I smile, suddenly feeling a little nervous for some reason. Then I realise I’m self-conscious, because of my scruffy outfit.

‘Sorry, I bet not many people walk in here like this,’ I say, gesturing down at my tracksuit.

‘Not many people walk in here at all at this time,’ he replies. ‘Couples are all in bed – after such busy days, I don’t suppose anyone wants a middle of the night martini. Your hair looks really nice.’

I am blindsided by his compliment.

‘Oh, this?’ I say, suddenly even more self-conscious as I run my hand gently from top to tail of my long, blonde fishtail plait. ‘I was at a wedding yesterday. I feel kind of daft with it now. I look like Elsa from Frozen.’

Freddie cracks up.

‘Well, you know what to do, don’t you?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Let it go.’

I stare at him, a combination of amused and puzzled.

‘Like the song, from the film…’

‘I know that,’ I laugh. ‘I’m just surprised you do.’

‘Erm, thirty-two-year-old men can enjoy Frozen too,’ he points out.

‘I’ll be thirty-two next,’ I reply. I don’t know why I tell him, like it’s so amazing to have our age in common, so I quickly get back on topic. ‘You know what, I will let my hair down.’

First I remove the hair grips that have been keeping the hair around my hair so neatly in place. Then I unfasten the clear plastic elastic band from the bottom and let my hair unravel – as my life has.

As I tszuj my newly freed hair, I realise that the plait has left me with some sort of crimped effect. I run my hands over it, but I can feel how big and eighties it must be looking.

‘Oh, God, that was a mistake, wasn’t it?’ I say. Freddie just chuckles. ‘Should I have left it in?’

‘Yeah, probably,’ he teases. ‘You still look beautiful though.’

I can feel my cheeks flushing so I turn my attention to my drink, finally taking a sip.

‘Oh, wow,’ I blurt. ‘This is the nicest one I’ve had over the past couple of days.’

And I have had many.

‘Have you had many?’ he asks with a laugh.

I feel as if he’s reading my mind and it sends a strange tingle through my body.

‘Erm, no,’ I reply. ‘Just a couple.’

‘Well, I’m glad you like it,’ he replies. He sips his. ‘Oh, yeah, that’s pretty nice. It’s been a while.’

‘You don’t make many of these?’

‘Not any more, no.’

It surprises me that they’re not more popular here. Back home, it’s still one of the cocktails du jour, even with the espresso martini hot on its heels. I’m starting to think I use a lot of casual French, for someone who doesn’t think she remembers much French… and is in Italy.

‘How did you get so good at it?’ I ask, not really expecting an answer. Freddie has one though.

‘I learned from the second best, who learned from the best,’ he explains. ‘I used to work at a bar in LA, called Dionysus. Hugely popular bar over there. The owner, the man who trained me, was taught how to make them by the inventor. He said it was such a simple drink, but so easy to mess up, if you didn’t do it right.’