‘I suggested it, you agreed.’
‘I did that?’ she said soberly.
Elliot laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You just look so angry with yourself.’
‘I am.’
‘For ending up in my spare room?’
She couldn’t tell if he was flirting with her. She hoped not, and was determined to get rid of any frisson that might be in the air.
‘I’m sure most women would be pretty miffed to end up in your spare room, Elliot, but not for the reasons I am,’ she said, trying to recover some dignity. ‘I should have gone home, I wanted to go home . . . I mean, I came with my friend.’
She looked at Elliot urgently. ‘Oh no. What happened to Suze?’
‘I think Suze can look after herself. If not, she had Will Duncan to help her.’
‘The Will you work with?’
‘They left together.’
Abby raised a hand to her mouth.
‘Come on. Let’s go downstairs,’ he said, his words sounding intimate. He touched the small of her back to direct her. ‘I’ll make some breakfast.
Full English and a bloody Mary. That might make you feel better.’
Downstairs, the house had been miraculously transformed back into an elegant living space. Abby wandered through into the conservatory, marvelling at the fact that the dozens of empty bottles had been cleared, the stickiness mopped up from the floor, the cushions on the sofa plumped and put back in place. In fact there was no indication that a party had ever been held there.
‘Look at this place,’ she said, coming back into the kitchen. ‘Have you got cleaning fairies?’
‘Sandra must have come in early.’
‘Sandra?’
‘Housekeeper. She has a key. I warned her I was having a party.’
‘I thought you had a secret wife.’
‘You’d have known about that,’ he said, looking up from the blender.
Something shimmered in the air between them. Abby knew she shouldn’t be here, but the thought of a delicious breakfast in this incredible kitchen was irresistible.
‘It was a good party. I think,’ she said, sitting at the breakfast bar.
‘I had no idea you were such an expert at the limbo.’
‘The limbo?’ said Abby awkwardly.
‘Yes, don’t you remember?’ replied Elliot. ‘You stretched Will’s tie between the backs of two chairs and organised everyone to join in, shouting “How low can you go?”’
‘You’re joking . . .’
‘I am,’ he teased. ‘There was no limbo, but there was a spot of Beach Boys-inspired surfing on the couch.’