The Switch - Beth O'Leary Page 0,36

genuine. ‘Hello, Leena,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘Of course!’ I say. ‘I brought the sign, for the door.’

‘Room for one more?’ says a voice from the doorway.

‘Oh, what a treat!’ Betsy trills. ‘Jackson, I didn’t realise you’d be able to make it today!’

I look up and feel myself flush. Jackson lopes in wearing a rugby shirt and a worn-out old cap. I was such a mess when he last saw me; every time I remember myself sweaty and snotty on his doorstep it makes me want to crawl right back to London. I try to meet his eye, but he’s preoccupied: all the elderly ladies have gravitated Jackson’s way, and he’s now wearing a woman on each arm like Hugh Hefner, only with all the relevant people’s ages swapped over. Basil is urging a cup of tea on him. Nobody has offered me one yet, I notice with discomfort. That’s not a good sign, is it?

‘Well, now that Leena’s finally here, shall we begin?’ Betsy asks. I resist the urge to point out that I wasn’t the last to arrive, Jackson was – but everyone is too busy passing him biscuits to notice that. ‘Seats, please!’

It’s hard not to wince as the elderly in the room shuffle themselves in front of their chairs and then – starting slowly at first, then picking up speed – they bend at the knees as best they can until they land somewhere on their seats with a thump.

‘Jackson usually sits there,’ Roland says, just as I bend to sit down.

‘Ah.’ I look around, still in a squat. ‘Jackson, do you mind if …’

Jackson waves a large, affable hand. ‘Course, sit yourself down.’

‘No,’ Roland says sternly, just as my bum touches the seat. ‘No, no, that’s Jackson’s seat.’

Jackson laughs. ‘Roland, it’s fine.’

‘But you like that seat best!’ Roland protests.

‘Leena can have it.’

‘What a thoughtful young man he is,’ Penelope says to Betsy.

‘Mmm. And he’s been so kind about the incident with the dog, hasn’t he?’ Betsy replies, folding her hands in her lap.

I grit my teeth and straighten up. ‘Here’s an idea. How about we all swap seats, see how it changes our perspective?’ I suggest. ‘You’ll be amazed how much difference it makes.’

They all stare at me blankly, except Jackson, who looks to me like a man trying very hard not to laugh.

‘This is where I sit,’ Basil declares firmly. ‘I don’t want to change my perspective, thank you very much. I like it right here.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘Do you know how hard it was to get into this chair, young lady?’ says Roland.

‘But I can help you get—’

‘Besides, this one’s nearest the gents,’ says Basil.

‘Yes,’ Penelope says, ‘and when Basil needs to spend a penny, he needs to spend a penny, dear, there’s nothing else for it.’

‘Right. OK,’ I say.

They look pleased. They have defeated my attempt at a basic change-management exercise with their talk of bladder control.

‘You’d better have this seat, Jackson,’ I say, and make my way to a different chair. Best to pick one’s battles; this does not feel like the right hill to die on.

‘I really don’t mind,’ Jackson says mildly.

‘No, no,’ I say, more sharply than I should. ‘You enjoy your favourite chair. I’m perfectly fine here.’

Once we’ve got going, I spend most of the meeting wondering what the meeting is, which is not an uncommon feeling – I’d say eighty per cent of the client meetings I attend are spent this way – but does make it hard to engage with the discussion.

The main thing that’s confusing me is the total lack of any mention of crime. So far we’ve talked about: bacon sandwiches (Roland has discovered that Mabel at No 5 Peewit Street makes excellent ones, so he’s back to boycotting Julie’s, which I gather is a café in Knargill), squirrels (Basil is very anti), and whether potatoes are fattening (I think it’s the bacon sandwiches they ought to be worrying about, really). Then everyone spends twenty minutes complaining about Firs Blandon, a local village that has apparently caused havoc by moving a farmer’s fence two feet to the left to reflect what they believe to be the boundary between parishes. I lose the plot a bit at this stage and just dedicate myself to eating biscuits.

I glance down at the agenda. Only one more point to discuss before we reach ‘any crime?’, which will, I am assuming, finally cover some actual crime.

‘Oh, yes, this was Eileen’s latest little project, wasn’t it?’ Betsy says. ‘So you’ll