‘Did you sue her?’ asked Elliot defensively.
‘Only makes a situation worse,’ said Shah, shaking his head. ‘What I should have done was repeat some of the rumours that were flying around about her in the sixties.’
‘Rumours?’ asked Abby quickly.
‘A whole raft of Fleet Street journalists were under suspicion of being Soviet assets and spies. Rosamund Bailey was one of them.’
Abby looked at him wide-eyed. ‘Surely not?’
‘Don’t be naïve, Abby,’ smiled the older man. ‘Just because you’ve met her and liked her doesn’t mean to say she’s a saint. In my time I’ve met dictators, criminals, and CEOs who would crush entire companies before breakfast without blinking, and believe me, most of them were perfectly charming company. That’s generally how they got to where they were in life.’
He focused his attention back on his son. ‘Now then, Elliot. I was just telling Paul that we need more images like that Last Goodbye picture in the Chronicle. Tug-at-the-heartstrings stuff. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of reading about bad news in the broadsheets. All these so-called news websites are making a killing peddling pictures of cute kittens. See what you can come up with, all right? You too, Miss Gordon. You’ve clearly got a nose for a story. And persuade my son to crack open the Talisker and we’ll see what else we can do to further your career.’
Chapter Sixteen
The thin line of sunlight crept slowly across the floor, up over the bedspread and finally, inch by inch, onto Abby’s face. When it reached her eyes, she twitched, flinched, then rolled over, groaning. She tried to block the glare with her pillow, but it was too late: she was awake. Well, conscious anyway. ‘Awake’ suggested being alert, bright-eyed, ready to meet the day, none of which described Abby at that moment.
‘Urrssh,’ she hissed through her teeth, pressing the heel of one hand to her temple as she tried to sit up and focus on the room. As she did so, her heart jumped. This was not her bedroom. Not even her house.
‘Oh no . . .’ she whispered, as a series of images leapt into her mind. Endless cocktails, the fifty-year-old whisky, laughing with Suze, dancing with Elliot, dancing with Andrew Shah. God, dancing on a sofa. And then . . . nothing.
Heart bumping now, Abby quickly examined herself: no, she was fully clothed and there was no sign of Elliot or any other man. In fact, this was a single bed in a cramped space, the classic spare room. Elliot’s spare room? The decor seemed to fit with the rest of the house – expensive and elegant-looking – but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be sure of anything.
Suddenly she was seized with a strong desire to get away. She swung her legs out, then stopped as zigzags of light flashed across her vision, accompanied by a pounding at the front of her skull.
‘Ouch,’ she whispered.
How many cocktails did I have exactly? she wondered, silently cursing Marco the barman. They had been so delicious, she hadn’t been able to refuse when they were placed in front of her.
She pushed herself up, wobbling a little and grabbing for the bedside table. There she noticed a telling detail: someone had put a glass of water next to the bed.
Well it wasn’t me, I think we can be sure of that, she thought.
Which suggested someone had been looking after her last night. Had it been Elliot, putting her to bed, coaxing her to drink water to offset her hangover? That was somehow worse: the embarrassment of being treated like an invalid.
For a moment Abby felt a stab of disappointment that there hadn’t been a drunken lunge – well, none she could remember, anyway. But what if she had thrown herself at Elliot and he had rebuffed her? She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember, but she was met by an inky blackness.
‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ she muttered to herself, picking up her shoes and inching towards the door.
She reached the corridor and looked around as she tiptoed towards the stairs.
She was definitely at Elliot’s – she could tell that now. She recognised the mouldings, the chandeliers and the black-and-white-checked tiled floor in the hall. But how had she got into the spare room, and more importantly, what had happened in there?
She felt sick, and it wasn’t just her hangover. Here she was, still a married woman, she reminded herself, creeping around the aftermath of a house party like a randy teenager.
She grabbed the banister and a floorboard creaked loudly.
Elliot came out of a nearby door, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. At least he was fully clothed, she thought, noticing his grey T-shirt and dark jeans. Different clothes from yesterday, she realised with relief.
‘Morning,’ he said, draping the towel around his neck.
‘I was just leaving,’ she replied, pointing her thumb towards the front door. ‘I apologise for whatever I’ve done. Whatever state I managed to get myself in to end up in your spare room.’
He gave a slow smile. ‘You were a bit the worse for wear.’
Abby looked away in embarrassment.
‘How did I end up . . . you know, staying over?’