‘Oh, do you need an extra seat? Is there another person joining you?’

Is there another person joining me?

‘No. Thanks.’

‘Okay, see you later, Chloe. Have a great day!’

And Gianna hangs up. Guess I’ll be seeing her later, then.

14

Antonella is near London Bridge.

Through the main entrance is a grand silk curtain. I peek around, like I’m spying on the audience from the wings. I’m greeted by a striking woman dressed in black standing behind a high table, ‘Gianna’ embroidered onto her shirt with golden thread. Another theatrical curtain is draped behind her. The space we’re standing in is cramped and circular; we’re like two kids hiding in a tall, pink tent. I give her my name and she looks past my shoulder, asking, ‘Do you prefer to wait here?’

‘Actually, it’s just me tonight.’ I widen my eyes, grow an inch.

Gianna is thrown. This doesn’t happen often, clearly.

‘Just you?’

I give my best breezy shoulder-shrug.

‘So …’ Gianna says, as if she’s trying to remember where she left her keys, ‘a table for one?’

It’s the upward inflection on one that does it; the absolute disbelief that anybody in their right mind would show up to Antonella alone. To eat; to drink; to party alone. I return to my standard hunched pose, squeeze out a laugh and say, ‘No! Only kidding. Two it is!’

Gianna doesn’t find me funny. I imagine she’ll inform her superior, tell them to keep an eye on me, you know, sensing I might get a bit rowdy, lower the tone. But she remains professional, gives me a dead-eyed smile, then pulls on a thick rope with impressive strength. I brace myself for a loud bell to sound. Instead, the back curtain sweeps up with such captivating elegance that it’s like I’m transported into an old Hollywood musical. I am Dorothy stepping into Oz.

A satisfying blend of gold, rose, peach and orange dance around the room. Dimly-lit lamps sit on round tables draped with velvet and silk tablecloths, cosy booths hugging the walls. It’s bustling, the waiters carrying large trays above their heads. I follow Gianna, zigzagging past huge bowls of carbonara and arrabbiata, passing floor-to-ceiling wine racks, until we arrive at my table.

I’m handed a menu complete with a gold tassel. Gianna leaves another menu opposite, at the place where Jack should be sitting.

‘Would you like anything to drink while you wait?’ she asks.

‘Erm, Valpolicella would be lovely, thanks.’

And she’s off.