Our eyes met. For a moment, I so badly wanted to tell him the truth that I could feel the words in my mouth, waiting to be spoken. Then I shook my head, smiling at him. “Everyone has their sad days,” I said. “You’ve cheered mine up.”

“That was what I wanted.” His hand was still on my shoulder. “Tell me something, please.”

“What?”

“Is there anyone?”

“There was,” I said. “For a long time there was. But not anymore. That’s all over now.”

I felt so sad as I said the words. Cocooned in sadness, tiredness, food, warmth and the admiration of this nice stranger.

I let him take me home. Not to my home, of course, but his: a flat near the restaurant, up two flights of stairs and looking out onto a street market that was just packing up. It wasn’t out of desire but need, and the sheer, raw, monumental loneliness that had engulfed me: to be held as the day faded, to be told I was lovely. I shut my eyes and tried not to think of Greg’s face, tried not to remember and compare.

Afterward, when he tried to hold me, stroke my hair, my body wouldn’t let me stay still. I got out of bed and dressed with my back to him, so I couldn’t watch him watching me. An hour later, as I opened my front door, I felt a sudden unease, as if the house itself would be angry with me for what I’d done.

Chapter Eighteen

What was it like with Johnny?” asked Frances.

I looked up from some files and wondered if she could see my cheeks going red. Had he blabbed? “What do you mean?”

“The food,” she said. “What did you think?”

“It was fine,” I said.

“Just fine? Is that all?”

“It was good,” I said. “It was really nice.”

“Details, details,” said Frances. “I need to know everything.”

Frances poured a cup of coffee for me and one for her, and I went through every dish Johnny had served me, describing its appearance, its texture. Under Frances’s intense questioning I was forced to recall the ingredients, the garnishes, the presentation. And as I talked, she leaned forward, her lips parted, as if she was tasting the food in her imagination. I suddenly saw her as a hungry woman—not just for the meals I was describing, but for intimacy, affection.

“Mmm,” she said, when I’d finished. “Lucky you. Do you think it’s stuff we can use?”

“It might be a bit ornate,” I said.

“Ornate is good,” she said.

“Johnny never showed me a menu, but I guess it’s expensive.”