‘We haven’t had anyone in for a while,’ the Airbnb owner tells Maddy, as she unlocks the door to the flat in the dilapidated red-brick apartment block, ‘because of … well, you know … it’s been tough.’ Her cheeks are ruddy, her eyebrows unkempt.
If any hotels here in Brighton had been open for business, Maddy might have booked a suite, but instead she’d turned to Airbnb in desperation. Sitting in the car park in Pease Pottage services, on the way down from Cobham, she’d sent over twenty messages to various hosts and had almost given up hope, when a message for this place had pinged up. Even so, the owner had been wary of a short-term let. Maddy had persuaded her by paying up front for a fortnight. A central flat with a sea view and private parking is gold dust, after all.
She hadn’t been expecting a palace, but the flat, purposely done up in neutral colours, is bleaker than she’d been expecting. It occurs to her now that maybe she’s made a mistake by being so dramatic and leaving home so emphatically. Perhaps she should have gone straight round to Lisa’s. Her best friend would undoubtedly have taken her in with open arms. But she knows Lisa has a houseful and Maddy’s troubles are too huge to dump – even on her best friend – on Christmas afternoon.
In the kitchenette she opens the fridge and is assaulted by a blast of mouldy air.
‘TV works,’ the owner says, aiming the remote at the flat screen on the wall. The fairy glitter tinkle of a Christmas advert fills the room, followed by canned applause as Michael McIntyre’s Christmas Wheel comes on. Maddy thinks of all the families around the country slumped on their sofas watching it.
She can tell the owner is itching to ask more questions. After all, there’s obviously a juicy backstory to a single woman turning up on Christmas Day out of the blue, but Maddy manoeuvres her to the door, taking the keys from her.
When she’s gone, Maddy sits on the thin arm of the cheap sofa bed and turns the TV off. In the flat next door, she can hear muffled classical music.
She puts her hands between her knees, her chunky diamond rings cutting into her toned thighs, and lets out a low groan. Her steely resolve has deflated on her journey here into a baggy, saggy airbag of defeat. She’s being ridiculous, right? She’s gone too far. What the hell is she doing here in this awful flat, in a place where she doesn’t know a soul? She’s fifty-two, for God’s sake. She should just quit now and drive back to her nice warm home.
She can so easily picture the scene: Trent contrite and apologetic. He’ll agree to therapy, he’ll delete Helen’s number and then he’ll run her a bath. He’ll bring her an iced Baileys and she will soak the day away in the Emotional Detox Bath Soak she got for Christmas in the extravagant Space NK gift box. Then she can change into her embroidered silk pyjamas, put on her lavender eye mask and pretend that today never happened.
But no. She can’t. The fantasy pops. She can’t pretend. Not any more.
Trent and Helen. Helen and Trent. The awful truth of it pulses in her mind.
Is it just a fling? A naughty liaison, or are they together? As in planning on being together permanently? The thought feels terrifying. Has Trent been planning to leave her? End their marriage? And what about Helen’s? Alex, her husband, is not the kind of person to set the world on fire, but from the few times Maddy has met him, she can see he’s a good person. He’s reliable and dependable, a good dad with a successful business and an impressive golf handicap. How could Helen and Trent even think about exploding everyone’s lives? The fallout is just too huge. Or do they think Maddy and Alex are just collateral damage? Because what about Helen’s kids? Lois and Max? Is Trent planning on being a father figure to them? It’s unthinkable.
But she’s jumping to conclusions, she tells herself. It must just be a sex thing. A mistake. A silly fling that will be over just as soon as it began.
With a shaky sigh, she picks up her phone, noticing a cascade of Instagram likes and emojis for her Christmas posts. She’s tempted to reply to the messages, but she can’t summon up the necessary cheeriness.
There are direct messages everywhere – on WhatsApp, Instagram and Messenger, some from Trent, but most from Lisa, saying the same thing: CALL ME.
It clearly didn’t take long for the jungle drums to start, then. She steels herself and presses Lisa’s number.
‘Oh, thank God. You’re alive,’ Lisa says. Her best friend does sound genuinely relieved. ‘Hang on.’ In the background, Maddy can hear music and the rumpus of a board game being played at the kitchen table. Tess, Jamie’s contemporary, who graduated last year from uni, is home with her gorgeous boyfriend, plus Lisa’s stepkids. There’s a shout as someone puts down a winning card. She’s always been a bit envious of Lisa’s large brood.
‘Maddy, what the hell? Are you all right?’ Lisa asks, clearly moving out of the kitchen to the privacy of the corridor.
‘I’m fine.’ Maddy’s voice cracks. She’s not fine. Not remotely fine and hearing Lisa’s voice makes tears of self-pity jam in her throat. Her concern feels like the warm hug she needs right now. But then Lisa has been through everything with her since they first met in a graduate training programme when they were twenty-two. They’ve shared the privilege of a lifetime having each other’s backs.
‘Is it true? I heard you’d … well, that you and Trent …’ Lisa starts.
Trent must have called Lisa, assuming that would be the first place Maddy would have gone. But now that she knows what a liar Trent is, she feels compelled to check.
‘Who told you?’
‘Helen.’
Maddy hadn’t been expecting this.
‘Don’t talk to me about that whore,’ Maddy spits.
‘Oh God,’ Lisa groans. ‘Oh, babes, the thing is she thought you knew. You know … about her and Trent.’
‘You mean, you knew? About them?’ Maddy squeezes her eyes shut, trying to make sense of what Lisa has just said. ‘Why would she think I would be OK about her fucking my husband?’ Her voice has risen hysterically. ‘And why didn’t you tell me? Why, Lis? Why? If you knew?’
There’s a dreadful, strained silence as Lisa realises her own culpability. Her admission has put them into new friendship territory. Maddy waits for an explanation. She can picture Lisa putting her hand on her gin-fogged brow. She, by contrast, has never felt more sober.
‘I don’t know. I wanted to warn you, but it’s just you and Trent … you don’t seem to … well, you’re more focused on your career than him and …’ Lisa is furiously backtracking.
‘And that gives Helen the right to …? Jesus!’ Maddy explodes, not believing what she’s hearing. ‘How long? And don’t lie, Lis. Just tell me the truth. How long has it been going on? With her?’
‘Two, maybe three.’
‘Weeks? Months?’
There’s an ominous silence. ‘Lisa?’
‘Years,’ she says quickly and Maddy knows she’s squeezing her eyes shut.
The betrayal feels like Lisa’s punched her. Humiliation is the knock-out upper cut that floors Maddy entirely. A three-year affair, going on behind her back. So not a fling then. A relationship. A serious relationship. And Lisa let it happen without warning her?
‘Maddy, please,’ Lisa starts, begging for understanding, but Maddy is so furious, she throws the phone with all her might against the wall with a feral yell.
As soon as it’s out of her hand, she knows this is the worst act of self-sabotage yet.
‘No,’ she gasps, springing across the room, seeing the shattered screen. She turns it on and off, but the phone is dead. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’
There’s a lull in the noise on the other side of the wall. Have the neighbours heard her?
Quietly, she gets up and puts the smashed phone on the coffee table, the parts dropping along with her tears. She takes a shuddery intake of breath and walks over to the window, suddenly needing some air.
She nudges aside the blind. There are two buildings opposite – hardly the sea view the listing had promised, but there’s a sliver of moonlight on the black sea in between. She has never, ever felt more alone in her whole life.
She leans her head against the cold window as she starts to sob.