Page 22 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Flick suddenly looked a bit awkward. ‘Actually, I did try to book an extra bunk but there’s an age limit. You have to be under forty . . .’ She trailed off.

‘Oh, I see.’

Right, well, that told her. She was officially an old fart.

‘Anyway, the Airbnb is in a much better location,’ continued Flick, pinching the screen of her phone and peering at it in concentration. ‘In fact, it should be around here . . .’

Punching the address into the app on her phone, she pressed start and after a few moments of waving it around like a divining rod to see which way the arrow was facing, she set off with Maggie behind her. Together they followed the directions, which led them along steep, winding streets. Zig-zagging further and further away from the swanky hotels and seafront restaurants, they climbed up the hill, huffing and puffing.

Well, actually, Maggie noticed only she was huffing and puffing. Flick seemed to be taking it all in her stride. But then she was wearing trainers, observed Maggie, who resolved to change out of her flip-flips as soon as she got to the Airbnb. They had no arch support. Podiatrists always tell you that. It was obviously the reason why she was so out of breath, and nothing at all to do with the fact she’d lost her gym membership along with everything else.

And, no, walking a few springer spaniels a couple of times a week for the local kennels and living on frozen pizza did not replace Body Pump three times a week.

‘This must be it!’

Finally Flick stopped climbing endless stairs and came to a standstill outside an incongruous-looking building. Puffing up the stairs behind her, lugging her wheelie case, Maggie felt a wave of relief. All she could think about was taking a cold shower and being horizontal.

‘Perfect,’ she panted.

Note to self. When flying to the Mediterranean in the height of summer, do not dress for a northern climate in jeans and a thick sweatshirt with nothing underneath but your T-shirt bra which is now glued to your under-boob sweat.

‘Is there a code to get inside?’

‘Yes, it’s keyless entry, hang on,’ replied Flick and then, after punching in a few numbers, the door released with a buzz, and they entered.

OK, so she wasn’t expecting five-star but as Flick opened the door and surveyed the dingy room before her, her heart sank to the bottom of her vegan trainers. Oh God, this was beyond awful. This had to be one of the grottiest Airbnbs she had ever stayed in, and there had been some grotty Airbnbs in her time. Thanks mostly to Rory, who was not exactly known for pushing the boat out when it came to accommodation, his favourite phrase being ‘It’s just a bed for the night.’

As the two women squeezed inside, their backs to the wall, she was momentarily lost for words.

Which, for anyone who knew Flick, was almost unheard of.

‘Oh well, it’s just a bed for the night,’ she said cheerfully.

But as she said it out loud, she couldn’t bear to look at her travelling companion. When Maggie had offered to come with her on this madcap scheme first chance at investigative journalism, she was delighted by her support, but nervous as hell. She was flying by the seat of her pants, but she couldn’t let Maggie know that. She wanted to look like a professional journalist – someone proficient and capable, who had a handle on every situation. Someone with experience, whom Maggie could trust.

And yet there they both were, standing in a room with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The kind of room that wouldn’t look out of a place in a TV crime series about drug smuggling and kidnapping. As for the size – bijou would be one word; broom cupboard would be another. And all with a view of someone’s dirty washing and a brick wall covered in graffiti.

‘Is that a penis?’ Maggie gestured towards it now.

‘Um, maybe a rocket ship?’ said Flick, hopefully.

You know those nightmares? Where you’re running down the high street naked and everyone is looking at you? Well, this is worse, thought Flick. Much, much, worse. She glanced across at Maggie, who gave her a reassuring grimace.

‘It’s not so bad.’

‘It’s awful,’ groaned Flick. ‘It didn’t look like this on the website.’

‘What? You mean, there were no photos of giant graffitied penises?’ joked Maggie and Flick felt herself relax ever so slightly.

‘I’ll take the sofa; you can have the bed, obviously.’

‘I don’t think there is a sofa.’

‘Huh?’

Flick looked around the broom cupboard. Maggie was right. There was no sofa. Just two small stools, a table and some misshapen wire hangers. The wardrobe door was missing.

‘I’m happy to share the bed, if you are,’ suggested Maggie. ‘Unless of course you want to call your editor and see if he can find you something else? Surely it’s the newspaper’s responsibility if they’ve sent you here to try and get an exclusive?’