoz.” ’

‘Well, at least I let you know, didn’t I?’

‘You did, but you were still irresponsible. Ten-thirty is ten-thirty, not eleven-thirty or six-thirty the following morning… you should have returned home when you were asked to. It’s a matter of respect.’

Haydon muttered something under his breath and in a peeved tone added, ‘For goodness sake, Dad. Take a chill pill. Adam’s car broke down again and it was easier to stay at his place rather than get a lift back here. I’m seventeen not seven, so stop treating me like I’m some dumb kid.’

‘Don’t act like one then,’ Simon retorted, feeling his hackles rising.

‘Maybe if you let me take driving lessons, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

Simon spluttered. ‘And how am I supposed to afford lessons for you?’

‘You managed to find money to send Georgie to China,’ Haydon replied, crossing his arms and glowering at his father. Simon could see the marked resemblance to Veronica – the same strong chin and resolute attitude.

‘That was different.’

‘Yeah, of course it was. I’m not your blue-eyed little girl. That’s what’s different,’ Haydon snapped and stomped off, leaving Simon open-mouthed.

‘Haydon!’ he yelled. He heard Haydon clomping upstairs.

‘Haydon!’

A bedroom door slammed shut.

Simon admitted defeat. He filled the kettle and stared out of the kitchen window into the garden. The grass needed cutting again. He would have to find time this coming weekend – difficult since he was working Saturday and Sunday. The grass consisted largely of moss and weeds. It looked like he felt – past its best, tired and in need of replacing. He counted eight fresh mounds made by the resident mole. He bet he was the only person in the street with molehills.

The sound of a helicopter overhead made him grit his teeth; local multi-millionaire Tony Hedge was on his way to work. Simon bet there were no molehills in Tony’s ten-acre garden. His mind drifted for a moment…

‘Hi, I’m Tony Hedge. Nice to meet you,’ says the man peering over the fence into Simon’s garden. Simon wanders across and shakes the proffered hand. Tony has a hearty, strong handshake and a warm smile. He is wearing an outrageous Hawaiian shirt over blue shorts and flip-flops – not usual gardening attire, but somehow he carries it off with confidence. His thick, dark, wavy hair is damp with sweat. He rubs a meaty hand over his brow.

‘Lousy country! We’re either freezing our gonads off here or sweltering due to humidity. It’s a rotten day to be gardening. I loathe it,’ he complains, jerking a thumb in the direction of his lawnmower, abandoned in the middle of the lawn. ‘I really ought to pack it all in and emigrate to somewhere like Spain, or Lanzarote – they don’t have lawns there, only black volcanic sand and cacti.’

Simon agrees with him. His own T-shirt is stuck to his back thanks to the muggy day. He would prefer to be inside, but Veronica has gone out shopping and left him to sort out the tangle of weeds and neglected flowerbeds.

‘Hope you’re settled in okay. It’s great to have neighbours again. The house has been empty for too long. Listen,’ he adds after a moment’s thought, ‘why don’t you dump that trowel and nip round here? My wife’s out and I’ve got some cold cans of beer chilling in my man shed. Come on round and I’ll fill you in about the others here in “the hood”,’ he says, his grin widening. ‘By the way, do you like golf?’

Simon nods enthusiastically. He knows he’s going to get on just fine with his new neighbour.

Eighteen months later, Tony’s business as a financial advisor had taken off. He began to attract some seriously wealthy clients; all of them eager to invest in schemes that would help preserve their earnings. Almost overnight Tony became rich. He and his wife split up, sold their house and Tony moved to a palatial property at the far end of the village. Thanks to work obligations Simon saw less and less of him. Tony started moving in very different social circles to Simon and their friendship waned. Simon sighed again. It was a pity. Tony and he had really bonded. Lucky old Tony. He had it all now – even a place in Spain for his holidays, a villa with a full-time gardener.

Simon heard the muffled thudding of rock music starting up in his son’s bedroom. He finished his tea and rinsed the cup using hot water from the kettle, leaving it to drain beside the sink. Veronica hated dirty crockery lying about. He ought to get ready for work. He needed six sales this month to reach his target. He stared at the molehills. One was quivering. The little bastard was pushing up more earth.

Before he could race outside and stamp on the hill, Veronica marched into the kitchen followed by Ivan, who purred around her feet in a figure of eight, hoping for breakfast. Simon glared at the cat.

‘What did you say to Haydon? He’s been clumping about in his room ever since he came in. You didn’t give him a hard time, did you? You did. I can tell. Why, Simon? He let us know where he was. He hasn’t got any classes this week and he’s a good lad. You ought to cut him some slack at the moment. He’s worried sick about his A levels. He’s been studying all hours this holiday. That’s why I thought a night out would do him good. He doesn’t need any extra pressure from you. Honestly, Simon. Don’t you remember what it’s like to be young? No, of course you don’t. You’ve forgotten what fun is. You’re turning into a grumpy old man,’ she added, emphasising the word ‘old’. She froze him with a look before opening the cupboard for food to placate the cat, whose plaintive meowing wasn’t assisting the situation.

‘Well there’s not a great deal to be cheerful about, is there?’ he replied.

The cat’s bowl clattered to the floor. Veronica spun around, her face contorted with anger. ‘It’s no fun for me either, you know. Have you any idea what it’s like living with someone who mopes about all the time grumbling about every little thing? You may go to work, but I deal with the children and their anxieties, the housework and all the other problems that crop up here and then, when you come home miserable about work, I have to maintain a positive attitude and spend every night trying to drag you out of the pit of misery you inhabit these days. It’s becoming too repetitive. You’re draining me with your complaints and moaning, Simon. You used to be much more… alive. That’s what I loved about you – your good humour, your sense of the ridiculous and even your daft jokes. You used to be a laugh. Nowadays, you come home and slump in the chair and can hardly be bothered to talk to me or to the kids.’

‘By the time I get home I’m—’

‘Tired. I know, Simon. That’s all you seem to say these days.’ She rested against the kitchen counter and sighed, the fight drained out of her. Simon looked out of the window. The molehill quivered again. There was no point racing out to try and catch the mole. It would be long gone, burrowing deep underground in search of worms. The kitchen suddenly felt claustrophobic. He needed to get out and away from this hostile atmosphere.

‘I’m going to get ready for work. I have an early start.’ The words came out harsher than he intended. Veronica looked away. She’d hurt him. His mind refused to accept he was that bad to live with. Everything he did was for his family. It was a shame they didn’t appreciate his efforts. He picked up the food bowl and hesitated before placing it on the worktop. Veronica continued to stare into space, ignoring him. Under the table, two large as-yellow-as-green eyes ringed with amber studied him. It was a pity the cat hadn’t managed to suffocate him, he mused. There was little pleasure in living.

Polly MacGregor had been an angel for an entire week and hated every moment of it. It wasn’t that she was a bad angel; she was simply not a very good one. At present she was trussed up in a heavy costume posing on a wall in front of Playa Meloneras, a vast sandy blanket of sunbathing space in Gran Canaria. She was one of the many living sculptures attempting to earn money from passing tourists. This was quite a change from her usual job as a sports therapist and at the moment she would much rather be back in the grey UK massaging someone’s injured thigh or shoulders than standing there sweltering. She reminded herself of why she was there – it was for her best friend Kaitlin, who had sprained her ankle and couldn’t bring in the much-needed cash. Polly had volunteered to replace her while she was visiting the island. Right now she regretted that choice.

‘What ya s’posed to be then?’ asked the small boy with a buzz cut and freckles who had been staring at her for a full five minutes. He sported a faded Bart Simpson T-shirt emblazoned with the message ‘Eat My Shorts!’ Polly ignored the child. She was going to be the perfect angel. She wished him joy and maintained what she considered to be a benevolent smile and pose. The child glared at her.

‘You’re a fairy. A fat fairy.’

Polly bristled with annoyance. ‘I’m not a fairy. I’m an angel,’ she hissed at the boy, who continued to stare with large, unblinking eyes. ‘And,’ she added against her better judgement, ‘I’m not fat.’

‘You’re not an angel. Angels live on clouds in heaven. You’re a fairy. Fat fairy, fat fairy, fat fairy,’ the boy sang, pointing at her.

Polly looked about for the child’s parents.

‘You moved. You’re not supposed to move. You’re rubbish at being a fairy,’ the child said.

‘Go away,’ she retorted.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Because I’m a magic fairy and I’ll turn you into a frog if you don’t go away.’

‘You can’t do any magic.’

‘I can.’

‘No, you can’t. You haven’t got a wand. All magic fairies have wands. If you do magic, you need a wand like… Harry Potter.’ He waved in the direction of the beach. ‘There’s a proper magic man down there. He’s a wizard. He flies in the air. That’s magic. Can you fly?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she replied through gritted teeth. She wished she’d ignored the child altogether. He poked a grubby finger up his left nostril and regarded her coolly for several more minutes.

‘If you can’t fly like a proper fairy, then are you the tooth fairy? I’ve got a wobbly tooth. Want to see it? You can give me some money for it. I’ll wobble it out for you.’ He shoved the same finger into his mouth and pulled at his front tooth.

‘No, don’t do that. I’m not the tooth fairy. You’d better go. I think your parents are calling you.’

‘No they’re not. They’re over there.’ The child nodded towards a nearby café where a couple sat at a table drinking pints of lager and chatting. Polly groaned.

‘Go away. Please.’

The boy continued, oblivious to her discomfort, ‘And there’s a pirate with no head. He had loads of birds sitting on him. I think there’s some bird poop on him as well.’ He giggled. ‘He’s cool. I like the magic tree best. It looks like a real tree. When you stop to look at it, it speaks. It has a mouth! It made my mum jump. My dad took a photo of me with it. The tree gave me a sweet.’ He looked Polly up and down. ‘If you can’t float like the magic man and you can’t fly, what can you do?’

‘I mostly stand still, but I wave and give lollipops to kind people who drop coins in my pot,’ she replied. ‘And to nice little boys who go away and sit with their parents.’

‘Give me one.’

‘Only if you say “please”.’

‘Give me a lolly. I want one.’

‘Not until you ask politely.’

The boy stared at her, a frown on his face. Without warning his lip trembled and he began to cry. The sobs turned into wails. Polly tried to calm him down by shushing at him. He was attracting looks from people passing by and from his hefty father who, concerned by the commotion, was now getting to his feet. Polly noted the bulging tattooed arms and gulped.

‘Here,’ she said, bending down and thrusting a small bucket at the boy. ‘Take one.’ A sudden ripping noise from her dress made her curse. The man was now stomping towards her. The boy grabbed a fistful of lollipops.

‘Hey, only one. P-put them back,’ she stuttered.

The boy wailed loudly again.

‘Oy, oy, what’s going on here? Are you all right, Tyson?’ asked the father, placing a protective hand on the child’s head.

‘The fat fairy gave me all these lollies then shouted at me,’ blubbed the child. ‘She frightened me. And she said a bad word. It’s wrong to say bad words.’ He wailed again. Polly rolled her eyes. The kid would make a great actor.

‘Did she, indeed? A fine fairy you are. You should be ashamed of yourself. You don’t want those, Tyson. They’ll rot your teeth – nasty, cheap old lollies. Here, take ’em back and don’t shout at my boy again or I’ll bust your wings. Oh, and a word of advice… ease up on eating lollipops yourself. That costume’s far too tight already. You seem to have split the seams on it. Good thing you’re not the fairy on top of a Christmas tree. Poor tree would collapse.’ He chuckled and rubbed his son’s head with his large hand.

‘Come on, little tiger, let’s finish your lemonade and then we’ll go play footie on the beach.’

The boy looked up at Polly, tossed the lollipops on the floor and stuck out his tongue. Without thinking, she thrust out her own tongue and blew a raspberry. The boy ignored her and strolled off back to his parents’ table, hanging onto his father’s hand. An elderly man caught her in the act and frowned at her. She sighed and slumped against the wall.

Polly was sick of being an angel. Most of the people who walked past her didn’t even acknowledge her. Then there was the effort she took to get ready. No one appreciated that. And effort it was. Every morning, before they all came scuffing along the walkway, she had to paint her face and spray any exposed flesh with gold paint, struggle into a ready-made costume that allowed its owner to change position within its hooped frame yet sat firmly on Polly’s ample hips, restricting her every movement. Then there were the ridiculously heavy wings that made her back ache. Finally, she had to stand completely still on a wall, sun blazing on her head, making her sticky and uncomfortable, with gold paint running down her face in little rivulets.

Mickey and Minnie Mouse wandered by and waved. Polly raised her hand in return. This part of Gran Canaria was a hotspot for tourists and, as such, attracted a variety of people all trying to earn a crust. There were the living sculptures and those like Mickey who dressed up and had photographs taken with tourists. Then there were the puppet masters and sand-sculpture artists. Meloneras beach was the smartest and most fashionable resort in Gran Canaria. Even so, Polly was still surprised to see just how packed it was with tourists. She felt exhausted observing the never-ending parade of people meandering to and from the sand dunes, cafés and hotels.

Polly dabbed at the sweat now pooling in the nape of her neck. She had never enjoyed sunbathing. Her pale complexion never went golden brown like her friend Kaitlin’s. She only assumed various shades of red before her skin peeled. ‘It’s a sign of beauty,’ her mother would say when she complained. ‘Pale ladies were considered high class and beauties in the olden days. Those from poorer families or labourers would have darker, tanned faces. You are beautiful,’ she said, ignoring her daughte. . .