‘How do you know him again?’ Francesco opened the pasta and poured it into the pan of salted boiling water he’d prepared. He didn’t use the bowls to measure out how much to use – he said it was the Italian in him that could judge how much to put in by sight. ‘Pasta should be cooked in water as salty as the sea,’ he’d once told her, and now he added in extra, just in case. Penny felt like she’d never cook pasta without thinking of him ever again.

‘He has a house around here. We’ve hung out a few times.’

Francesco paused. ‘As friends?’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘Well,’ Penny started. ‘Sort of. I mean. It wasn’t serious.’

‘Oh,’ said Francesco, putting the salt back and resuming cooking. ‘I didn’t know that. Does Priyesh know?’

‘It was before Priyesh.’

‘And to think you told me you were lonely up here.’

Penny took a step back from him. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.

‘This Thomas guy, Priyesh … doesn’t sound very lonely to me, is all.’ He didn’t look at her. His eyes were on his pan.

‘That sounds like slut-shaming.’

‘Are you a slut?’

‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that to me, Francesco.’

They stood in silence, Francesco faffing about with his food and Penny staring at him, waiting for his apology.

‘You know what,’ he said, turning the gas of the hob off and throwing down his towel. ‘I’m actually not that hungry. Help yourself if you want it.’ He banged the door on his way out.

Penny stood in the empty kitchen. She wasn’t sure what had just happened, but she knew she felt the beginnings of total fury bubbling in the pit of her stomach. What right did Francesco have to get cross about a bloke she’d been seeing before he’d even arrived? Not to mention the fact that it took him the grand total of half a second to move on once she’d said she was leaving Stoke Newington. She stared at the pasta. She wasn’t hungry now either, and so angrily poured it into the colander and pulled out a plastic container so it could be stored in the fridge. As she moved around the kitchen she got angrier and angrier. Even if Francesco was mad, how dare he walk out on her? That was just disrespectful. Downright rude. She flicked the lights off in the kitchen and went upstairs to her flat.

‘Francesco,’ she grumbled to herself. ‘Bloody Francesco.’ She showered, climbed into bed, and lay staring at the ceiling. She waited to calm down, to let the feeling subside, but it only got stronger.