If Anna hadn’t scoffed it down so fast she might well have thought better of this. Her discomfort during the taxi journey rose by steady increments. Having James Fraser in her flat wasn’t a good idea at the best of times, but given they’d come straight from his Elle Décor home? And she’d not even had a chance to tidy up? Even when it was organised, her place wasn’t designed to be viewed. It was a messy jumble of things she needed and things she loved. It was her heart on a plate. Could she allow him over the threshold? ‘Right, my flat is a tip, unlike Casa Croosh Und,’ she said, with mock-posh voice, pushing her key in the flaking door. ‘I’ve lived in lads’ houses at uni and beyond, you can’t shock me,’ James said. ‘Unless you too have rugby jockstraps drying on the radiator.’ Nevertheless, she was conscious of how cramped her hallway was, how low the ceiling felt, and how chucked together and haphazard all her furniture was by comparison. ‘This is nice,’ James said, pleasantly, once she’d hustled him to the sun-faded red sofa-bed and pushed wine at him.
