‘My mongrel accent? Yes ma’am, it does. Italy by the way of the rest of the world. I think we moved around ten times in eighteen years. I’ve been in London six years, now, and intend to be here six more if I can help it. It’s the first place that has really felt like home.’

When they reached the top of the stairs they were side by side, Penny’s home spread before them. She walked through the open-plan living room to the kitchen area.

‘I ended up learning all my English slang from American TV,’ Francesco continued, kicking off his shoes. ‘We all did. It took me years to realize that you don’t say “far out” when something is good, but that’s what I learned from That 70’s Show.’

‘We don’t say groovy, either …’

‘Which I think is a shame, because that is a very nice word to say. The double-o in the middle. Groovy is a word that sounds … groovy. Nice place.’ He took in Penny’s flat. Being directly above the café, it was the exact same size and layout as downstairs. It was simply and tastefully done: lots of mis-matched framed photos and posters, a huge L-shaped sofa, wooden floors and candles and trinkets dotted everywhere. He walked through to join her at the breakfast bar.

‘Okay, on the menu this morning we have,’ he started, putting his bags on a chair and riffling through them, pulling things out, ‘the ultimate breakfast board. Smoked salmon, smoked trout, some whitefish roe … everything to make my famous crème fraiche … sumac, for the red onion … and these.’ He presented Penny with a white bag. ‘The best bagels you will ever consume.’

‘Is it the Italian in you that makes everything a superlative? Ultimate this, best that …’

‘Well, what is life for, if it isn’t for having the best of everything?’

‘That’s literally the opposite of British culture, which is essentially “make do and don’t complain”.’

‘Yes, I’ve noticed that. Very odd. Can you put this water in the fridge so it is cold when we eat? Also, I need an apron, please.’

‘Yes, chef,’ Penny said, remembering that she’d pledged to be his sous.

Together they pulled out plastic chopping boards and wooden serving plates and chose glasses and set the table in harmony, a playlist softly humming in the background – a playlist, Francesco had explained, that was ‘the only one worth making food to. If my food tastes of love, one must hear love, too.’

‘Far out,’ Penny said.

‘Bugger off,’ Francesco smiled, enjoying how Penny wasn’t afraid to give as good as she got.

‘It’s nice to be cooked for, instead of being the one doing the cooking,’ Penny said, watching Francesco work. ‘Especially in my own home.’

‘It’s my love language. Acts of service are my way of caring.’