“You can test the dips and make sure they’re all right,” she told him, passing him a platter of carrot sticks. “Put them on the table and then sit quietly and try them all.”

“Have I got to smooth them out afterwards so it won’t look like I’ve already dived in? Or is it like ruffling up t-shirts in a shop so people aren’t intimidated? Hey, is that roast chicken? It looks amazing.”

“It’s like having a child come to stay,” said Paul. “What are you doing?”

“Testing,” said Ava, dropping a chorizo cube into her mouth and blowing on her fingers. She licked her fingertips, then dipped them into the roasting-pan and picked out another cube. “Want some?”

Paul grimaced. “Can’t you use a spoon?”

“Waste of a spoon.” Ava shrugged and passed the chorizo cube to Finn.

“We’ve got a dishwasher – oh, never mind,” said Paul wearily. “Just don’t blame me when everyone gets food poisoning.”

“I’ve never poisoned anyone yet,” said Ava. “If you’re not happy with how I cook, feel free to take over.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“So what did you mean?”

“I didn’t mean anything. It looks delicious. You’re a fantastic cook.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

“I’m not patronising you!” With an effort, Paul lowered his voice. “I’m not patronising you, I’m giving you a bloody compliment.”

“Telling me I’m going to poison our guests is a compliment?”

Paul looked despairing. “Don’t be so prickly. I just meant it’s a bit unhygienic to pick bits out of the roasting tin. But what do I know, that probably happens in all the best Michelin-starred restaurants.” He put his arms hesitantly around Ava’s waist and rested his chin lightly on the top of her head. “Am I forgiven? You’ve lost weight.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“Stop trying to butter me up. All right, you’re forgiven. Go and tidy the living room.”

“A bloody compliment,” said Finn when Paul had gone. “I like that. A compliment that leaves you bleeding and raw afterwards. Like giving someone what you think is a kitten and then it turns out to be all wild and savage and it claws your face off and runs away into the night. He’s right. You have lost weight.”

“Don’t you start,” said Ava, waving a threatening spoon in his direction. “Anyway, I made chocolate mousse so it won’t last. There’s a little small one in there for you to eat while we’re waiting.”

“Seriously? Oh, yes!” Finn took the shot glass of mousse out of the fridge and dived in with a teaspoon. “This is brilliant. Have some.”

“Not right now.” Finn put the shot glass down and looked at Ava. “Look, I’ll explain later. But not right before this stupid dinner party.”

“Tell me about the people who are coming tonight. Will they shake hands with me and ask me what I do for a living?”

“Probably.”

“Am I allowed to tell them I’m in the Mafia?”

“Do you think you can sustain the illusion that you’re a good family man from Sicily?”