Oh, come off it, Lizzie, dont go on! called her husband from the lounge, his voice clashing with the blare of the football and the cackling laughter of his three mates. The lads just dropped by to watch the match, whats the big deal? Ive not seen them in ages since school! Youd do better to slice up some gherkins and get out that nice salami we saved for a special occasion. Got lager, but nothing decent to nibble on, and thats no fun!
Lizzie stood in the hallway, her keys still clutched in her hand. Shed just stepped over the threshold after nine hours at the office, her only wish to kick off her heelsthose medieval torture devicesscrub off her makeup, and collapse with a book on the sofa. The day had been hell: annual reports, her managers screeching, two hours stuck in traffic in dreary drizzle. Home was supposed to be her haven. Instead, returning felt like wading into London Victoria at rush hour.
The sour stench of cheap lager and stale fish hit her nose. Strewn across her beloved beige rug were mens size twelve shoes, some caked in mud. Someones jacket had slipped from the coat rack and was now sprawled on the floor like a wounded pigeon.
Lizzie breathed deeply, trying to steady her trembling hands, and entered the lounge. The scene was a tableau: Steve, her lawfully wedded husband, slouched in his armchair, while the sofa was commandeered by Tony, Paul, and an unfamiliar bearded man. Upon the glass coffee tableher pride, polished till it gleamedpiled high were bottles, bags of crisps, and a mound of fish scales dumped straight onto the local paper.
Steve, Lizzie said quietly, we agreed. No guests in the week without telling me. Im tired. I just need peace.
Steve waved her off, his gaze glued to the telly, twenty-two millionaires sprinting across emerald grass.
Oh, here we go! he groaned. Tired, head hurts. Liz, dont be an old bat. Lads, tell her!
The boss of the house, well be as quiet as mice! Tony bellowed, his quiet about as subtle as a fighter jet at take-off. When our lot score, we might even have a dance! Come on, join us. Fancy a pint?
I dont want a pint, Lizzie felt a cold, furious determination brewing inside her. I want this place empty and clean in ten minutes.
Dont embarrass me in front of everyone! Steve finally turned round, his face flushed and sulky. Go on to the kitchen, do something useful. Boil up some dumplings, yeah? The lads are starving. Youre blocking our view, darling.
Lizzie looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Ten years of marriage. Ten years of making a home, keeping it spotless, cooking like a Michelin chef. Shed put up with his endless garage beers, his mother forever advising her, the trail of socks. But tonight, something snapped. Maybe it was those fish scales. Or maybe it was the boil some dumplings in that bossy bark.
She turned silently and left the room.
Shes copped the hump now, she heard Steve say behind her. Shell cool off, bring us supper. She always relents.
Upstairs, she found Steves wallet atop the dresser, exactly where he always dumped his keys, coins, and cards. She remembered his quarterly bonus arriving yesterdaya hefty sum meant for sprucing up the balcony or, at worst, getting new winter tyres.
Her eyes landed on the gleaming gold credit card.
A plan clicked into place at once. Brazen, wilda plan the old, easy-going Lizzie would never have dared. But that Lizzie was gone. In her place was a woman who wanted respector, at the very least, compensation for tonights ordeal.
She took the card, opened the wardrobe, and fetched her weekend bag. Her moves were crisp and determined. Spare underwear, her favourite silk pyjamasthose slippery ones Steve complained aboutcharger, makeup pouch.
From downstairs came a united roar: Gooooal! The walls quivered. Someone, apparently, had just bounced on her sofa.
Lizzie pulled on her mac, slipped on flats, and glanced at herself in the mirror: worn eyes, tight mouth.
Dumplings, is it? she whispered to her own reflection. Youll get dumplings, all right.
She slipped out without a sound. Nobody noticed the click of the front door, drowned by the footie and the jeers.
Outside, the night was wet and murky, but Lizzie felt heat rising in her veins. Adrenaline fizzed. She pulled out her phone and ordered a cabfirst Comfort, then bugger it, Business class.
Five minutes later, a sleek black Mercedesa proper executive numberpulled up. The driver, suave in a three-piece suit, opened her door.
Evening, madam. Where to?
The Grand Hotel, Lizzie replied. The Grand was Brightons most exclusivefive stars, marble foyers, bellhops in gold braid. Shed often passed it, secretly admiring the twinkling lights, never imagining shed cross its threshold as a guest.
Excellent choice, the driver nodded.
En route, her phone hummed in her bag. Steves number flashed. He’d likely noticed the break in the match and remembered his hunger. Lizzie flicked it to silent. Let him worry. Let him think shed popped round to Sainsburys for a pot of mayo.
Inside the Grands lobby, the air was thick with perfume and fresh roses. A chandelier shimmered above. At reception, a woman with a megawatt-smile greeted her.
Good evening. Do you have a reservation?
No. Lizzie laid down Steves glinting card. Id like a suite. With a jacuzzi, and a view of the sea if possible.
Not a pause, not a raised eyebrowonly brisk, professional tapping.
Weve a lovely Executive Suite on the seventh floor. Breakfast included, twenty-four-hour spa access. Thatll be three hundred pounds for the night. Shall I book it in?
Three hundred quid. Half her monthly wage, or a third of Steves bonus. Her frugal instinctshoned over yearssqueaked momentarily, but Lizzie crushed them mercilessly.
Yes. Book it.
And your ID, please?
She handed over her passport. The card reader beeped. Payment accepted. Lizzie pictured Steves phone, somewhere by the crisps, lighting up: £300 spent Grand Hotel.
Would he notice? Probably notfootball mattered more.
The porter showed her to her suite. The door swung open and Lizzie gasped. The place rivalled a palace. King-size bed with snowy linens, plush armchairs, a marble bath the size of their kitchen, and panoramic windows framing the sparkling Brighton seafront.
Alone at last, Lizzie kicked off her heels onto the soft carpet and veered to the minibar. A baby bottle of champagne here cost more than an entire crate of Steves usual swill.
Why not? she murmured, and popped it open.
A fizzy glass in hand, she slouched into an armchair and turned on her phone. Fifteen missed calls. Three unread WhatsApps.
Liz, where are you?
Did you nip to the shops? Get mayo!
Liz, whereve you gone?! Lads are starving!
Not a flicker of concern. Just more demands. She sipped her champagne. Bliss.
Another text pinged.
Liz, weird text just came through£300 gone?! Wheres my card? Where are you? Ring me now!
She smirked and rang for room service.
Good evening. Could I order dinner up, please? Yes, I know it’s late, but I’m ravenous. Seafood salad, medium-rare steak, and tiramisu. With a bottle of decent red. Please charge it to the room.
She ran a hot bath, sprinkled aromatic salts, and ignored the phones persistent trilling. At last, she answered, submerged in fragrant bubbles.
Hello?
Liz! Are you bloody mad?! Steve exploded. The background was eerily quietthe lads, she guessed, had legged it. Where are you? Whats this £300 bill?! Whatve you boughtfur coat at midnight?!
No, love. Not a coat. I bought myself peace and a bit of respect. Im at a hotel.
A hotel? Why?!
Because home became a public house and reeks of fish. And Im tiredas I mentioned. I told you no guests midweek. You ignored me. You told me to go boil dumplings. Well, I dont feel like it. I want steak and bubbles.
You are you drunk? Get home now! Thats our moneyfor the balcony!
The balcony can wait. My nerves cant. And therell be another bill soon about eighty quid for dinner. Dont panic.
Eighty quid?! Are you barking? Theres frozen dumplings here!
Enjoy, Steve. Tell Tony to cook some for you. Mates share and all that.
Liz, stop with the drama! Lads have already left. Come home!
Have they? Has the smell gone too? Did the washing up do itself? No, Steve. I paid for a night, and I intend to use every minute. In fact, Ill get a massage tomorrow morningthey say the spas top notch.
A massage!? How much is that? Robbery! Come home, Ill do the housework. Ill mop the floor myself!
Im glad youve discovered a new domestic urge. Practise it. Ill be home after lunch. Scream down the phone again and Ill book a second night. Ive got your card, after all.
She hung up and powered off the phone.
A knock at the door interrupted her moment of triumph. Dinner arrived, wheeled in by a waiter under a snowy clothsilver cutlery, the smell of charred meat, sublime dessert. Lizzie, cocooned in a hotel robe, ate her steak and gazed at the city lights, feeling luxurious, pamperedeven if she had to love herself at Steves expense.
The bed was heaven. No snoring, no duvet wars. She woke with sunlight streaming through thick curtains, stretching like a cat. Clear-headed, at peace.
She descended to the spa: a swim, a steam, a massage that worked out years worth of knots. Youre so tense, dear, you must look after yourself, tutted the masseuse.
I intend to, Lizzie promised, feeling years dissolve from her shoulders.
By two, she checked out. Her phone pinged with a flood of missed calls, and one final message from Steve: Ive cleaned everything. Please come home. We need to talk.
She ordered another plush cab and set off.
A lemon and bleach scent greeted her in the hallway. Over it lingered the faintest whiff of contrition.
Steve waited at the kitchen table, a cup of cold tea before him. The flat sparkled. No trace of last nights riot. The rug spotless, floors shining, crockery gleaming and put away. Even the hob had been wiped.
Steve leapt up, haggard and haunted. Youre backyou nearly gave me a heart attack! Do you know how much you spent?
Lizzie calmly put down her bag and tossed his card onto the table.
I do. Three hundred and eighty-four pounds and fifty pence. Thats what my sanity and your lesson cost.
Steve cradled his head. Nearly four hundred quidfor one night! Thats half the balcony done!
Count up what youd owe a cleaner, a chef, and a therapist for ten years, Lizzie replied, settling opposite and looking him straight in the eye. Youre used to me being convenient. Keeping quiet and waiting on your friends. My no meaning nothing. But last night, you made clear you dont care how I feel. You made me a stranger in my own home.
Steve opened his mouth to protest, then shut it.
I didnt mean tomates just tagged along
You couldnt say no? Are the lads more important than your wife? Lizzie spoke softly, each word hitting like a stone. Listen. If this ever happens again, I wont just go to a hotel. Ill leave for goodand file for divorce. And believe me, property settlements cost far more than three hundred pounds.
Steve was silent, staring at his card, then at his wife, at the spotless kitchen he’d scrubbed half the night while cursing Tony and his crisps. It dawned on him: Lizzie wasnt bluffing. The gentle homemaker was gone; opposite him sat a rested, radiant, and frankly dangerous stranger.
All right, he muttered, eyes lowered. I get it. I cocked up. Tonys a pigIve told him not to come here again.
Glad to hear it, Lizzie stood up. Im starving. Any dumplings left? Or did you lot finish the lot?
Steve brightened. No, er, I made soup. Chickenout of a packet, but with spuds. Want some?
Lizzie nearly smiled. Packet soupthe labours of Hercules.
Ill have some. Pour away.
They ate in silence. Steve kept sneaking glances, as if expecting another bombshell. Lizzie spooned up the oversalted soup, thinking this nearly four hundred pounds had been the best investment in their marriage. Sometimes youve got to become a very expensive woman, quite literally, to be appreciated.
That evening, when they watched a film together (her choicea tearjerker Steve always called soppy), he shifted close and put an arm round her.
Liz
Mmm?
Was it really that good, the hotel?
It was. Jacuzzi, sea view, the softest robe.
Maybemaybe we could go together? On our anniversary? If we save up a bit, he said sheepishly.
Lizzie rested her head on his shoulder. Well go. But next time, keep your card with you. You never know when Ill get another midnight steak craving.
Steve chuckled nervously, pulling her close. No chance. In fact, Im learning to grill steak myself now. Cheaper in the long run.
Six months on, guests only appeared after an invitation and at weekends. The most astonishing change? Steve tidied up the dishes himself. Turns out the ghosts of the Grand Hotel and a slim bank balance made a far better motivator than years of gentle hints.
Oh, and Lizzie started a secret account, her Independence Fund. She added a little from every paycheque, just so she knew that, if ever needed, she could afford another suite with a sea view. Just knowing it was possible warmed her more than any log fire.
