Her choice of venue is surprising, but I take it as a good sign. It’s a ‘chef’s theatre’ place, where the tables are either in booths, or arranged in a semi-circle around the cooking area where the chef is chopping vegetables with aplomb. Actually, I’d say it was more like ‘showing off’. A carrot flies above his head, to be grabbed mid-air and slammed down onto the chopping surface with a sharp thwack. Rose probably thought it would be ‘fun’, which suggests that she’s in a positive mood. We are seated in front of the chef in the vast, under-populated restaurant, which he seems to take as a sign to rev things up a notch.

Immediately he starts to juggle in the style of a flame-thrower, not with torches, but leeks. In between giving him the odd polite smile, we try to peruse the menu, which is proving tricky as the chef has moved on to tossing sliced sautéed potatoes directly from the sizzling hotplate towards our heads. ‘What are you doing?’ Rose exclaims, ducking as one whizzes past her ear.

‘It’s fun,’ replies the grinning chef, clearly misjudging our keenness to be pelted with scorching Maris Pipers as several more oily discs are pinged at us.

‘What the fuck?’ Rose mutters under her breath.

‘I think we’re supposed to catch them in our mouths,’ I say, trying not to laugh.

‘Fine, but can he stop now?’ She gives me a wide-eyed stare, clearly expecting me to sort it. If this is meant to be some kind of test – i.e. to find out how I act under pressure – surely she knows me by now? Or perhaps it’s a simple mistake, and she’s so unused to booking restaurants that she genuinely had no idea where to go?

‘Let’s move tables,’ I say, masterfully, summoning a waiter who ushers us to the safer environment of a booth.

We order, and Rose looks across the table at me, grimacing. ‘I didn’t realise it was this kind of place. Look at that.’ She indicates a greasy mark on the front of her azure silk shirt from one of the flying potatoes. ‘I’ll send them the dry-cleaning bill. Who enjoys that kind of thing, really?’

‘Teenagers on a date night?’ I suggest. ‘Honestly, I have no idea.’

‘Maybe this shirt should go in as soon as we get back?’ She frowns. ‘I have a spare one in the office I can change into. Would you mind?’

Would I mind sorting it for her, she means. ‘No, of course not.’

She smiles stoically. ‘Anyway, sorry it’s taken so long for us to get together …’

‘I know it’s been crazy busy lately,’ I say.