Styles followed the waiter through a narrow slalom of tables to where Emma waited. She hadn’t seen him yet, and sat staring at the specials on the chalkboard, rolling the slender stem of her wine glass between finger and thumb. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he walked past the open kitchen and headfirst into a virtual wall of garlic mingled with fresh-baked pizza dough. Shouts of prego and grazie from the waiters rang out above the general hum of conversation as they glided through the gaps between chairs, plates perched precariously from wrist to elbow. Italian was more Emma’s thing. Food-wise for him, most things came a distant second to his mum’s cooking. Her Cou-Cou with fried fish, and the dozens of other recipes she plied him with whenever he went round, reminded him of summers visiting family back in Barbados when he was younger. His mum even had the original recipe book her own mother had insisted she took with her when she came to London, years before he was even born.

He glanced at his watch. Five minutes early, and still she made him feel like he’d kept her waiting. She turned to face him as the waiter reached their table ahead of him, smile starting at her lips and spreading outwards, lighting up every inch of her face.

Porter liked to remind him every so often that he was punching above his weight, and he had to agree. She hadn’t aged in the ten years they’d been together, not in his eyes at least, her dad’s Mediterranean blood showing through in the faintest tint of olive skin, and a laugh that bounced off every surface in the room. He smiled back, leaning down to kiss her, before folding himself into the seat opposite, legs knocking the underside of the table.

‘I’m bloody starving,’ he said, grabbing a piece of crusty bread, still warm to the touch. He tore a piece from the middle, rolling it into a loose ball and popping it in his mouth. She lifted the bottle of Chianti and poured him a healthy glassful.

‘How’s my favourite crime fighter?’ she asked, with only the barest hint of her Irish lilt left.

‘He’s good. Couldn’t tempt him to join us for dinner, though. Something about heading to his mam’s for tea.’

‘Ha ha, very funny,’ Emma said, eyes rolling.

‘I’m fine, thank you, darling,’ he said, putting his best Made in Chelsea voice on. ‘And you? How’s your day been?’

‘Long. I’ve been craving this since lunchtime,’ she said, waggling the half-empty glass towards him.