‘I’m ready to order,’ I say, catching Gianna’s eye. She’s on high alert, it being Saturday night and all, and she doesn’t waste time turning around to check if Jack has arrived yet. She just gets her colleague to tend to me pronto. ‘Buffalo mozzarella pizza please, and a carbonara. Can’t come to Antonella without sampling that, eh?’

I’ve ordered for two. I know, I know.

I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Jack having a birthday, so it’s the least I can do.

And it’s all I can do. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

‘Whooaa!’ I’m knocked forwards by the fella behind sliding backwards out of his chair and the jug of still water topples over. I save it before it rolls off the table. The bottle of wine shakes, but stays on its base. The fella is now standing, dabbing the spilt water with a pink napkin, apologising profusely. He’s a large man, particularly around his middle, and while he looks as though he enjoys his food, he doesn’t look enamoured by this restaurant.

‘It’s no problem,’ I say. ‘I probably should’ve been sitting closer to the table.’

‘They know how to pack out a house here, don’t they?’ he says, now dabbing his brow.

The fella excuses himself to the gents’ and I watch him go, struggling to get past the waiters and their huge trays, dodging Gianna on a mission, hanging back a moment as a family introduce a fancy birthday cake with about thirty lit candles. I can’t help but think Jack would be feeling similar to this fella. Not because he was big. Well, he was, but in a different way. This fella is sweating, overweight. Jack was big and broad, both in physique and personality. He was the centrepiece, the one with the jokes. He brought colour to the most dismal of pubs. But in a restaurant as extravagant as this, he would be uncomfortable; he’d feel swamped. It’s not his style. He mustn’t have seen photos of the interior; must have simply gone on word of mouth.

I, on the other hand, bloody love it.

And I don’t have to put up with Jack huffing about moving his seat in for the person behind to get in, or having to pause his story because a party of twenty are singing Happy Birthday. God, this wine is fine! I throw my head back, feel the warm buzz. I’d much rather he were here, of course. Of course, of course, of course.

‘Carbonara?’