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?’
‘Fine.’
Stonewalling each other with single-word answers wasn’t going to do anything to help the situation. Brad decided to make the effort and try some polite conversation. Offer some information, which might make her offer information in return. ‘My team’s working on developing a new antibiotic.’
‘Sounds good—we definitely need that.’ She paused. ‘So are you happy in London?’
He hadn’t been happy in the last five years. But he did like his job. And she was asking about his job, right? ‘Yes. How about you? You’re happy here at the café?’ If he focused on work rather than the personal stuff, then she wouldn’t tell him about her new love.
‘Yes, I’m happy at the café. Like you, I’m developing something, except mine’s rather more frivolous.’ She paused, then said brightly, ‘Ice cream for dogs.’
‘Ice cream for dogs?’ The idea was so incongruous that it made him smile.
‘Don’t knock it,’ she said, smiling back. ‘Think how many people bring their dogs to the beach, then come and sit with them outside the café.’
He knew that Scott’s Café, on the edge of the beach, had tables outside as well as inside, plus water bowls for dogs; it had always been dog-friendly, even before it became trendy to welcome dogs.
‘Half of the customers buy an ice cream for their dogs to help cool them down, too, but obviously the sugar’s not good for the dogs’ teeth and the fat’s not brilliant for their diet, either,’ Abby said. ‘So we’ve produced something a bit more canine-friendly.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re telling me you’re making chicken-flavoured ice cream?’
She laughed. ‘Not quite. It’s more like frozen yoghurt. We do a carrot and cinnamon one, and a cheese one.’
He stared at her. ‘Cheese ice cream?’
‘They serve Parmesan ice cream at the posh restaurant round the bay in Little Crowmell,’ she said. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. Especially as Waffle—’ her parents’ dachshund ‘—will do anything for cheese. He loved being one of my beta testers. So did your mum’s dog.’
He wondered who’d taken her to Little Crowmell and had to damp down an unexpected flicker of jealousy. He had no right to be jealous. She was a free agent. It was up to her who she dated, he reminded himself yet again.
‘Dinner smells nice,’ he said, reverting to a safer subject.
‘It’s not that fancy. Just chicken arrabbiata.’
He’d always loved her cooking. ‘It’s still better than I could’ve made.’ Not that he really cooked, any more. Cooking for one didn’t seem worth the effort, when he was tired after a long day in the lab. It was so much easier to buy something from the chiller cabinet in the supermarket and shove it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. Something he didn’t have to think about or even taste.
Abigail’s chicken arrabbiata tasted even better than it smelled.
And how weird it was to be eating with her again, in this intimate little galley kitchen, at this tiny little table. Close enough so that, when he moved his feet, he ended up touching hers.
‘Sorry,’ he said, moving his feet swiftly away again and banging his ankle on the chair leg.
She gave him a half-shrug. ‘Not a problem.’
She might be immune to him nowadays, he thought, but he was far from immune to her. There was a time when they would’ve sat at a tiny table like this together, their