It was an assumption that he’d made for one very simple reason: because he and Tess had slept together.

And now, just as it was suddenly apparent that this was an event that had meant hundreds of times more to him than it had done to her – and that in itself was enough to make Abbott want to curl up and die – it had also been enough to dupe his romantic-fool brain into thinking that she wanted to do it again. All that stuff about a ‘return visit’.

All that stuff? What? One throwaway comment? Christ.

You chump. You turkey.

The reception hall was a vast place of white wooden panelling and stylish wallpapers, old money ushered off to one side by the tastefully trendy. Abbott felt engulfed by it all. He tried to pull himself together, still trying as the beaming Phil said, ‘Let me take your jacket.’ He pointed to Abbott’s rucksack. ‘Whoa, you’re not planning to stay the night, are you?’

Abbott still wanting to shrivel up and die said, ‘Just habit.’

‘Of course. From the military.’ Phil leaned forward and in a pretend-whisper said, ‘A little birdie told me it was special forces.’

‘Well, the little birdie knows that I’m not supposed to reveal that.’

‘So I expect you wouldn’t answer my next question, then.’

‘Don’t tell me. Have I ever killed anyone?’

Phil pulled back. ‘No,’ he said quickly, an offended look in his eye. ‘No, that would be crass.’

At that moment, as Phil reeled, Tess appeared.

‘Alex,’ she said, coming forward to hold him in a warm embrace – but a friend-embrace, not a lover-embrace. ‘How are you? How have you been?’ It was all there in her concerned gaze, the reason he had been invited here. Not for the purposes of passion. Never that in her mind. Just out of pity.

Oh, you idiot. You fool.

‘Right,’ Phil clapped his hands together ‘I expect we’d all like a drink.’

‘Perfect,’ said Tess, leading them through into the dining room. ‘Alex, because you’re my friend and my guest, well, I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t want to spend all night cooking. His nibs here will tell everybody that he’s a dab hand in the kitchen and you know he’s not bad as they go, not quite Jamie Oliver and not as bad as my father, but even so, I’m afraid I don’t trust him to a prepare a proper grown-up meal for guests, so I’ve taken the liberty of ordering pizza. Do you mind? I hope you don’t mind. You don’t mind, do you?’