Evie’s dish was a shrimp creole recipe that had been handed down from her father. It had to be made from fresh, so Gabe offered to help, with Evie standing over him. He fried off onions, peppers and celery before adding tomatoes, bay leaves, spicy sauces and creole seasoning to the mix, under Evie’s watchful eye. ‘I can’t believe I’m here cracking the whip over a TV chef,’ she said as Gabe added juicy local prawns to the pan. ‘But I remember when he was only the cheeky little monkey from the chip shop.’

The aroma of sizzling onions and spicy tomato sauce now filled the flat. Chloe’s own mouth watered. The dish was poured into a large bowl and added to the table with some rice and the other dishes.

Troy hung over the table, with his fork poised. He pointed it at Gabe, who stood back with his arm around Evie. ‘My Evie makes the best shrimp creole in the world so you’ve a lot to live up to, lad.’

‘No pressure, Troy,’ said Gabe, handing him a plate of steaming rice and sauce.

Troy tucked in, tasting a forkful of prawn dripping with tomato sauce. He chewed then dipped in again while Gabe served everyone else.

Troy smacked his lips. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all for an apprentice, I suppose.’

‘Not bad? Get on with you, Troy Carman,’ Evie said. ‘It’s bloody fantastic, even if I do say so myself. You can help out in my kitchen any time, Gabe. You’d be more use than Troy.’

‘I got the prawns!’ Troy protested.

Everyone laughed and crowded round the table, helping themselves to the different dishes, many going back for seconds. There was a lot of talk about the foods and promises to exchange recipes. Evie related some stories about her father, who’d been born in South Louisiana and spoke French as well as English.

‘My dad didn’t go home to America after the war like most black GIs. He didn’t leave my mum, he married her. You can imagine how that went down with my gran and grandad. In the forties and fifties, there were hardly any mixed-race or black kids so I was different.’

‘Wow,’ said Zennor, her eyes wide. Even Ben was transfixed.

‘He used to call my mum and me cher but he pronounced it “char”,’ Evie said, her fork poised over the plate. ‘I wish you could all have known him. He was a lovely man, very brave to have fought in the war and then stayed here. So was my mum, marrying a man of colour back then. That’s what they called my dad in his hometown, a gens de couleur.’

Troy beamed proudly and gave his wife a squeeze. Chloe felt a little misty-eyed. Some partnerships did last a lifetime.