‘Are we doing something wrong, do you think?’ Penny asked.

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We know what we’re doing, don’t we?’

‘We’re … enjoying ourselves,’ Penny said.

‘Exactly,’ said Priyesh. ‘And for what it’s worth, the extent to which I am enjoying myself is a lot.’

Penny looked at him. ‘Same,’ she replied. ‘But you’re right. There isn’t really anything to tell him, is there?’

‘Not yet,’ agreed Priyesh. ‘I think for now this can still be ours.’

‘If you could be any mythological creature, what would you be and why?’ Francesco asked as he flattened some garlic with the back of his knife. Service had ended an hour ago, and the waitstaff were getting set up for tomorrow’s service before closing down for the night. The kitchen was lit by just a single back lamp, and Penny and Francesco had decided on pasta pesto as a midnight snack.

‘Well,’ Penny mused. ‘Aside from the myth and the legend that is Penny Bridge—’

‘Obviously.’

‘I’d be …’

‘Don’t say a phoenix. You’re better than answering phoenix.’

‘Why can’t I say a phoenix?’

‘Because that’s so basic. Rising from the ashes and all that. Everyone feels like they’ve overcome some past hardship to be a new version of themselves. It’s boring.’

Penny balked. ‘It’s boring when people feel like they’ve overcome obstacles to become who they are?’

‘Yes,’ said Francesco, grating parmesan. ‘Or, it’s boring when they think they’re special because of it. We’re all special. You know?’

‘Harsh,’ said Penny. ‘But I see your point. Tell me more about what you’re doing with those walnuts, please.’

‘Personal question,’ joked Francesco. Penny stood beside him and observed his work, ignoring his comment. ‘I prefer the flavour of walnuts, sometimes,’ he said, ‘instead of pine nuts. It’s very simple,’ he continued. ‘You don’t make pesto?’

‘Of course I make pesto,’ said Penny. ‘It’s just fascinating, isn’t it, to see how someone else does it?’

Francesco fired up the food processor, adding in his own reserve of oil, brought back with him after he saw in the new year with his family in Bologna – it was his uncle’s private supply. He poured it in a steady stream until the pesto was mostly smooth, with just a few flecks of green. He peered inside, satisfied, and added in the salt.

‘How is Uncle David today?’ he said, using his favourite spatula to scrape the mixture out into a bowl. ‘I’d love to visit him at some point. There are so many stories I bet he could tell about this place. He wasn’t exactly in the best way to share all of his hints and tips when we met last time. Plus, I’ve never been to Cornwall.’