through. It wasn’t the actual living alone—apart from the semesters sleeping in her college dorm Maddison had lived by herself since she was sixteen. No, she thought that this unshakeable melancholy was because Hope’s home was, well, a home. A much-loved family home with the family photos clustered on the dresser downstairs, the battered kitchen table, the scuff marks in the hallway where a generation of shoes had been kicked off to prove it.
And sure, Maddison wouldn’t have picked the violet-covered wallpaper and matching purple curtains and bedspread in her room, just as she would have stripped the whole downstairs back for a fresh white and wood open-plan finish, but she appreciated why Hope had preserved the house just the way it must have been when her parents died. There was love in every in-need-of-a-refresh corner.
Losing her parents so young must have been hard but at least Hope had grown up with them, in a house full of light and happiness.
Maddison’s childhood bedroom had no natural light and pretty near little happiness. The thin bunks and thinner walls, the sound of the TV blaring in if she was lucky, silence if she wasn’t. If she was alone. It was only temporary, her mother reassured her, just somewhere to stay until their luck changed.
Only it never did. That was when Maddison stopped believing in luck. That was when she knew it was down to her, only her.
Maddison found herself, as she often did, looking at the photos displayed on the hallway sideboard. Both girls were slim with dark hair and dark eyes but whereas Hope looked perpetually worried and careworn, Faith sparkled with vitality. Reading between the lines of Hope’s comprehensive file, Maddison got the impression that the older sister was the adult in this house, the younger protected and indulged. But Faith was nineteen! At that age Maddison had been on her own for three years and was putting herself through college, the luxury of a year spent travelling as remote as her chances of discovering a secret trust fund.
Maddison picked up her favourite photo. It was taken when their parents were still alive; the whole family were grouped on a beach at sunset, dressed in smart summery clothes. Faith must have been around six, a small, merry-faced imp with laughing eyes and a naughty smile, holding hands with her mother. Hope, a teenager all in black, was standing in front of her father, casual in his arms. She was probably at the age where she was so secure in her parents’ love and affection she took it for granted, embarrassed by any public show. It used to make Maddison mad to see how casually her schoolmates treated their parents, how dismissive they could be of their love.
One day Maddison wanted a photo like this. She and her own reliable, affectionate husband and their secure, happy children. A family of her own. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? She’d thought she was so close with Bart and now here she was. As far away as ever. The heaviness in her chest increased until she wanted to sink to her knees under the burden.
Stop it, she told herself fiercely. Kit would be here soon and she still had to shower and change. Besides, what good had feeling sorry for herself ever done? Planning worked. Timetables worked. Things didn’t just happen because you wished for them or were good. You had to make your own destiny.
It didn’t take Maddison long to get ready or to post a few pictures of her evening’s adventures onto her various social-media accounts, captioning them ‘Birthday in London’—and if they were carefully edited to give the impression that she was a guest at the party, not working, and that there was a whole group at the pub, well, wasn’t social media all about perception?
Her phone flashed with notifications and Maddison quickly scrolled through them. It was funny to see life carrying on in New York as if she hadn’t left: the same parties, the same hook-ups and break-ups. She chewed her lip as she scrolled through another Friday night of cocktails, exclusive clubs and VIP bars. At least her bank balance was healthier during her London exile. Keeping up with the Trustafarians without a trust fund was a constant balancing act. One she was never in full control of. Thank goodness she had landed a rent-controlled apartment.
Still, she had to speculate to accumulate and if Maddison wanted the security of an Upper East Side scion with the houses, bank balance and guaranteed happy life to match, then she needed to make some sacrifices. And she didn’t just want that security, she needed it. She knew too well what the alternatives were and she had no intention of ever being that cold, that hungry, that despised ever again.
The sound of the doorbell snapped her back to reality. She stood, breathing in, trying to squash the old fears, the old feelings of inadequacy, the knowledge that she would never be good enough, back into the little box she hid them in. She should have learned from Pandora; some things were better left locked away.
The doorbell sounded again before she made it downstairs and she wrenched the front door open to find Kit leaning against the door frame, looking disturbingly casual in faded jeans and a faded red T-shirt. Morning. Recovered from your victory yet?’
Maddison felt the heat steal over her cheeks. Maybe it hadn’t been the most dignified thing in the world to fling her arms up in the air and whoop when she and Kit were declared pub-quiz champions but it had been her birthday. And they had won pretty darn convincingly. ‘Are you kidding? I want a certificate framed for my wall so I can show it to my grandkids in forty years’ time.’
She grabbed her bag and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her.
Kit waited while she double-and then triple-locked the door as per Hope’s comprehensive instructions. ‘Right. As I mentioned yesterday we need to keep things as simple as possible. The idea is to give people a fun and unique way of seeing London, not to bamboozle them completely. Plus our target market is going to be tourists, the vast majority of whom aren’t English, so we need to make this culturally accessible to everyone whether it’s a girl from New York...’ he smiled at Maddison ‘...or a family from China or a couple from France.’
‘More of a scavenger hunt than a treasure hunt?’
‘A mix of the two. Every destination is accessible by Tube or bus to make it easier, at least to start with, and we’re putting the nearest stop with each clue with directions from that stop. On the app and on the online version you won’t get the next clue until you put in an answer for the current quest but that would be impossible on paper. The discounts you get will be linked to how many correct answers you have in the end.’
‘And what’s to stop people going online and cheating?’
‘Eventually? Nothing. But hopefully the fun of the quest will stop them wanting to find shortcuts. And the discounts will be the kind you get with most standard tourist passes so nice to have but not worth cheating for.’
‘Have you thought about randomizing it? You know, every fifth hundred correct—or completed—quest gets something extra? Just to add that bit more spice into it.’
‘No.’ He stared at her. ‘But that’s a great idea. I’ll plan that in. Good thinking, Maddison.’
‘Just doing my job.’ But that same swell of pride flared up again. ‘So, what’s the plan? Where are we starting off? Literary? History?’
Kit held up a map and grinned. ‘Neither. How do you feel about seeing the wild side of London?’
* * *
‘When you said wild...’ Maddison stood still on the path and stared ‘... I thought you meant the zoo!’
‘Nope.’ Kit shook his head solemnly but his eyes were shining with suppressed laughter. He seemed more relaxed, more boyish out and about. It was almost relaxing. But last night’s words beat a warning tattoo through her
