‘Alright you?’
Erin had spotted Chris Scanlan standing at one end of the hallway, sifting through his post, and had tried to walk sof
tly over the marble tiles in the hope of not being seen or heard. No such luck; he turned and grinned.
‘Hard day at the office?’ he asked with a sympathetic look. She couldn’t work out if he was making fun of her.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she said, walking briskly to the lift. ‘I wish I could say I’m going to drown my sorrows with a glass of wine, but I just haven’t had time to do any shopping.’
Chris grinned at her mischievously. ‘Well, you certainly have the right neighbour, Miss Devereux.’
She was surprised he knew her surname. No doubt been nosing around the post.
‘In what way?’ she replied defensively.
‘Didn’t I tell you what I did for a living?’
Erin shook her head. Ever since she had moved to Peony House, any contact with her neighbours had been limited to a few cautious hellos.
‘President of Moet et Chandon?’ she asked, looking at his slightly shabby suit. She surprised herself by having noticed it; a month before she wouldn’t have been able to tell Savile Row from a shell suit.
‘Close,’ he said, entirely seriously. ‘I am the food and drink editor for the Herald. I dare say I can rustle something up from my cellar,’
Erin felt her face flush with embarrassment. ‘Oh, I didn’t know,’ she stuttered, ‘I really wasn’t trying to scrounge a bottle of wine from you.’
‘Come on. You know you want to,’ he teased. ‘Anyway. I hate it in London when you don’t even know your neighbours well enough to borrow a cup of sugar.’
Judging by the number of women she had seen going in and out of number twelve, Erin wasn’t entirely sure if she was safe going round to borrow a bowl of sugar. On the other hand, she would just love a chilled glass of Sauvignon right now.
‘I’ll even throw in a bowl of risotto,’ he added.
Erin hesitated. How much she would love right now just to curl up on her sofa underneath a blanket with a hot drink, quiet music and just rest. But she was hungry and she knew that her fridge was full of wilting vegetables that she had bought with moving-in enthusiasm, but had never had the energy to cook.
‘Okay,’ she nodded. ‘Thanks, that sounds good.’
Chris’s flat was smaller than Erin’s. Just a big room that doubled as a lounge and a kitchen that was surprisingly tidy. There were two big grey sofas, a heavy oak coffee table with a few empty wine glasses and a bookcase bursting with books. The kitchen area looked like Harrods’ food hall, stuffed with olive oils, vinegars and exotic fruit and vegetables. Chris ran over to the stove where a big pan was simmering and stirred frantically.
‘You do surprise me, Chris Scanlan,’ said Erin with a smirk.
‘Why?’ he asked, looking up from tasting a spoonful of the rice.
‘From where I usually see it – my front door – you seem to live off pretty girls and cigarettes. But this – well, it’s a picture of domestic bliss.’
‘I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere,’ he said cynically, picking out a bottle of white. He poured two big glasses, and handed Erin one.
‘I assume it’s the high-powered job makes you all uptight and prickly. What do you do again?’
She told him and took a sip of the wine. It felt good on her lips, like grass and gooseberries. ‘And I am not uptight and prickly,’ she said, spilling a droplet of wine on her skirt.
‘Course you’re not, Prickles,’ grinned Chris, then picked up a black, coal-like lump and started shaving it into the steaming risotto.
‘What’s that?’ asked Erin, drinking in the deliciously earthy smell.
‘Hey, don’t admit you just said that to your billionaire jet-setting boss,’ replied Chris, handing Erin a bowl. ‘They’re truffles. King of the mushrooms.’
She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t they an aphrodisiac?’
‘You’re not my type, Prickles, so stop panicking and just enjoy it.’