Nory shivered as the cold evening eked in through her coat. Shepherd Market was picture perfect; lights twinkled from every window, and people spilled out from the pubs wrapped in scarves and clutching cold pints of ale. Nory walked the short distance to the Italian restaurant, waving and calling goodbyes to fellow shopkeepers closing up for the night.

As she pushed open the door to Pepe’s, the scent of garlic and vine tomatoes washed over her.

“Elinor!” Anthony called across the crowded restaurant.

Anthony was the owner of Pepe’s and Nory never failed to marvel at how sensual his strong Italian accent managed to make her name sound. She smiled warmly at him, and her stomach growled as she made her way through the candlelit tables to the small bar area at the back.

“Hi, Anthony,” she said as he dramatically kissed both her cheeks.

“When are you going to marry one of my sons so that you can start calling me Papa, hmm?”

Nory laughed. This was a familiar routine. Anthony ran the restaurant with his two sons: Anthony Jr., who managed the kitchen, and Paul, who worked the bar. They were both in their late fifties. Anthony Jr. had been divorced twice and Paul was gay, but Anthony Sr. saw none of these things as an obstacle for their “making an honest woman” out of Nory.

Anthony Jr. came out of the kitchen holding a brown paper bag, which he handed to Nory before also kissing her on both cheeks.

“Lasagna,” he said in his broad London accent. “And a decent helping of Mama’s tiramisu.”

“Mmm, thanks, Anthony. I put the money in your account earlier.”

Anthony Jr. waved his hand as if money was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Leetle Elinor, always eating alone!” exclaimed Anthony Sr., loud enough for all the patrons to hear. He brought his voice down to a loud whisper and winked. “You know I would give you our best table for two if you ever want to bring a man in for dinner.” He said the word man like it was some exotic creature, which Nory supposed it was for her; at thirty-four, she was beginning to feel like a Jane Austen spinster.

She left the restaurant, calling her goodbyes, and hurried between two buildings down a skinny alleyway that broadened out into a dead end filled with wheelie bins, giant flattened-out cardboard boxes, and other detritus from the businesses and private lets that inhabited the premises. Iron fire escapes clung to the walls and the smell of clean washing blew up through fans from the communal laundry rooms in the basements. Hidden in an alcove was a door, colored deep purple with chips revealing the navy blues and dark reds of paint coats past. An ornate Christmas wreath hung from the door knocker, incongruous against the tatty alley.