Before Penny could reply a woman walked over, crouching down to kiss both of Francesco’s cheeks, saying: ‘Chef Cipolla, always a pleasure. I meant what I said about needing a new pastry chef, you know!’

Oh, he’s a chef too, thought Penny. I wonder where.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Francesco replied, grinning. ‘Nice to see you, Brigitte.’

‘You too darling. Goodnight!’

Penny’s mind worked quickly. Cipolla. The woman had called him Chef Cipolla. She turned the name over in her mind and then it came to her. Chef Cipolla! It was his coconut and peach milk bun she had eaten maybe two years ago now, that was light and well-risen whilst also aromatic and deep – an exquisite example of the mastery of food, of baking. She’d always taken note of his name in food press since then and it was beginning to dawn on her that she did, in fact, know his face from promo shots and the odd feature. If she’d felt like he was familiar to her, it’s because he was.

Chef Cipolla.

‘Francesco Cipolla,’ Penny said, understanding now. ‘Conosco il tuo cibo!’ She slipped into the rudimentary Italian she’d learned on trips to Sicily with her Uncle David as a teen. I know your food. Francesco’s eyebrows raised just enough for her to understand that her Italian had impressed him, which was exactly the effect she’d wanted. Francesco’s work was quite legendary, and she’d had no idea it was he who’d dropped off the bread delivery that day. Safiya had had Chef Cipolla help her out. He was famous! Food world famous, but famous nonetheless.

Penny continued: ‘Ce l’avevo a Bristol, due anni fa – complimenti.’ I had it two years ago, in Bristol.

‘How about a little English for the cheap seats in the back?’ Sharon said, looking from Penny to Francesco, understanding that the spark had caught and that she’d have to excuse herself any moment now. Sharon looked at his friend, who seemed otherwise tone-deaf, to see if he’d noticed too. He was leaning back in his armchair, his brandy about to spill, eyes gently closed. He was incredibly drunk.

‘Sharon, this is Francesco Cipolla. He’s one of the most famous pastry chefs in London. In England, maybe.’

‘I accept the compliment,’ Francesco said, eyes twinkling. Penny felt a stirring in the lowest part of her pelvis. He was grinning widely – exactly like that first morning they’d met.

‘God I’m drunk,’ said Francesco’s friend, opening his eyes. ‘Excuse me. Bathroom.’

The three of them watched him stand in silence. Sharon’s phone buzzed.