She changes into her glittery cross-over top and sprays her Jo Loves perfume on her wrists. And then, for good measure, some between her breasts. She catches her reflection in the mirror. Is she planning on Matteo being anywhere near her breasts? Surely not? She’s being desperate, she tells herself. Matteo is just a friend. A neighbour. And over a decade younger than her.

Even so, her heart is pounding as she arrives outside his door. She clutches the chilled bottle of Albariño she’s picked up from the wine merchant in town when she was out, liking the coolness against her sweating palms.

Matteo opens the door and leans in to kiss her on the cheek. He’s wearing a nice blue shirt and smart jeans, with a linen tea towel draped over his shoulder. He’s clean-shaven, she notices, and his hair is neater than she’s seen it. He smiles. ‘You look lovely,’ he says, as if he really means it. ‘Come in, come in.’

She wants to hug him, or kiss his cheek, but with the wave of Covid sweeping through the nation, everyone is keeping their distance. She’s done a test at home and she tells him she’s all clear as she steps over the threshold.

She notices straight away that the lighting is carefully placed for a warm ambience. Hejira, her favourite Joni Mitchell LP, is playing on an ancient turntable and there’s something that smells delicious simmering in a battered orange Le Creuset Dutch oven on the hob. She’s used to being entertained in her friends’ homes, all of which have a modern, chic aesthetic, but this feels shabby and a bit studenty, but in a good way. There’s even a macramé plant potholder with a wildly sprouting spider plant in it.

He brings her a glass of sherry — ‘real sherry, none of your undrinkable English Christmas rubbish,’ he teases — in a dainty cut glass, and she perches on the retro 1970s stool by the kitchen counter as he finishes cooking and produces a plate of delicious-looking tapas – little rounds of toasted baguette topped with oozing cheese.

It’s been so long since someone else has cooked for her, every mouthful feels more delicious than anything she’s ever eaten in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Trent loved all those places – all that willy-waggling over getting the best table and paying through the nose for expensive wine, just to show off. In truth, though, he was never much of a foodie, but now, as she watches Matteo taste the sauce and then add a little more salt, she can see that he’s a man in touch with his senses in a way that Trent has never been.

He lays out two places on the counter on stylish raffia mats and serves up the Spanish stew in earthenware dishes and gives her an ochre linen napkin.

‘Do you mind if I take a picture?’ she asks.

‘Of what?’

She feels silly asking. ‘I’ve got this account and … well, I have to keep posting. That’s the whole point of it. And this … this looks very Instagrammable.’