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Chapter 1
Madison – Christmas Eve
I am never, ever drinking again.
This is the first thought that comes to me as I start to wake up and realise that my head is pounding, my mouth feels like something crawled in there and died, and my stomach feels like something crawled in there and is very much still alive.
This leads directly to the realisation that I’m going to be sick. Hastily, I throw back the duvet and run barefoot into my bathroom, where I vomit comprehensively and disgustingly into the toilet, thankfully remembering to hold my hair out of the way. Even when it’s obvious there’s nothing left to come up, my stomach keeps cramping, and the strain of retching is making the pounding in my head worse. I don’t think I could feel any sorrier for myself than I do right now.
Eventually, the cramping eases up to the point where I feel safe to move. I stand up tentatively, flush the toilet and move to the basin, where I splash some cool water on my face and rinse my mouth out. God, I feel dreadful. I dare to glance in the mirror, and the face staring back at me is a perfect reflection of how I feel. My eyes are bloodshot, my skin is deathly pale and clammy, and there are smudges of makeup here and there – I obviously didn’t remove it before I went to bed last night. My hair is hanging limply down each side of my face, as if in sympathy with the rest of my head. At least I’m wearing one of the long t-shirts that I like to sleep in, so I wasn’t so blotto that I went to bed in the very expensive evening gown I’d bought for the gala dinner last night. I quickly check and find that I am, however, still wearing the horribly uncomfortable thong that I’d decided on to make sure there couldn’t be even the vaguest hint of VPL showing through the tight-fitting dress. Another quick check reveals that I’m also still wearing a bra. A small part of my brain questions why I would have had the presence of mind to take off my dress before passing out, but not change into comfortable knickers, take off my bra, or remove my make-up. The rest of my pounding head quickly dismisses it though; I feel too rough to care.
A mark on my t-shirt catches my attention. It’s a little bit of sick. Yuk. I rip the t-shirt and bra off, step out of the offending thong, and open the door of the shower cubicle. Once inside I turn the shower to cool and stand underneath, letting the jets of water massage my throbbing head. After a while I start to feel a little better and turn the shower temperature up. I wash my hair, condition it, and select an invigorating black pepper bodywash for the rest of me. By the time I step out of the shower and wrap warm towels around my head and body I’m still feeling very delicate, but I allow myself to hope that the worst is over.
I’m not normally much of a drinker, which is probably part of my undoing. I enjoy a glass of wine or two, but it’s been years since I’ve had a hangover even beginning to approach the severity of the one I have now. There had been a lot to celebrate though, and, from the way I feel now, I evidently hadn’t held back.
Yesterday evening had been the annual gala dinner hosted by Voyages Luxes, a luxury travel magazine for which I do a lot of writing. I’m a freelance journalist, specialising in travel, so I spend a lot of time reviewing hotels, experiences and so on. As well as Voyages Luxes, I also write for a couple of airline in-flight magazines, and have a regular column in a Sunday supplement, so I’m lucky enough to make a decent living. Many people equate my job with being ‘paid to go on holiday’ but the reality is that it’s hard graft, and I probably spend more time pitching for work, or writing up in my flat, than I do actually travelling.
The Voyages Luxes gala dinner is one of the highlights of my year. Their head office is in Tunbridge Wells, where I live, so it’s always held in an upmarket local hotel in the area. They negotiate discounted room rates for anyone who wants to stay over, but to date the venue always been close enough that it’s been cheaper for me to get a taxi home. When you’ve stayed in as many hotels as I have, it doesn’t matter how upmarket they are: I’d still rather be at home, in my own bed.
Last night’s dinner had been at the Hotel Royal, a spa hotel with a golf course around ten miles from the town. It was a beautiful crisp winter’s evening when the taxi dropped me off, and I was looking forward to a fun evening. It’s always a black-tie event, so everyone looked very smart as I walked into the bar. There were waiters circulating with glasses of champagne and canapés on trays, and a happy buzz of conversation, punctuated by the occasional loud laugh. An enormous, tastefully decorated, Christmas tree stood in one corner, its lights twinkling. One of the things I love about the annual dinner is that my job entails working alone for the most part, so it’s a great opportunity to catch up with some of the other writers and swap stories. It’s also a great opportunity for networking and, if you win one of the awards that are given out on the night, it can be a real boost to your career. I’d quickly found myself ensconced in a group of fellow writers, gossiping happily about our time on the road and this, along with a couple of glasses of champagne, had passed the time very happily until dinner was called.
The main function room was arranged in typical corporate style, with lots of numbered round tables, and seating plans displayed on easels as we walked in, so we could work out where we were sitting. I was glad to see that my friend Toby was sitting to the right of me, but felt a pang of disappointment when I saw that I had Peter Smallbone, a failed writer who had somehow found his way into editing, on my left. Peter feels strongly that his lack of success as a writer was nothing to do with the fact that his columns were achingly dull (I know, I’ve read some of them), but all because he simply wasn’t in the right place at the right time. Any writer who is even moderately successful, when cornered by Peter, is treated to the same tedious monologue about how he could have made it if fate had dealt him a different hand. For some reason he particularly hates me, and even tried to get me dropped as a writer a while ago.
Last night was no different. As soon as I had sat down, remarked to Toby that he looked very smart, and poured myself a glass of water from the bottle on the table, he’d started up in his nasal whine.
“Hello, Madison. You’re looking very pretty this evening,” he’d begun, innocuously enough.
“Thanks, Peter, you’re looking good yourself,” I’d replied, hoping that the conversation might actually take a civil track, for once.
“It’s been a good year for you, hasn’t it?” he’d continued. “The double-handed stuff you’ve been doing with Toby has gone down extremely well. Of course, I had a plan to do exactly that back when I was writing, but no editor was prepared to listen to me. I suppose,” and here he had looked me up and down disdainfully, “you being so glamorous helps you to get editors to listen to your ideas, doesn’t it? A flutter of the eyelashes here, a winning smile there. Who was going to listen to me, eh?”
I had opened my mouth to contradict him and tell him that he was being unprofessional, but I could see it was pointless. He was winding himself up into his usual tirade and, without thinking, I had reached for the bottle of white wine and poured myself a generous glass. I was desperate for him to finish, so I could turn the other way and talk to Toby, but Peter had snared himself his favourite captive audience and wasn’t going to let go easily. I had steeled myself for a long and painful dinner.
By the time the desserts were being cleared away and the waiters were coming round with coffee, I’d made quite a dent in the bottle of white wine and was feeling slightly woozy. Peter had seemed to be running out of steam, so I had taken the opportunity to break away from him and escape to the ladies’. I remember feeling slightly unsteady in my heels as I’d tottered in the direction of the bathrooms, and giving myself a stern warning to slow down and drink more water when I got back to the table. Thankfully, when I got back, Peter was talking to the woman on his left, so I was able to chat to Toby.
We’d barely got beyond the usual pleasantries before the waiters started circulating and putting glasses of champagne in front of each guest. As soon as they were done, a hush had fallen over the room and Voyages Luxes CEO, Oliver Phillips, had taken to the stage. On a table behind him was a row of acrylic award plaques, jokingly referred to as tombstones, waiting to be handed out to their lucky winners.
He’d started, as he always does, with a twenty-minute ramble about the state of the travel industry, the success of the magazine, how customer expectations were becoming more exacting, and how he thought the travel industry should plan to respond to that in the year ahead. There was polite applause at various points, and a couple of shouts of “hear, hear” from some of the travel company CEOs in the room, but most of us (me included) had been willing him to get on with it so we could get to the awards.
You’re supposed to say, in any line of work, that awards don’t matter, and that you do the work because you love it. However, travel writing is a fiercely competitive industry, especially if you’re freelance, so an award from a company as prestigious as Voyages Luxes really helps to make you stand out from the crowd. In fact, had I not won the “Best Newcomer” award at the start of my career, I doubt very much that I would have enjoyed the success I have. They’re that influential.
At last Oliver had wrapped up his speech and the awards ceremony had got under way. As each award was handed out, the recipient walked up to receive it, accompanied by polite applause, and then made a short acceptance speech, before returning to their seat as the rest of us drank a toast to them. I hadn’t been expecting anything this year, so I’d sat back and enjoyed watching the flush of excitement from each winner, raising my glass and clapping along with everyone else.
“Madison Morgan and Toby Roberts!!” Oliver’s announcement caught me completely by surprise and I had turned to Toby with a blank expression.
“Most innovative content,” Toby had hissed in my hear as we’d got to our feet and started to make our way to the front of the room.
I have no idea what I said. I garbled some thanks I think, and Toby had said some words about how much he’d enjoyed working with me, and then we’d fled back to the table, clutching the tombstone awkwardly between us. I remember Peter looking absolutely apoplectic, and I think we had a bit of a row. I remember deciding that I wasn’t going to let his jealousy bring me down, draining my glass of champagne and heading to the bar to buy a bottle so Toby and I could celebrate properly.
After that, unsurprisingly, it all got a bit hazy.
I apply some moisturiser to my face, before padding out of the bathroom and back into my bedroom, and that’s when I spot an unfamiliar lump under the duvet. With mounting horror, I realise what it is.
There’s someone else in my bed.
Oh no. Please tell me I didn’t proposition someone last night? I know I was drunk, but surely not drunk enough to break the golden rule? From the moment I picked up the keys to my flat, I’ve had a rule that no man stays the night. I’m not anti-men at all; I like men a lot and have had my fair share of boyfriends over the years. It’s just that this flat is my sanctuary, a place that’s just for me, and having a man stay over feels like an invasion of my space. I’ve stayed over with boyfriends and that’s fine; I just don’t want them here. And inviting someone back when I’ve just met them? That’s not something I would ever do. What on earth could have got into me?
As I’m staring in horror at the bed, the shape under the duvet stretches, yawns loudly and sits up. A very familiar face stares at me, blinking the sleep away.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here, Toby?” I ask.
