The aroma of garlic, basil and sweet tomatoes overwhelmed them as they opened the restaurant door to deep conversations and companionable warmth. Benito, the owner, looked up and smiled in delight under his statement moustache. “Ah, you’re here! Wonderful to see you again.” He always greeted them in the same way, as though he hadn’t seen them in weeks rather than days. He was a regular in Helen’s shop too, often poring over cookery books or asking her to order in books on his other passion, gardening. He lived on a small holding just outside of the village and grew a lot of the produce used in the restaurant.

He directed them to their usual table in the corner by the window and Hugh held out the chair for Helen. The restaurant was full, every table taken, the air buzzing. Helen didn’t look around, but Hugh made a show of smiling at some of the faces he recognised, looking more like himself now that they were inside.

Benito rattled through the specials unnecessarily, since they always ordered the same thing: bruschetta, followed by spaghetti carbonara for Hugh; garlic prawns followed by spinach and ricotta cannelloni for Helen. Then Benito subtly disappeared, leaving the menus on the table.

Hugh immediately picked his up and pored over it, despite knowing it backwards. His face was a studious mix of concentration and indecision. Helen looked over the wine list, decided on the usual house white, of which she would limit herself to two glasses, then cast her eye over the dessert menu first before pulling her eyes to the mains.

Benito was back, pad and pencil in hand. “So, my lovely friends, the usual? Or something different tonight?”

Hugh made a show of turning the menu over, considering the options, before handing it to Benito and saying, “Two glasses of your house white please, and then bruschetta for me, followed by the carbonara, I think.”

“A man who knows what he likes,” Benito said, although Helen was sure he was sighing in frustration on the inside.

Helen was.

Then Hugh said, “And my lovely wife will have—”

“You know, Benito, I think I will have something different tonight,” Helen interrupted.

They both looked at her like she had uttered a stream of profanities.

“I think I will start with the arancini, followed by linguine amatriciana.”

Hugh was frowning at her, but Benito looked delighted. “Excellent choice, my friend, excellent!”

He gathered the menus and weaved through the tables with a smile.

Helen kept her eyes on the window, staring out into the night, trying to see over to the shop, but she couldn’t see it from this angle.

Benito returned with the wine and they clinked their glasses together before Helen took a long drink. She bit down on an audible sigh of satisfaction.