So absorbed was she in her chopping that she failed to hear the door to the flat swing open and shut, and footsteps mount the short flight of stairs past the downstairs bathroom. She didn’t hear anything, in fact, until she looked up and saw framed in the doorway to the kitchen a tall young man holding a bottle of wine.

Not for nothing was Lulu a child of the modern metropolis. She quickly picked up the knife from the chopping board and pointed it directly at him.

“Who are you and what do you want?” she snapped.

The young man stepped back and raised the hand that was not holding the bottle.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m looking for Freddie.”

Lulu jerked the knife a little forward in his direction.

“There’s no Freddie here,” she said. She flicked the knife towards the wine bottle. “You must have the wrong address for the party, so I suggest you leave. Now.”

“I think there’s some mistake,” said the young man. “This is Maeve Sullivan’s flat, right? Well, I’m looking for Freddie Fitzcharles.”

Anyone could read a name by a doorbell, thought Lulu.

“There is no Freddie Fitzcharles,” she said. “And in case you’re wondering, I’m not afraid to use this, and it’s bloody sharp.”

“I can see that from here,” he said. “Honestly, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m looking for Maeve’s niece Freddie? She’s about this tall … dark hair … sort of not bad-looking if you like that sort of thing?”

“Oh!” Of course, Lulu remembered then, Charlie’s first name was Alfreda. She lowered the knife. “You mean Charlie.”

“Do I?” he asked.

“That’s what we call her,” she said. “Short for Fitzcharles, you see.”

“Well, that wouldn’t narrow the field much where I come from,” he told her. “I’m her brother.”

“Oh. Hello.” Setting the knife on the table and coming forward to shake hands, Lulu saw now that he did, indeed, resemble Charlie. “Liam, right? I’m Lulu. Sorry about that, I’m all alone in the flat, and you never know.”

“It was good, actually.” Liam Fitzcharles smiled down at her. “Female empowerment and all.” He picked up the knife and ran a thumb along its blade. “Sharp,” he said. “You could really have hurt me.” He nodded approvingly. “I see you like a good knife.”

“It’s your aunt Maeve’s knife,” she said. “Not mine.”

“Well, you keep it up very well, which is where too many people fall down on the job.” He nodded again, set the knife down, and looked over at the cake ingredients on the table. “Is it someone’s birthday?”

“It’s my sister’s wedding in a couple of weeks. I’m practicing for the tiers, one batch with glacé cherries, the other with coffee and walnuts.”

“Do you have ground almonds for the cherries?” he asked. “It stops them from sinking to the bottom of the batter.”

“I usually just dust them with flour before I put them in the mix,” she said. “But ground almonds sound nice, I might try another batch tomorrow. Are you a cook like Aunt Maeve?”