“Is that so astonishing?”

“It is if you’ve stayed in the same hotels that I have. The closest they came to an umbrella was not getting arsy if you ripped the carpet up and held it over your head.”

“Jesse,” he begins, and I instantly recognise his tone of voice. It usually precedes a thoroughly good bollocking.

“Bedroom,” I shout and he jumps, giving me the opportunity to get past him and into the bedroom. This turns out to be another beautiful room. The bed is huge and made up with pale blue linens and lots of cushions. A piece of artwork hangs over the bed, and it looks original. I peer at the portrait of a rather grim-looking man. “Blimey,” I mutter. “That would give anyone performance anxiety. What a thing to hang over a bed.”

I pace over to the French doors that lead onto the secluded balcony overlooking a wood and the lake glistening blue in the afternoon sunshine. “Room eighteen, eh?” I say, turning to find him watching me still with his arms folded. Hope they don’t get stuck that way. “So, this is where the magic happened.”

“Don’t take the piss,” he says sharply. “You’re so bloody flippant all the time.” I bristle at that because I know it’s what he really thinks of me. It’s why he hesitated over asking me to do this. “Try and take this seriously for once in your life,” he snaps. “And stop taking the piss out of Patrick and trying to wind him up.”

“Oh really,” I say sweetly, folding my own arms, because it’s obviously catching, and glaring at him. All of our happy camaraderie is gone, and I fucking hate that Patrick took it away. I try not to analyse why that is. “I’m flippant, am I?”

He stares at me, and for a second, there’s a slight trace of worry on his forehead. Good. There should be.

“Yes, you are,” he says. “I knew I shouldn’t have done this.” He rubs his hand over his hair. “You’re so young, and I know that this seems like a game to you. You even told me that.”

“I told you that to lighten you up.” I watch as he flings himself onto a sofa and stares moodily at me. “So you didn’t look constipated every time I spoke. And I’ll thank you to remember that I’m twenty-four, not six. And I’m actually here doing you a fucking favour.”

He stares at me and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, his eyes looking contrite. I stand rigid, not prepared to just accept that, and he smiles. “You look like you’re thinking of ways to kill me.”

“I’ve already done that,” I say tartly. “Now, I’m working on methods of body disposal.”