‘This isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he continues. ‘It’s about Freddie.’

‘Don’t you dare talk to me about Freddie,’ I snap. ‘My love life is nothing to do with you any more.’

‘Okay, but—’

‘No, stop it,’ I insist. ‘Just leave me alone. I’m happy, I’m having a nice time – why are you trying to ruin it? Why did you give me that creepy kiss last night?’

‘I was just playing the game.’

‘No, you weren’t,’ I reply. ‘You really went for it.’

‘I just wanted to show you… to remind you… what we had,’ he says.

‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t care. I don’t need reminding of what we had – I think about it every time I see you.’

‘Well, that’s good?’ he says.

‘No, it isn’t,’ I correct him. ‘I see you, and Eva, and it reminds me what you did, and what you were willing to risk for… for what?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admits. He places a hand on the small of my back. ‘I don’t think—’

‘Daniel,’ I snap. ‘Get your hand off my back and leave me alone. Go back to Eva.’

‘But Freddie—’

I don’t let him finish, I just thank the barman for my cream and head back to Freddie, to help him finish the cooking.

‘There you are,’ he says, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek. ‘I thought you’d gone across to Naples for it.’

‘Nope, just the bar,’ I reply. ‘My God, this smells amazing.’

‘Thanks,’ he replies as he pours the cream in, taking the sauce from a bright red to a creamy orange colour. ‘Matteo was walking from table to table, seeing how people were doing. He told me after the judges taste our food we can eat it.’

‘Yes!’

Freddie laughs.

‘I knew you’d like that,’ he says.

I help out where I can, but Freddie is doing pretty much everything, so my jobs are mostly small things, which keep me out of the thick of the cooking action.

Freddie plates up our dish. I’m not really sure what it is, but it looks amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever met a pasta dish I didn’t like. Creamy-looking sauce (our secret weapon for winning this), fresh basil leaves, mozzarella pearls. It looks like something they would serve here; I couldn’t be prouder.

The chef doing the judging doesn’t speak English, so Matteo translates as he judges each dish.

When the chef arrives at our table – last but certainly not least – he looks us up and down. You can just tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t think we’ll be up to much and, while he might be right about me, I know he’s wrong about Freddie. The proof is in the pudding – well, the pasta, anyway.

‘He asks where you learned to cook,’ Matteo translates.

‘From my mom, I guess,’ Freddie replies.

‘Chef wants to know if your mother is Italian,’ Matteo continues.