JOHNNY’S RESTAURANT WAS in Soho, down a little side alley. I knew it must be exclusive because it was almost impossible to spot from the street. The dining room was small, maybe ten tables, only one of which was unoccupied as we came in. With its low ceilings and deep-red wallpaper, it had the air of being someone’s private house rather than a public place. There was the hum of conversation, the chink of cutlery on china; waiters padded through, hovering deferentially over diners, pouring the last of the wine from bottles into glasses.

“Nice,” I commented.

“They’re all here on expense accounts,” Johnny said dismissively. “They don’t even taste what they’re eating. Why do we bother?”

“Shall I sit here?” I gestured to the single empty table.

He shook his head and whisked me through the door at the back and suddenly I was in an entirely different world, a brightly lit space of gleaming stainless-steel surfaces and scrubbed hobs. It was like a laboratory where men and women in white aprons bent over their work, occasionally calling instructions or pulling open vast drawers to reveal ingredients. I stared around me in fascination. Johnny pulled out a stool and sat me down at the end of a counter. “I’ll give you some things to try.”

“Am I meant to choose the menu for Frances?”

“No, I’ve already decided it.”

“Then what am I doing here?”

“I thought you were sad. I’m going to look after you. Wait.” He disappeared through a small swing door and returned holding a large glass with a tiny amount of gold liquid in the bottom. “Drink this first.”

I took an obedient sip. It was sweet, pungent, like apricots.

“Now, some soup. Radek, soup for the lady here!”

It didn’t come in a bowl, but a tiny teacup, and was frothy like cappuccino. I drank it slowly, finishing it with a teaspoon. “What is it?”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s delicious.”

“Artichoke.”

Lunch came in miniature portions: a sliver of sea bass with wild mushrooms, a single raviolo sitting in a puddle of green sauce in the middle of a huge bowl, a square inch of lamb on a spoonful of crisped potato, a thimbleful of rice pudding with cardamom. I ate very slowly, in a dream, while around me the bustle gradually died down as the restaurant emptied and the kitchen filled with racks of washed plates and glasses. Johnny fussed over me, wanting my approval. The mess of my life receded; in this warm space I felt I need never venture to be Ellie again.

“I’ve never eaten like this in my entire life,” I said, over strong black coffee and a bitter chocolate truffle.

“Is that in a good way?”

“I feel looked after,” I said.

“That’s what I wanted.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “What is it, Gwen?”