The Switch
From the bestselling author of The First Wives Club and Bestseller, a witty social satire of love, marriage, and the games men and women play with each other.Sylvie knows she has a lot to be thankful for. So what if her husband, Bob, is only interested in what she has to say ‘in four words or less’? The kids are off to college, and she is sure her marriage is about to bloom again. In fact it has already, but not with her. When Sylvie confronts Bob’s mistress, she is amazed: except for a gap of ten years and fifteen pounds, Marla could be Sylvie’s twin. But while Sylvie wants passion and romance, Marla just wants a husband of her own.And so their scheme is hatched: a nip and tuck and some blonde highlights for Sylvie, some brown hair and a few extra pounds for Marla, and the women are ready to switch places. The result as they juggle their new lives and identities is hilarious and enlightening. But just how long can they keep their charade going, and will it all end in tears?
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OLIVIA GOLDSMITH
THE SWITCH
HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London W6 8JB
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998
First published in the USA by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998
Copyright © Olivia Goldsmith 1998
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007361663
Ebook Edition © MAY 2015 ISBN: 9780007440238 Version: 2015-12-15
Amy Fine Collins for helping with the idea
Cindy Adams
Paul Mahon for not being there when I needed him the most
Linda Grady for her continued support and comments
Richard Saperstein for getting it and buying it for New Line Cinema
Lenny Gartner for the islands, the support and the earrings
Marjorie Braman for the great edit and ‘Marjorie Moments’
Beaver Hall for the gnawing, lodging and tail slapping
Leonida Karpik for knowing how to sell my books
Anthea Disney for laughing at my jokes
Contents
Sylvie stood for a moment in the cool, dark hallway. It was the only dim place in the house and, though Sylvie loved the light—in fact, had fallen in love with the house for its light—she always found the comparative darkness of the hall a welcome contrast. She told herself that she really had too much to do to stand still here, one hand on the simple carved mahogany of the banister. She put her thumb on the comforting place where the curve of the wood had been worn flat by years of other thumbs. You don’t have time to linger here, she told herself sternly. But despite her admonishment, just for a moment, she would enjoy this quiet. She listened to the tiny creaks the old house made and the comforting tick of the wall clock, then forced herself to pick up the cup of tea she’d left on the sideboard. The jasmine smell filled her head.
Sylvie began to walk down the hall but, as always, glanced first into the dining room, then the living room opposite before moving down the hall toward the music room. Oh, she loved her house. It wasn’t large by Shaker Heights standards—just a center-hall colonial with only three bedrooms. But visitors, once in it, were always surprised by the grand dimensions and dignity of the house. Each of the downstairs four rooms was exactly the same size: all of them were large, light, airy rooms with ten-foot ceilings and long, high windows. Bob, at one time, had suggested they sell the house and buy a bigger one, but Sylvie had been aghast and had steadfastly refused. She didn’t need a guest room—guests stayed next door at her mother’s or camped out on the music room sofa. She didn’t need a family room: all the rooms downstairs were for the family.
Sylvie knew how lucky she was, and she didn’t take her good fortune for granted. Bob sometimes laughed at her for her little habit of checking each room. “Do you think they’re going away?” he’d ask. Or “Are you looking for something?” he’d inquire. “Not for, at,” she’d tell him. She was looking at her home, a place she had created slowly, over time, with Bob and the children. And she never wanted to be complacent about it.
Now Sylvie knew more surely than ever that she’d been right to not even consider selling the house. Perhaps in the old days they’d been the smallest bit cramped, but what would they do now with a larger place? Without the twins at home, the two bedrooms upstairs did stand empty, yet the rest of the house seemed to enfold and protect her. It was not a house too big for a couple, and perhaps someday when Sylvie was used to the idea that the children were gone she could turn one of their rooms upstairs into a proper guest room. Maybe she’d make a den for Bob out of the other. Then he wouldn’t have to leave his paperwork all over the desk in the corner of the dining room, though lately he hadn’t used it much, or at least kept it much neater than usual.
