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He grabbed at the nearest excuse to change the subject. ‘Nice house.’ It looked as if it was the same layout as the cottage he’d hired for the week: the white-painted front door opened straight into the living room, and stairs led between the living room and kitchen to the upper floor. But whereas next door was all furnished in neutral shades, as far as he’d seen, Abigail had gone for bright colour. Her living room was painted a warm primrose yellow, with deep red curtains and a matching deep red sofa opposite the cast-iron original fireplace with a huge mirror above it, a wall full of books and a massive stylised painting of a peacock on another wall, which looked very much like his sister’s handiwork. And the kitchen walls here were painted a light, bright teal; the cupboards were cream and the worktop was grey. It was stylish and homely at the same time.
The perfect size for two.
He didn’t let himself think about who might have sat at this table opposite her. It was none of his business who she dated. She wasn’t his wife any more.
‘Are there any dietary things I need to know about?’ she asked.
‘Such as?’
She shrugged. ‘I know you don’t have any food allergies, but you might have given up eating meat or fish since we last ate together.’
Had she? He really had no idea. As for himself, he barely noticed what he ate, since she’d left. Since he’d pushed her into leaving, he amended mentally. ‘No. Nothing’s changed. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I can walk up the road and get some fish and chips—assuming the chip shop’s still there on the harbour, that is?’
‘You’re not putting me to any trouble,’ she said. ‘I haven’t eaten yet this evening. It’s as quick to cook for two as it is for one.’
‘Then, if you’re sure you don’t mind, whatever you want to cook is absolutely fine with me,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘You told Ruby we could be civil. So did I. We might as well start here and now.’
‘A truce. OK.’ He could do that. And maybe, if he could get things on an even keel with her, it would take some of the weight of guilt from him.
‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks. I’d love one.’ He paused. ‘That muffin you left next door—did you make that yourself?’
‘Yes. This morning.’
‘I appreciated it. And it was very good.’
‘Thank you.’
She’d gone slightly pink. Was she remembering when she’d made muffins in his student days and they’d eaten them in bed together? Not that he could ask her. That was way, way too intimate.
She made coffee just the way he liked it, strong and sugarless with a just dash of milk. He remembered how she took her coffee, too. And the fact that she never drank tea. Funny how all the memories flooded back, as if their years apart had never happened.
Wishful thinking. It was way too late to do anything about it now.
She chopped onions, chilli and garlic, then heated oil in a pan and started to sauté them. The kitchen smelled amazing. She added diced chicken, and he realised just how hungry he was. Abigail always had been good in the kitchen; rather than going away to study for a degree, she’d planned to join her family’s café business when she left school. She was going to work her way up while he studied, and they were going to get married after he graduated.
Until Brad, after a huge row with his dad, had rebelled; he’d asked Abby to elope with him before they got their exam results. All wide-eyed and trusting, young and full of hope, she’d agreed. And she’d put her plans aside, moving with him when he left for university, getting a job in a café in Cambridge and ending up managing the place within a year.
Ruby had been economical with the details but Brad guessed that, after Abigail had moved back to Great Crowmell, she’d gone with her original Plan A and joined the family business. Given that her parents were in their late fifties and would be looking at retiring, he’d guess that she was taking more responsibility every year. Maybe she was even running the place now.
‘So how’s the café?’ he asked.
‘Fine. How’s the lab?’
