THE LOVE SQUARE
Laura Jane Williams

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © Just Show Up Ltd 2020

Cover design by Ellie Game © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Laura Jane Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008365431

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008365448

Version: 2020-07-15

PRAISE FOR LAURA JANE WILLIAMS

‘A joyful, romantic and life-affirming love story’

Red

‘Laura Jane Williams combines sharp, relatable wit and bold, joyful sincerity’

Dolly Alderton

‘Hilarious, heart-warming and truly authentic – your modern rom com must-read’

Hello!

‘A fresh, smart, modern rom com. This is romance seen through the wry eyes of a cynic, and that’s what makes it so special – and, ultimately, so uplifting. It had me totally gripped’

Beth O’Leary

‘LJ’s honesty and voice are unique’

Stylist

‘Laura Jane Williams offers another dose of smart, sisterly storytelling … You can practically feel modern romance evolving as you’re reading it’

Emma Jane Unsworth

‘A perfect summer read that will leave you grinning’

Closer

‘Tender, energetic and authentic … Such a current love story, but so timeless too’

Daisy Buchanan

‘Uplifting and witty, filled with so much real emotion’

Health & Wellbeing

‘Laura Jane Williams’ writing sees you, and gives you so much … Exactly the joyful escapism you need for your next beach holiday’

Lucy Vine

‘This is the laugh-out-loud love story you need to read this summer’

Glamour

‘So funny and wonderful and life-affirming’

Lorna Cook

‘We devoured this book in one sitting!’

Bella

‘This is the feminist rom-com of the summer’

Holly Bourne

‘A cult hit’

Grazia

Dedication

For J & A

Your love inspires me

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Laura Jane Williams

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Keep reading for an exclusive extract of Laura Jane Williams’ next novel, The Lucky Escape

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Fiction by the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

‘That’s the last of it, then,’ he said sadly, looking into the boot of the small hire car loaded with pillows and chairs, vases and lamps. ‘Everything that’s most important to you, packed and ready to go.’

What he meant was: me. Take me. Ask me to go with you. I’m important. I’m yours, too.

‘Great,’ she replied, not meeting his eye. She said it too loudly, too brightly. She was over-compensating. ‘Thanks so much. That was a lot. I’m knackered already!’

What she meant was: I don’t know how to say goodbye. I wish things were different. I’m scared.

Francesco Cipolla and Penny Bridge stood looking at anything but each other, both wishing they were back in the flat together, making brunch to sit with knees knocking and tasting food off each other’s forks, like yesterday morning, or in bed, twisting the sheets around them as they giggled, like last night.

It had only been three weeks. How could this all be ending after only three weeks? It was like leaving a play at the interval, or stopping after the first sip of a salt-rimmed margarita. They were wasting themselves, wasting the potential of what they had. They could be drunk on each other, they could finish falling all the way until they were in love. They were almost there anyway, and god knows Penny had searched hard enough for a man that could make her feel like this. But she couldn’t see how she could physically leave and mentally stay with him – and she really did have to leave. She owed it to her uncle. Trying to stay in a relationship with Francesco was a set-up for failure.

No, she reasoned with herself. I’m ripping the plaster off. Long-distance doesn’t work, and no way will he leave London for the countryside. I don’t even want to leave London for the countryside. She thought of his touch, his nimble fingers exploring her, how he tasted. He was so, so hot. And kind. And thoughtful. And he listened when she talked and made her laugh and didn’t treat her like a delicate doll that might break, and all of that made him even hotter.

No, she repeated to herself. We can’t.

Francesco cleared his throat.

‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay driving?’ he forced. ‘Shall we get coffee first, or snacks …?’

Take me with you.

‘Nah,’ Penny replied, knocking her shoulder against his and focusing on the edge of the pavement. ‘I think I’ll get upset if we go back in there to be honest. And I don’t want to have to stop for a wee until I’m at least at the Watford Gap.’

‘But you will stop,’ he said.

‘Yes, Francesco. I will stop.’ She was amused at his caring, and so finally looked up at him, halting the world on its axis.

Francesco couldn’t fully explain why he’d be willing to give up his life to go with her, but he would. Penny had no reason to believe he’d be different than every other man who’d left her when things got hard, though. They were in a stand-off. Francesco could only prove he’d stick around by being able to show up for her in the first place, and Penny was holding him at arms’ length, denying him the chance to try.

‘Well,’ she said, eventually. ‘I suppose I’ll see you when I see you.’

‘This is so weird.’

‘Nah,’ intoned Penny, inwardly screaming the opposite. ‘Just give me a hug and that’s that.’

Francesco obliged, holding her tight. Even the way she smells turns me on, he thought. Maybe friendship would be impossible after all.

‘Here’s to what’s next, then,’ he said into the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her.

Behind them Stuart appeared, lingering in the doorway of the café. He scowled a bit, a way to ask Francesco if he should interrupt or hang back. Penny sensed him, though, and so squeezed Francesco’s waist twice, a little morse code of release, and then pulled away.

‘Don’t ruin my café whilst I’m gone,’ she mock-taunted Stuart, who stepped forward to issue his own hug.

‘You have my word, boss,’ he smiled, doing a captain’s salute at her. ‘I’ll send updates all the time, and you can look at the accounts whenever you want.’

‘You’re a legend, Stu. Thank you for this.’

She opened the driver’s door and started the engine. As she slammed the door shut, she could see Francesco panic that that was it, that their goodbye was over and she would be gone. She laughed through both her tears and the glass, winding down the window.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ she insisted. ‘Everything is going to be fine.’ She wiped her eyes, all pretence of not crying disappearing. Then: ‘Tell me it’s all going to be fine.’

‘It’s all going to be fine,’ Francesco nodded, his own eyes stinging, his own vision blurring.

Isn’t that how falling in love so often works? Some stranger appears out of nowhere and becomes a fixed star in your universe.

- Kate Bolick

1

A few months ago, in March

It wasn’t so much that Penny Bridge was unlucky in love as it was that love seemingly didn’t know she existed. It had been five years since her last proper relationship – five years since romance, prolonged passion, or even since a bloke had stayed interested for longer than a week. It was getting pretty hard to pretend it might ever be any different, and keeping positive was really starting to take its toll, especially after last night.

‘I just can’t believe I’m here again,’ she sighed, explaining to her head barista Stuart about the text she’d received after getting home from her date. It had read:

Hey, so I didn’t know how to say this earlier but my ex is kind of back in the picture. I don’t want to string you along or anything, so I don’t think we should see each other again. All the best!! xx

‘Ah,’ replied Stuart. ‘That really sucks.’

Cristian had been a Romanian mathematician who worked for Virgin Galactic, and for their second date they’d gone to a very promising sing-along showing of La La Land at the Hackney Picturehouse and then next door to the Wetherspoon’s. Penny had already decided that it was the night to have sex with him – she’d shaved her bikini line especially, and changed her bed sheets – but on her way back from the bathroom at the pub she’d seen the familiar yellow interface of the dating app on his phone, and realized he was obviously messaging somebody else whilst she was having a wee. Why had he lied after? He didn’t need to say that his ex was making moves on him. She was a big girl. She could withstand the truth. Obviously he was just not that into her. But why? Why weren’t any of them just not that into her? And why hadn’t she called him out on his terrible etiquette right there and then instead of finishing her drink and making vague grumbles about it ‘getting late’?

She knew the answer to that, actually. It’s because it felt like she was in an episode of Sex and the City – the one where Charlotte screams at a sky that should have been raining men, ‘I’ve been dating since I was fifteen! I’m exhausted! Where is he?!’ Penny was too exhausted to teach Cristian about basic manners – that’s why she’d finished the drink she’d paid for and left without bringing it up. She simply couldn’t be arsed. His text message after was unnecessary salt in the wound.

What is so wrong with me that no bloke wants to be my boyfriend? she wondered.

Last month she’d spent five nights in a row with Trevor, a deputy head of maths on half term who, once school started back up again, fell off the face of the earth until a random 1 a.m. text asking if he’d left his protractor at her flat. Before Christmas there’d been an Iraqi estate agent from Camberwell who’d really made her laugh – and she, him – but who was so inexplicably embarrassed by what he’d asked her to do to his prostate when he was drunk that he blocked not only her phone number, but everything across all social media, too. Before him there’d been a string of first dates that never seemed to become second ones, a summer off dating entirely, and three trips to the Skirt Club to sate her light bi-curiosity but that didn’t lead to much dating, either – Penny had figured out quickly enough that she was doomed with an attraction to men. (She did, though, get the name of an amazing seamstress in Canonbury, and made friends with two women who were now a couple and who she still saw every couple of months for drinks.)

Penny thought of herself as an entertaining date – interesting and interested. She had friends and family she loved, a business she was proud of, some fun stories and – so she’d been told – eyes that danced with mischief. Did she spit when she laughed, and nobody had ever mentioned it? Did she talk about herself too much? Was it her cup size, or her dress size, or her hair colour? Weren’t redheads supposed to be a novelty? Was it because she asked too many questions?

She didn’t know how to be anybody but herself, and yet herself, Penny Bridge, was apparently repulsive to all mankind because none of them wanted to actually be with her. She had half a mind to text Cristian back and ask him straight: why didn’t any of her dates ever pan out? If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, Penny was officially bonkers. She kept hoping that the next date might be different, that the next man might be different, but they never were. Maybe Cristian could tell her what needed to change. Would it be weird to ask him? He was, after all, one of the people best placed to make suggestions. What did the other women on the dating app have that Penny didn’t?

‘You don’t need to change a thing,’ urged Stuart, kindly. ‘You only have to get it right once. This space engineer is a fool if he’s blowing you off. A damned idiot.’

Penny sat across from Stuart at the serving counter, watching him arrange the grapefruit-orange crostatas and a goat’s cheese double crumb cake she’d just brought up from the kitchen. This was Stoke Newington, one of the more achingly bougie boroughs of North London, so he was using breeze-blocks as support for the charcoal slate trays, all at varying heights. It was terribly hipster but genuinely quite good to look at, so she let him do as he pleased. Bridges was her café, and she cooked, but his aesthetics defined the space where the customers ate.

‘But I’m so tired, Stu. I’m so sick of this feeling – of holding my breath to get some stupid validation from a stupid man, and then feeling like I need to eat a pint of ice cream and cry-wank to The Notebook when it doesn’t happen. Do I smell like desperation?’

‘You smell like burnt cream and boiled ham, Pen, like you do every day.’

‘Ha, ha. Thanks.’ She rolled her eyes at him playfully. She did smell, though – that was the life of a chef in a small breakfast and lunch café, to carry the faint odour of cooking from 7 a.m. until 4 p.m., Tuesday to Saturday.

‘I feel like I really should plan to be single forever. Have a baby solo. I keep threatening to go for it. Maybe I should take the hint the universe or whatever is throwing at me. I just want to live my life, man. It feels pathetic to be somehow waiting.’ She sighed dramatically. Stuart didn’t need to know that before her cancer treatment she’d both harvested eggs and had them fertilized with donor sperm. Making embryos as a single woman with cancer had been a complicated decision, and one even some of her family hadn’t understood. She’d have to use a surrogate when she wanted kids, but that wasn’t the point right now. The point was, she really did think she might have to proceed without a partner by her side. So why shouldn’t she do that sooner rather than later? Evidently that partner wasn’t anywhere close to making himself known.

‘I could introduce you to some friends, you know,’ Stuart said, wiping down stray specks from around his display. Stuart was a twenty-five-year-old art school graduate who treated coffee like as much of a craft as his own pottery. Slim build and black skin, he wore straight-leg jeans rolled twice, socks on show, and bulky sneakers that seemingly never got grubby – as well as a t-shirt with two rolls of the sleeve and a single pierced ear. ‘If you wanted somebody pre-vetted for ghosting, or lying, or general romantic ambivalence.’

Penny stood and walked behind the counter to make another coffee, her third of the morning. ‘Aw, thanks. But I don’t think you should be setting your boss up.’

Stuart stepped out of her way. ‘You have too many rules.’

‘If I dated one of your friends – who, you know, let’s be fair, would be too young for me anyway – in three dates’ time I wouldn’t want to be running into him because he’s here to meet you after your shift, but had told me he had to move to Kazakhstan for a work assignment and that’s why he couldn’t be with me. When I get ghosted, I really do expect to never see them again. It’d be added mortification otherwise, and I haven’t got the stomach for it.’

‘Just promise me you won’t give up,’ Stuart soothed. ‘Dating is hard for everyone until it’s not. You only have to get it right once, that’s what my pa says. Your soulmate could be just around the corner. He could appear at any minute, and it’d be a shame to miss him because your head is too far up your own self-pitying—’

Stuart was interrupted by the sound of three knocks against the glass of the café door, forcing both of them to look over. Stood on the pavement was a dark-haired, olive-skinned man in a beanie hat and puffer vest, accessorized with an armful of sourdough loaves. Stuart immediately issued Penny a smirk. She didn’t catch it.

‘Ah, yeah – I meant to say,’ she started, already in business mode, holding up a hand to the man outside to signal she was coming. ‘The bread delivery is going to be late today because Safiya had an issue with somebody falling off a bike and so had to ask her friend to help out.’ She bent down to unlock the bottom part of the door, opening it up to say, ‘Are you Safiya’s man-who-can? Come in.’

‘Safiya fell off her bike?’ Stuart said, worriedly, whilst also acknowledging the man Penny had let in. ‘Alright mate?’ Stuart had a crush on the bread supplier and did a terrible job of hiding it – even the way he said Safiya’s name betrayed him.

The puffer-vest-wearing man put the brown paper bags down on the table by the door and happily inserted himself into the conversation. ‘Not Safiya. A guy she’s dating. But I’m here to save the day! I’ve got more in the van. Croissants, I think. Nice to meet you. I’m Francesco.’ He shook Stuart’s hand and nodded at Penny, who’d already walked back across the café.

Penny caught Stuart’s face fall. A guy she’s dating. That must’ve stung. She went back to the counter just as the coffee maker roared into life and spat hot, syrupy espresso into her cup, and Stuart busied himself by filling up the sugar bowls on each table. She watched the man outside shift several delivery trays in his van around into a more orderly fashion. His complexion and hair colour made sense now she’d heard him speak – he had a slight accent. He wore a striped apron over his clothes and paused his work to pull out a phone from the front pouch. Whoever was on the other end of the line when he answered delighted him so much that he threw his head back, laughing. Seeing somebody so elated made Penny smile by proxy. A handsome man enjoying his life. She wondered if it was his girlfriend, and then wondered why she’d wondered about him having a girlfriend. She concluded it was because of the accent. And the smile. And the heavy-lifting.

‘I wish you’d let me do that for you,’ Stuart said, interrupting her reverie. ‘You don’t treat it with the respect it deserves.’

‘It’s just a double espresso,’ giggled Penny.

Stuart looked stern and held up a finger. ‘It is never just an espresso, Penny.’

‘My bad …’ Penny stepped away from the machine, back around the counter, holding her hands up while giving a mocking roll of the eyes.

‘This is your café – you’re Penny?’ Francesco said, reappearing in the doorway and dropping down two smaller paper bags.

‘I am.’

He wiped a hand on his apron and held it out to her as he approached.

‘I’ve read about you.’

The warmth of his palm met hers.

They locked eyes.

His smile was broad – not just wide, but all-encompassing. It was disconcerting to look him in the eye, this stranger, not least because they were stood not even a body’s width apart, but Penny found that she couldn’t look away. She took him in – his sprinkling of stubble and the tangy smell of coffee on his breath.

‘I wish I could stay for breakfast,’ he said.

They were still shaking hands.

‘Leaving before breakfast and you didn’t even spend the night,’ Penny baited without thinking, shocking herself at how easily she’d let something so inappropriate slip out.

‘I’ve heard great things,’ smirked Francesco.

‘Well … I …’ Penny spluttered. She was embarrassed now. Why had she said that? Maybe this explained her perpetual singledom – she was a horrific flirt who, when it came down to it, didn’t actually know how to communicate with the opposite sex.

‘I meant about the breakfast.’ Francesco laughed.

‘Yes. Of course! Right. Yes, so did I.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he murmured, clearly enjoying her squirming.

They stood, touching, him grinning at her, looking at her, scanning her face like maybe he knew her, and Penny realized she was grinning just as widely back.

Something was happening.

Penny didn’t know what to say.

His eyes were like pools of black marble.

Deep.

Penetrating.

She could count on one hand the number of times she’d experienced that. Somebody looking not at her, but almost through to the essence of her. Piercing something. The last time she’d felt like this with a hot bloke was at culinary school, when she’d met her ex. She’d felt it when she’d told her uncle about being ill, when she was twenty-five, too. Her sister Clementine could look at her that way sometimes. There was no hiding. Jesus, I hope that wasn’t his girlfriend on the phone, Penny thought. He’s beautiful. Not that she was going to do anything about it. Obviously. She’d probably never see him again, for starters.

‘Well. I’ll … be back,’ Francesco said. ‘I’ve got more deliveries now.’

They were still holding hands. Still staring.

‘Do. Yes. We’ll … be here,’ Penny grinned, not entirely sure what that even meant. ‘I mean. Of course we’ll be here. Buildings don’t tend to move around. Ha.’ Her mouth was dry. Why was she so horribly incompetent with this? ‘You’re welcome any time.’ She felt ridiculous.

Francesco flashed his smile once more. ‘Cool,’ he nodded, and dropped her hand to turn on his heel.

‘Francesco?’ Stuart said, and Penny realized with mortification that he’d been stood behind the counter watching as all of this happened.

‘Yes mate?’ Francesco replied, not making eye contact with Stuart as he spun back around, instead immediately catching Penny’s eye again, grateful for the excuse to elicit another smile. She had bright red hair piled on top of her head and not a scrap of make-up. She looked tired, like she’d already been in the kitchen for hours, but her cheeks had flushed to make her glow, and her voice, when she’d spoken, had reminded him of something. He felt like he’d met her before, somewhere. He wanted permission to keep staring, to keep looking.

‘Are you seeing anyone?’

That got his attention. Francesco looked to Stuart. ‘Ah, I’m not gay, mate. Sorry.’

Stuart rolled his eyes and motioned towards Penny. ‘Not for me. For her.’ Penny’s eyes widened in horror. ‘The one that’s slack-jawed and dripping over there.’

‘Me?’ Penny squeaked.

‘You’re single?’ Francesco questioned.

Penny looked from Francesco to Stuart, and then back again.

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Oh. Cool. Well—’

Stuart cut him off by handing him an order pad and pen.

‘Write your number down,’ Stuart commanded.

Francesco laughed. ‘God, there’s no messing around here, is there?’ he laughed. He looked at Penny. ‘Is that … okay? If I do that?’

‘Sure,’ yelped Penny, three octaves higher than she normally spoke. ‘Yes. Okay. Um … awesome. I will … use it. Yes.’ She inexplicably did a thumbs-up mixed with a finger point. Later Stuart would say to her: you were real cool, Pen. Real, real cool.

Francesco scribbled down his digits as Penny glared at Stuart and Stuart supervised Francesco, nodding encouragingly as he handed the slip of paper over to her.

Penny smiled.

Francesco smiled.

They stood, neither of them saying anything.

This stuff doesn’t happen! thought Penny. This stuff doesn’t happen to ME!

‘Okay then,’ said Stuart. ‘This is the bit where you both say goodbye. We’ve got a café to run.’

‘Bye,’ Francesco said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

‘Bye,’ said Penny, giddy.

‘You’re both very welcome,’ said Stuart, ushering Francesco out. ‘Especially you,’ he added, for Penny’s benefit, winking. When Francesco was out of earshot he added: ‘I told you it could be the very next man to walk through that door.’

‘Well yeah,’ said Penny, lowering her voice, her eyes fixed on Francesco’s bum through the window – she’d have to have been dead not to notice how his jeans hung low on his waist, his boxers peeking over the top. ‘But a man who looks like that – there’s got to be something wrong with him, hasn’t there? Nice guys don’t … swagger.’

Francesco gave one last look back before he got into the bread van. Penny and Stuart each raised a hand to wave at him.

‘Right?’ she prompted Stuart.

‘Put that number into your phone right now, right this second,’ he said. ‘Before you lose it. If there’s something wrong with him, at least find out what it is.’

‘Like that’s not the story of my life,’ Penny replied sceptically, still waving at Francesco and his cute bum.

After service had ended that day and Bridges was closed, Penny sat outside in the unseasonably warm March sunshine. (‘Fake spring’ her uncle called it. ‘There’s three fake springs before May, but don’t be fooled: a week of sun does not a change of season make.’) All day she’d been turning over what had happened that morning in her mind – getting Francesco’s number that way. What did she have to lose by texting him? But then, what if he’d only passed along his number because he was too embarrassed not to? Penny couldn’t quite engage the ‘sod it’ muscles it took to make a move on him. He was gorgeous, though. Really … urgh. She didn’t want to use the word ‘sexy’ but it was the most appropriate one that came to mind. He might be too sexy, thought Penny. If I’m a six out of ten and he’s a nine, he probably wants to date another nine. That’s just hot people maths.

Penny rolled a cigarette from the pouch of tobacco in her lap, using a menthol filter. She knew smoking was bad for her, and yet that was part of the appeal. She let herself have one a day, like Obama apparently did. A good girl doing a bad thing. Lighting it, she simultaneously fished her phone out of her apron, pulling up WhatsApp to send a voice note to her sister Clementine. She held down the record button and slid it up so that it locked, meaning she could talk at length without needing to keep her finger pressed down.

‘So, a thing happened this morning,’ she started, thus beginning the kind of monologue that she and Clementine lovingly called ‘Personal Podcasts’. Clementine was a project manager for Stella McCartney, which meant she was seldom in the country for more than one week at a time before she had to fly off to Tokyo or Helsinki or Milan to oversee the building and fitting of a new store. For the past two years their bond had subsisted mostly on these voice notes recorded and listened to at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes it was easier to be honest about their lives without the other one there – like truths whispered between lovers after dark, when it was simpler to say what needed to be said. In truth, Clementine’s job had brought them closer, even though they were physically far apart.

‘This guy … Oh I don’t know. This is so dumb.’ Penny sucked on her roll-up and exhaled loudly. She explained all about acquiring Francesco’s number and concluded with, ‘I’m going to text him. That’s what I came on to tell you. I’m going to text him because I am a grown woman in charge of herself and it’s not a big deal. That is what he gave it to me for. So I could use it. Which I am going to do. Use it. Me. To text him, Mr Hot Stuff, right now, in a minute.’

She stubbed out her cigarette with the heel of her trainer and gently tucked it into the side of a bay tree at the back door, in amongst all the other butts she told herself she’d ‘collect all at once’ to ‘save time’ but hadn’t done in about six months.

‘Anyway, tell me your news when you can. I know I just made this all about me. But, sisterly entitlement and all that, isn’t it. I just needed to talk myself into being brave. Love you! Send photos from Miami! I am now going to text the handsome man!’

Except, once Penny had sent the voice note, she sat staring at her phone, turning it over in her hand, most definitely not texting Francesco. She stared at the darkening sky and let out a sigh. Cristian hadn’t wanted her. Trevor hadn’t wanted her. The Iraqi estate agent hadn’t wanted her. Why would this guy be any different?

Dare I … she wondered. Images of Cristian playing on the dating app the night before flashed up in her mind, the shame and degradation washing over her once again.

‘Damn it,’ she said, unlocking her phone. She couldn’t get the idea of feedback from another man out of her mind. She thought about it for a minute and then typed:

Oh hey – me again. Penny. I was wondering if I could ask you one thing. Not being weird or anything, but I think there’s something you could help me with?

She was in luck: it came up at the top of the screen that Cristian was online, and then that he was typing back.

… ok??? Cristian replied.

Penny took a breath and decided to just go for it. I saw you playing on Bumble when I was coming back from the bathroom last night, she explained. So obviously you just weren’t that into me. I’m not saying your ex isn’t back in the picture, but even if she isn’t you decided you didn’t fancy me. And that is totally cool! That’s ok!!! But I’ve been really unlucky with dating, and I wondered if there was something I did to mess it up? She hoped she didn’t sound like she was begging him to change his mind. She sent another message: Honestly, I’m not trying to be a bitch or anything. I really am hoping you can solve the mystery (to me) of my eternal singledom!

Cristian is typing, her phone promised, before his reply pinged back.

lol. Soz that u saw that. Not that we r married or anything lol.

Lol, she replied.

Penny hated that she had replied with a ‘lol’. She hated that she was even asking the question. The man couldn’t even spell his texts properly! But if she was going to message Francesco, she wanted information first. She wanted to know how to protect herself. She wanted to make sure that if there was one thing that was turning these men off that she knew, once and for all, what it was, so she could decide if she was willing to change it or not.

Cristian continued: I mean, ur fit and everything, so don’t worry about that.

Thanks. You too!

It took everything she had in her not to add an emoji, but he didn’t deserve the happy face with the jazz hands. Was Cristian always this much of a moron? Penny reflected that they hadn’t really exchanged many messages before they’d gone out together – she’d just straight up asked him out, because it was draining to keep messaging and she didn’t have time in her schedule to waste. He was an eloquent conversationalist – or, at least, she remembered him as one. Although … huh. Now she thought about it, he hadn’t asked her many questions about herself, and he did tend to explain things to her that she already knew, even after she had said she knew them. Bloody hell, maybe I’ve been so desperate to couple up that I willingly got dickmatized, she thought, remembering what her best friend Sharon had said to her about straight women who become hypnotized into forgetting their partner’s flaws at the promise of sex. ‘And it doesn’t even have to be good sex!’ Sharon had insisted. ‘Just a warm body to wake up next to!’ Bugger, thought Penny. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Penny’s realization was interrupted by his reply.

If I was gonna say anyting maybe your laff is a bit loud

My laugh is too loud?

It’s like confidence and that innit? You don’t mind people looking and that. I like my women a bit more quiet.

Right. I’m too confident?

A bit, yeah. Sorry if I’m affending you or whatever but you asked!

How could Penny be ‘accused’ of being ‘too confident’ when literally her lack of confidence is what meant she was asking this man for feedback about herself in the first place? She started to type a response. At first she tried to make a joke about it, but then she hit the delete button and re-typed outrage at such blatant misogyny instead. She deleted that, too. Penny sat and stared at her phone and tried to reason with what she’d advise anyone else to do. If a friend told her they’d texted a date that didn’t work out to ask for ‘feedback’ what would she say?

She took a breath.

‘Bollocks to this,’ she declared, and swiped left on the message thread to hit ‘delete’. Then she went to contacts and hit the ‘i’ by Cristian’s name, scrolling down to block his number.

‘That’s better!’ she avowed out loud, a feeling of relief washing over her that she might have lost perspective for a moment, but she’d pulled it back from the brink. She certainly wouldn’t be telling Clementine about this slip in judgement. There was nothing wrong with her. If Cristian didn’t fancy her that was, like Stuart had pointed out, Cristian’s problem.

Admittedly, it was a shame that Cristian’s problem left Penny as the one on her own.

She put her phone back into her trouser pocket and stood to go back inside. She wasn’t going to worry about Cristian, and she certainly wasn’t going to get her knickers in a twist over the delivery man from this morning, either, who’d no doubt be yet another in a long string of anticlimaxes. No. It was better to swear off men altogether for a bit. She could always go on another wellness retreat, or buy a new vibrator, instead. Perhaps she’d finally join the Netball team at the leisure centre. Anything but men. Just for a little while. Maybe what she’d said to Stuart was right – that she’d plough on with her life single, and truly start preparing to find a surrogate. At least that way she’d be protected from dating disappointment. Trying to stay hopeful was costing her emotional wellbeing way too much. Couldn’t there be more to life than trying to find a bloody man?

2

‘Well hello, you,’ Penny’s best friend Sharon said in her thick Irish accent as Penny climbed into the backseat of their Uber. ‘Who are you out to impress tonight? You look – well, there’s no other word for it – sensational.’

‘Oh, this old thing?’ Penny asked, putting on a faux-shy voice as she fixed her seatbelt and leaned across to kiss Sharon’s cheek.

Penny revelled in the opportunity to get dressed up. She spent much of her life smelling, as Stuart lovingly joked, like burnt cream and boiled ham, so to shower with her favourite oils, and style her hair and wear a dress that she’d actually taken the time to iron, felt like stepping into a different side of her personality. She was always herself, but in a ruffled red midi dress she’d picked up at one of Stoke Newington’s Church Street boutiques, she felt girlish and pretty, and it was difficult to feel that way in the Crocs and chef’s whites of her day-to-day. She liked reminding herself she could be both versions of Penny.

‘No but seriously,’ said Sharon, getting a proper look at her. ‘I thought you were off men?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Are you telling me you’re not on the pull? That you wore false eyelashes for me?’

Penny reached for her face self-consciously. ‘Is it too much?’

‘No, no,’ Sharon insisted. ‘It’s the perfect amount.’

‘I just wanted to remind myself that I can be cute, when I try.’

‘You’re cute all the time!’ asserted Sharon.

‘You know what I mean,’ Penny said. ‘It’s not often I go out somewhere so fancy on a school night.’

‘You look gorgeous and if you wanted to tell me the same I wouldn’t be offended.’

Penny laughed. This is why she found it so easy to be around her – Sharon was fun and to-the-point and never took anything too seriously.

‘Sharon!’ she said, as if only now seeing her for the first time. ‘Look at you! You’re a knock-out!’

‘Why, thank you.’ Sharon pushed her forearms under her boobs to emphasize the low cut of her top.

‘I hope you’ve checked those things lately,’ Penny prompted, as the driver looked at them both in the rearview mirror.

Sharon nodded. ‘Once a month, in the shower, like you taught me,’ she replied.

Penny winked at her.

Sharon lived around the corner from the café with her partner and two kids in a Victorian terrace her parents bought for £260,000 twelve years ago, and was now, aided by London inflation, worth a cool £1.2 million. Sharon used to work in FinTech – financial technology – but gave it all up when she had kids to become a florist, age thirty-nine. She was talented, and did the flowers for Bridges. That’s how Penny had met her two years ago now.

‘I’m excited,’ Penny told Sharon as they arrived, joining the queue at coat check and rifling through their handbags for change to tip the porter. The women had been invited to the soft opening of a new restaurant in Notting Hill called Ecclesiast. Dofi, a colleague from Penny’s days at Grayshott Hall – the first ‘proper’ kitchen job after culinary school for them both – had gone out on her own finally. Penny had been just as ambitious as Dofi once, but after the cancer her priorities had shifted. A little North London café was one thing, but Penny knew a whole restaurant that did lunch and dinner, could turn a hundred and fifty covers a day, employed scores of people and was probably vying for a Michelin Star, was quite another. Penny was able to be genuinely happy for Dofi though, because – perpetual singleness aside – Penny was actually really in love with how she’d set up her own life, too. They both had businesses that were right for them.

‘Huh. I was sure I’d put some pound coins in here,’ Penny muttered, absentmindedly still searching her through her clutch. ‘Have you got two quid?’

A voice boomed over her shoulder as she looked through her bag one last time: ‘Just these two please, Darius.’ As a man passed two coats to the coat-check attendant, one brushed Penny’s bag, tipping it out of her hands and onto the floor.

She crouched down without thinking to collect the spilled contents before they were trampled on, as Sharon bristled, ‘Hey, excuse you! I think you owe my friend an apology, sir!’ She said the ‘sir’ sarcastically, making it clear the man who’d barged past them was anything but a gentleman. Good old Sharon.

Penny stood as the perpetrator turned to face them.

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—’ the man started, a slightly odd melody to his words, like maybe English was his second language.

‘Oh!’ said Penny in surprise. ‘I know you!’

In front of her was the bread delivery guy who’d been in the café the other week – still handsome, but cheeks flushed now. Penny literally saw his recognition of her rise up to his eyes just seconds after she’d recognized him.

‘Hello,’ he said, coolly, obviously taken aback to see her. ‘I’m sorry about that. My spatial awareness obviously needs some work.’

‘No,’ Penny insisted, trying to sound kind and friendly. She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable at the sight of her when it was he who’d been brave by giving her his number. ‘It was me – I wasn’t looking where I was stood. I was looking for change. I’m sorry.’

God, that face. Francesco’s face. And his voice, too – his voice gave Penny’s body a physical reaction. Her nipples bristled under her dress. Her breathing changed. Why hadn’t she texted him?

Francesco nodded, his face impassive. Penny couldn’t get a read on him. The friend beside him said, ‘Do you guys need tip money? I’ve got change.’

Sharon held out her palm to reveal two coins. ‘We’ve sorted it,’ she said. ‘I found some in my bag.’ Penny could tell she was waiting to have the situation explained to her – how everyone knew one another.

There was a pause as Penny and Francesco took each other in, neither really smiling or frowning, just looking, both wondering what to say.

‘I didn’t text,’ Penny settled on, right as Francesco said, ‘Well, have a great night. This should be really good.’

‘Oh,’ said Penny. ‘Yes.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Penny faltered.

‘What did you do?’ asked Sharon, looking between them, confused.

‘Enjoy your night,’ said Francesco’s friend. It all happened so fast. Francesco was already walking towards the dining room to be greeted by the hostess before Penny could think of anything to say to keep him chatting. She watched him go. The friend half-smiled at them and turned away himself.

‘Ahhh,’ Penny moaned, scrunching up her face.

‘What was that?’ probed Sharon. ‘Or rather, who was that?’

‘Oh god. He came in the café a couple of weeks ago and Stuart told him to leave his number for me but I didn’t use it. I think he was a bit embarrassed. Like I’d stood him up or something. I wonder why he’s here, and how he knows Dofi.’

‘Well,’ said Sharon, taking Penny’s coat from her for the porter. ‘You’d be embarrassed, too, wouldn’t you? If you hit on him and he said he’d call and then he changed his mind.’ She slid the tip money across the counter. ‘I mean, nobody died, but still. Even my ego would be bruised over that.’

‘I know,’ Penny said. She was still watching the space where Francesco had stood. He was even more attractive than she’d remembered. She felt awful that he’d seemed so awkward. Had she been awkward? She’d definitely been awkward.

‘Is there a reason you didn’t text him?’ Sharon said, following her gaze. ‘Because, if you don’t mind my saying so, that seems a little short-sighted. He’s …’

Penny exhaled through her nostrils loudly. ‘Yeah. He is.’ Then she added: ‘There was a reason. Like I said, and, may I remind you, you agreed it was a sound idea – I’m not doing men right now, am I?’

‘I’d do that one, though,’ snickered Sharon, raising her eyebrows suggestively, and Penny gave her a playful shove.

‘Do you think he’s too handsome?’ Penny asked, letting the waiter unroll her napkin and place it on her lap. ‘Look at him. A man like that could rely on his face for his whole life, never having to develop a personality.’

‘I definitely don’t think a man like that is a riot in the sack, put it that way. I’ll bet he’s never had to even try to get a woman into bed,’ Sharon mused.

She stabbed at the sharing plate between them.

‘The best ones are like my Luke. He didn’t become hot until he was twenty-nine and grew into his lanky frame and started to see a proper barber. Before that he was so unlucky in love that he didn’t have sex until he was twenty-five. Not even third base. He was a proper Chris Martin type. Don’t tell him I told you that.’

‘Luke lost his virginity at twenty-five?’ Penny said, amazed. ‘How old was he when you met him?’

‘Thirty-one. But because he’d never been hot, he worked really hard at sex and it was all about me. You know how with some men it’s like, the script is three minutes kissing, one minute rubbing over your trousers, two minutes oral and then he sticks it in until he comes, because that’s the objective? That he comes?’

‘Depressingly, the answer to that question is yes.’

‘Not with Luke. He’d be down there all afternoon if I asked him to. Just wants me to have a good time. And from the second or third time we were together I realized I was coming harder with him than anyone before because it never felt like a rush. He wasn’t getting my pleasure out of the way so that he could get his own. It was as if just having me naked was the pleasure for him. I suppose because for fifteen years he didn’t really have that.’

‘Awwww! All he wanted was a naked woman in his bed and then he got you! I can’t believe I didn’t know all this!’

‘Ah,’ whispered Sharon. ‘I don’t like to brag.’

‘Yes you do,’ teased Penny.

‘Yeah,’ laughed Sharon. ‘I do.’

Penny kept stealing glances back in the direction of Francesco as they chatted, so much so that she’d angled her chair in a way that meant she didn’t have her back to him. She was sure he was looking at her, too.

Penny couldn’t believe what had happened in the café that morning. It was so conflicting – theoretically, she knew she was worthy of being loved, or at least fancied, but in practice she was so utterly petrified of it. She was terrified of being let down, yet again. Because there always seemed to be an ‘again’. And another. And another. But then, how she felt seeing Francesco this second time, how silly and nervous and electrified she felt in his presence – it was a hell of a rush. There was no way she was imagining the connection. Not now she’d felt it twice. It was this exact feeling that always made her reason, okay. One more shot at hope. Why not?

‘Two things,’ Sharon said. ‘First: you’re going to hurt your neck if you keep straining to see that guy. Second: try the watermelon and pecorino salad. It is very, very good.’ She waved her fork into the air in the direction of the dish closest to her.

‘I told you Dofi knew what she was doing,’ Penny said, reaching over. ‘I mean, everything is just magnificent, isn’t it? So good. She taught me a lot of what I know about pairing flavours.’

‘You need to do something like this at the café,’ Sharon insisted, going in for more. ‘I’d be there every day for it.’

Penny took a forkful and turned in Francesco’s direction again as she chewed.

She couldn’t help herself.

‘Okay,’ said Penny. ‘Take two. I’m going to go and talk to him. You’ve convinced me.’

‘Not that it took a lot,’ replied Sharon. ‘I think you convinced yourself.’

‘Don’t make me tell you to piss off,’ uttered Penny, scowling playfully. ‘Not when I’m about to be gutsy.’

‘Quite right,’ said Sharon, grinning, as she stood to lead the way into the lounge area for after-dinner coffee. ‘Into battle we go,’ she trilled over her shoulder. ‘Waterloo here we come.’

‘I’m saying it: piss off.’

Penny heard Sharon laugh. ‘You know I’ve got your back,’ she said, honing in on two high-backed chairs alongside Francesco and his friend.

‘Are these seats taken?’ Sharon asked, smiling brightly. ‘Can we?’

Francesco didn’t seemed surprised to see the two women, who sat down before hearing one way or the other. Penny looked nervously at Sharon for encouragement, who nodded in Francesco’s direction as if to say, talk to him.

‘Hi,’ said Penny, with a small, self-conscious wave. ‘How are you?’

Francesco smoothed his hair back. ‘Ego-bruised,’ he said, having decided as he’d eaten dinner to address the elephant in the room. He had a feeling he’d end up talking with Penny again. Their energy was like two very strong magnets, pulling in the other’s direction. ‘But otherwise good,’ he added, smiling. He wasn’t above poking fun at himself now he’d had a drink and relaxed.

Before Penny could reply a woman walked over, crouching down to kiss both of Francesco’s cheeks, saying: ‘Chef Cipolla, always a pleasure. I meant what I said about needing a new pastry chef, you know!’

Oh, he’s a chef too, thought Penny. I wonder where.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Francesco replied, grinning. ‘Nice to see you, Brigitte.’

‘You too darling. Goodnight!’

Penny’s mind worked quickly. Cipolla. The woman had called him Chef Cipolla. She turned the name over in her mind and then it came to her. Chef Cipolla! It was his coconut and peach milk bun she had eaten maybe two years ago now, that was light and well-risen whilst also aromatic and deep – an exquisite example of the mastery of food, of baking. She’d always taken note of his name in food press since then and it was beginning to dawn on her that she did, in fact, know his face from promo shots and the odd feature. If she’d felt like he was familiar to her, it’s because he was.

Chef Cipolla.

‘Francesco Cipolla,’ Penny said, understanding now. ‘Conosco il tuo cibo!’ She slipped into the rudimentary Italian she’d learned on trips to Sicily with her Uncle David as a teen. I know your food. Francesco’s eyebrows raised just enough for her to understand that her Italian had impressed him, which was exactly the effect she’d wanted. Francesco’s work was quite legendary, and she’d had no idea it was he who’d dropped off the bread delivery that day. Safiya had had Chef Cipolla help her out. He was famous! Food world famous, but famous nonetheless.

Penny continued: ‘Ce l’avevo a Bristol, due anni fa – complimenti.’ I had it two years ago, in Bristol.

‘How about a little English for the cheap seats in the back?’ Sharon said, looking from Penny to Francesco, understanding that the spark had caught and that she’d have to excuse herself any moment now. Sharon looked at his friend, who seemed otherwise tone-deaf, to see if he’d noticed too. He was leaning back in his armchair, his brandy about to spill, eyes gently closed. He was incredibly drunk.

‘Sharon, this is Francesco Cipolla. He’s one of the most famous pastry chefs in London. In England, maybe.’

‘I accept the compliment,’ Francesco said, eyes twinkling. Penny felt a stirring in the lowest part of her pelvis. He was grinning widely – exactly like that first morning they’d met.

‘God I’m drunk,’ said Francesco’s friend, opening his eyes. ‘Excuse me. Bathroom.’

The three of them watched him stand in silence. Sharon’s phone buzzed.

‘I’m just going to check on the kids, if you’ll pardon me,’ Sharon said, picking up her phone and taking her chance to leave them alone. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ She reached out a hand towards Penny as she stood, squeezing it once and letting Penny squeeze it right back – their special code for ‘Yup. I’m fine.’ Penny turned back to Francesco and smiled again. He held his whisky in his hand, swirling it in his glass. Not knowing what else to do or say, Penny pressed the plunger of the cafetière on her table, releasing the aroma of coffee.

‘Dofi said you two have known each other a long time,’ Francesco said.

Penny’s heart beat faster. ‘Would you like any?’ she said by way of reply, motioning to the coffee cups.

Francesco nodded. ‘I would. Black, please.’

Penny filled the cup meant for Sharon and handed it to him. As he took it she said, ‘You asked Dofi about me.’ It wasn’t a question.

Francesco shrugged lightly. ‘I asked about you, yes.’

‘Any other breaking news?’

Francesco pretended to think about it. ‘You trained together,’ he said. ‘You opened Bridges two years ago, you don’t post much on Facebook. Let’s see. What else? Oh, yes. You’re a terrible tipper, kick puppies, eat children for breakfast … have poor dental hygiene … and you have one of those funny heart-shaped signs in your living room that says “This home runs on love, laughter, and very cold gin”.’

Penny giggled. ‘What a torrid accusation!’

‘Nothing a bit of mouthwash wouldn’t fix.’

‘I meant the sign. Did she say it was written in cursive?’

‘Hey, don’t diss them. I actually really like those signs. My parents have loads of them. So does my grandmother.’

‘I think my mum used to have one, too,’ Penny beamed. ‘Anything else that Dofi scandalously revealed?’

Francesco stroked his chin in thought. ‘She said you’re a brilliant chef but don’t push yourself – don’t make that face, she said it kindly, like a proud but frustrated parent – and she said she thinks you’re single, but let the record show I didn’t ask the question directly. She volunteered that information of her own accord.’

‘I should have texted you,’ Penny said, guiltily. ‘I am single. I’m sorry if I seemed rude.’

Francesco smiled. ‘I’m a big boy. I’ll manage. It’s the name of the game, isn’t it?’

‘What, “Big Boy”?’ Penny said. Francesco raised his eyebrows. She added: ‘The name of the game, I mean.’ What was it about him that made her say the cringiest things? Big Boy, for crying out loud. Maybe she should go to one of those flirting classes in West London, the ones that taught women how to be coquettish and cool. Penny definitely needed help.

‘I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me,’ he said.

Penny smiled. ‘Neither can I.’

Francesco bit his lip, just slightly. ‘I think you can.’

Penny shook her head. ‘I’m not very good at it.’

Softly, he said, ‘You’re better than you think.’

Penny felt herself blush. ‘Are you trying to unnerve me?’

‘That wouldn’t be very gallant, would it? No. I’m not trying to unnerve you. I think I’m actually a bit unnerved myself.’

Penny liked his forthrightness, and his vulnerability. ‘Why were you delivering bread that day when you’re Chef Cipolla?’ she asked.

Francesco laughed. ‘I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ he replied.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, I’d woken up at Safiya’s house because I’d slept on her sofa the night before, after I’d got very, very drunk with her and Michael. Michael is my friend, he’s the one that fell off the bike.’

‘Michael. I see. And is he okay now?’

‘He is, but his fragile sense of masculinity took a bashing and somehow, in amongst it all, I think he and Safiya broke up.’

Penny opened her mouth to speak, maybe to put in a good word for Stuart, but Sharon reappeared, phone in hand.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, barely sorry at all. ‘Mia’s been sick and is asking for her mama. Are you ready to go?’

Penny reached out her hand again, and as she shook Francesco’s said, ‘It was nice to meet you, Chef Cipolla. Again. You know. Properly.’

‘Nice to see you,’ he said, standing as the women gathered their things.

Penny looked at him.

‘Well,’ she said.

‘Well,’ Francesco repeated.

Sharon looked at them both, trying to figure out if they’d made good with each other or not.

‘Well!’ she said, impatient. She wanted to get home to her poorly child. ‘It was very nice to meet you.’ Turning to Penny she said, ‘Sorry to make this a rush job, darling, but parenthood calls. Chop-chop.’

From the back of the taxi home Penny watched the streets of London whizz by, and took a breath.

‘You’ve got this,’ counselled Sharon, soothingly. ‘It’s just a text. And you have to be the one to make the move because he doesn’t have your number, does he?’ Penny nodded, knowing it was the right thing to do, despite saying she wasn’t going to hold out for hope again. ‘All you have to say is that it was nice to see him. You can do that, can’t you?’

Penny thought about it.

‘Yes.’

Life is about love, her mother used to tell her. Maybe that’s why Penny felt so easily swayed to keep dating. She pushed thoughts of surrogates and babies and parenthood-for-one into a box in the back of her mind, a box that was labelled: ‘Open In Case of Singledom’.

‘Okay. Well. I’ll just be sat quietly over here and scrolling my Instagram, so that you can get on with it.’ She shifted her weight so that she faced away from Penny, towards the car door instead.

I’m sorry I never texted, Penny typed into a new message, thankful Stuart had made her save Francesco’s number. But better late than never, I suppose …

The screen said Francesco was typing back.

I’d say so, came the reply. And then: You’re lucky I don’t play games, otherwise I wouldn’t be texting back until a week on Friday …

Penny grinned at her screen. I was silly not to text before. I felt scared!

Because I’m obviously terrifying?

Yeah, obviously.

It took a moment for his response to come back. Penny jiggled her leg and let the familiar sensation of butterflies and uncertainty float up through her stomach. Her phone screen lit up. Well, I’m thrilled to now be in possession of your number, so that a) my ego can dust itself off, and slightly more importantly b) we can, perhaps, go out? I presume that’s why you’ve now decided to grace my phone with your digits …

Penny felt a burst of glee. She was going to see him again! She’d taken a chance! She’d been a modern woman willing to believe and it was paying off! I’d like that, she said. Yes.

Okay good. I’ll text you tomorrow to figure out the where and the when.

Perfect.

Islington became Newington Green, which became the backstreets of Stoke Newington where the houses started to look familiar and soon Penny would be home.

Francesco? she added, deciding to show up to this fully since she was bothering to show up at all.

Yes Penny?

I’m really glad I ran into you.

I’m really glad I’m a clumsy oaf and knocked your bag onto the floor! he replied.

Night x, she typed.

Talk tomorrow xxxxxx, he said, and she truly hoped they would.

3

Give me a day and a time that you’re free, and I’ll do the rest, said his text, simply.

Hello! Penny replied. All day Sunday or Monday. It’s best when the café is closed.

Please hold, Francesco typed. Let me think of a plan. Definitely Sunday though.

Penny sent back: Should I pencil that in, or use pen?

Francesco replied with the brain-exploding emoji.

How dare you. I’m a man of my word. You can write it in your diary with permanent marker.

Penny smiled. All morning she’d let herself sink into doubt as to whether Francesco actually would text her like he’d promised. Dating felt so full of booby traps that way. She hadn’t texted the first time around because she’d been scared of being optimistic only for it to all come crashing down, then when she’d seen him again she’d tried to say as much because it felt like he was still interested. But was he? She kept pulling up their texts from the night before to try and calm herself down, but the thing about texts is that the tone of them depends on who is reading.

When Sharon messaged to see if they’d arranged a date yet, Penny had snapped at her by saying: Don’t tell me you don’t remember that dating is psychological warfare! NO. HE. HASN’T. MAYBE HE NEVER WILL.

Sharon replied: Well, it is only 8 a.m. He could still be sleeping.

Penny texted back: I hate this!!!

Up until the time her phone had pinged at two minutes to eleven, in the middle of brunch service, Penny had decided to write him off and, what’s more, it would serve her right for being so optimistic in the first place. It wasn’t even twelve hours between seeing him and his text. Traversing all of that wretched emotional landscape in less than half a day – no wonder dating knackered her.

He texted! she sent to Sharon, in between plating up an order of mushroom cornbread and accepting a delayed – and incorrect – order from the veg supplier.

Well thank god for that, Sharon replied. I’ll get the dogs to stand down

In her text thread with Francesco Penny typed out, Blocked out in permanent marker it is, then.

They talked back and forth for four days. Francesco’s texts weren’t heavy or over the top – just chatty. Penny was old enough to be wary of ending up with a pen-pal who couldn’t possibly live up to the reality of himself, and was also cautious about being too clever or pithy with her responses to him. It was a fine balance. She wanted to be flirtatious and have fun, but if she spent too long thinking up what to reply to him she probably wouldn’t live up to the image she was creating of herself by the time they actually met again. She tried to respond in the moment, not think about it too much, and not let her mind wander to where it could all go. That was the kiss of death with the texting thing – real life and texting life could often veer off in opposite directions and cause heartbreak.

They ended up with a sort of in-joke about prescriptions. Penny had told him at length about the supplier who had messed up the veg order and how she’d had to improvise their menu for the rest of the day at the last minute.

The doctor prescribes one menthol cigarette on the back step and a voice note to your sister, he’d texted, knowing her routine even though she’d only mentioned it once, and in the context of another conversation.

When he was home one night, buzzed after his shift, Penny had gotten up for the loo, and seen that he’d written, Big decisions on a midnight snack: to have gorgonzola and pear in my toastie, or mozzarella and pickled peppers.

Penny had replied: The doctor prescribes two pieces of buttered toast and bed.

Not long after it was decided that Francesco would come over on Sunday. He’d arrive at the flat bearing gifts of brunch, and they’d eat on her terrace under blankets if the weather was bright enough or inside if it wasn’t. If they’d met on an app or dating site Penny wouldn’t allow such a thing – it would be far too intimate. But since he’d been to the café anyway, and she only lived upstairs – and they’d seemed weirdly quite drawn to each other at Dofi’s, not to mention how much fun it was swapping texts back and forth – well, it seemed like a safe enough plan.

‘Do you want me to give you an emergency call twenty minutes after he arrives, to give you a get-out card in case you need it?’ Sharon later asked, when she stopped by before closing to change the flowers in the café.

‘Don’t quote me on this,’ Penny said. ‘But I don’t think we’ll need it. I know it’s famous last words, but, I have a really good feeling that he’s not a shit.’

‘High praise,’ giggled Sharon as she arranged some extra-large buttercups in a big vase beside the coffee machine.

‘That’s what I said,’ said Stuart, who was finishing up for the day and had heard text-by-text, hour-on-hour about all of this unfolding. ‘I can’t believe the bar for us men is that low.’

‘It isn’t,’ said Sharon, right as Penny said, ‘I know.’

‘Avon calling!’ Francesco trilled, as Penny opened the door to him on the day of their date.

‘Good morning!’ Penny said, unsure if she should hug him, or air kiss, or shake his hand. Francesco made the choice for her by handing her a bag and leaning to brush his cheek against hers as he did so.

‘It’s cold today,’ he said, stepping over the threshold. ‘I think we definitely have to eat inside.’

‘You’re the boss,’ replied Penny, shuffling to close the door behind him. It put them in very close proximity to each other, and so when he made a hooting noise behind her it was practically in her ear.

‘Ha!’ he bellowed and she turned to see what he was reacting so strongly to. ‘If you’re offering to be second-in-command, I’ll take it. Something tells me the arrangement won’t last long, though.’

‘You don’t think I can be a deputy?’ Penny said, aware of the musky, manly aroma of him. He was shorter than she remembered – not much taller than she was, and his shoulders were broad in a way that made him seem strong and self-possessed. Francesco pulled a face. ‘As long as you don’t ever call me bossy,’ she pressed. ‘Nobody uses that word for men. I prefer instructive. I can be an instructive second-in-command.’

‘Oooooh,’ nodded Francesco, rubbing at his stubble. ‘Great word.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You look pretty, by the way.’

Penny was dressed in an oversized shirt and jeans, her feet bare. She’d done her make-up lightly and tried not to fuss too much with her hair – it was a Sunday morning, after all. It struck her that it was a funny time for a first date. Sunday mornings were for lovers, not strangers cooped up in narrow corridors.

‘And you look very handsome,’ she said, trying to remember to smile, despite her nerves. They were stood so close, and he smelled so good. She almost wanted to kiss him, just to see how it felt. But kissing can’t be rushed – that’s another thing her mother used to tell her. ‘The best kisses happen long after you want them to,’ she’d said to Penny and Clementine when they were little. ‘So don’t go giving them away willy-nilly. Except to me. You can always give mummy a kiss.’ Penny wished she’d kissed her mother more.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he said to her. ‘This bag is pretty heavy.’

Penny snapped out of herself. ‘Follow me,’ she commanded.

‘So. Fun fact,’ said Francesco as they went up to the flat. ‘I actually don’t know what “Avon calling” means. I just saw it in a movie once.’

Penny laughed.

‘An American movie? Is that what you watched growing up?’

‘Yeah, I’m an army brat. American TV was what we all had in common – German, Greek, us Italians, even the English kids. No matter where the base was, the one constant was watching Nickelodeon together. I can barely speak Italian properly.’

‘Ahhh, that explains the accent then,’ Penny said.

‘My mongrel accent? Yes ma’am, it does. Italy by the way of the rest of the world. I think we moved around ten times in eighteen years. I’ve been in London six years, now, and intend to be here six more if I can help it. It’s the first place that has really felt like home.’

When they reached the top of the stairs they were side by side, Penny’s home spread before them. She walked through the open-plan living room to the kitchen area.

‘I ended up learning all my English slang from American TV,’ Francesco continued, kicking off his shoes. ‘We all did. It took me years to realize that you don’t say “far out” when something is good, but that’s what I learned from That 70’s Show.’

‘We don’t say groovy, either …’

‘Which I think is a shame, because that is a very nice word to say. The double-o in the middle. Groovy is a word that sounds … groovy. Nice place.’ He took in Penny’s flat. Being directly above the café, it was the exact same size and layout as downstairs. It was simply and tastefully done: lots of mis-matched framed photos and posters, a huge L-shaped sofa, wooden floors and candles and trinkets dotted everywhere. He walked through to join her at the breakfast bar.

‘Okay, on the menu this morning we have,’ he started, putting his bags on a chair and riffling through them, pulling things out, ‘the ultimate breakfast board. Smoked salmon, smoked trout, some whitefish roe … everything to make my famous crème fraiche … sumac, for the red onion … and these.’ He presented Penny with a white bag. ‘The best bagels you will ever consume.’

‘Is it the Italian in you that makes everything a superlative? Ultimate this, best that …’

‘Well, what is life for, if it isn’t for having the best of everything?’

‘That’s literally the opposite of British culture, which is essentially “make do and don’t complain”.’

‘Yes, I’ve noticed that. Very odd. Can you put this water in the fridge so it is cold when we eat? Also, I need an apron, please.’

‘Yes, chef,’ Penny said, remembering that she’d pledged to be his sous.

Together they pulled out plastic chopping boards and wooden serving plates and chose glasses and set the table in harmony, a playlist softly humming in the background – a playlist, Francesco had explained, that was ‘the only one worth making food to. If my food tastes of love, one must hear love, too.’

‘Far out,’ Penny said.

‘Bugger off,’ Francesco smiled, enjoying how Penny wasn’t afraid to give as good as she got.

‘It’s nice to be cooked for, instead of being the one doing the cooking,’ Penny said, watching Francesco work. ‘Especially in my own home.’

‘It’s my love language. Acts of service are my way of caring.’

‘Oh, love languages – yeah, Sharon made me take a test about those once. I think the way I show I care is …’

Francesco interrupted, ‘Wait! Can I guess?’

‘Go on then.’

‘There’s five, right? Five basic ways most people demonstrate affection? So wait. It’s acts of service, so like, doing things for the other person … quality time together … words of affirmation, which could be yours – I feel like you respond well to words that confirm how excellent you are, since you’re a chef and all. What else? Oh, the sex one …’

‘Physical touch,’ Penny supplied.

‘Is that your love language?’

‘Maybe.’

Francesco waved a knife at her. ‘It so is,’ he said. ‘Now I think about the other night, how you kept touching my arm …’

Penny feigned outrage. ‘I did not!’

‘You totally did,’ Francesco said. ‘That’s how I knew it was okay to flirt with you.’

‘You said you weren’t trying to unnerve me!’

‘I lied,’ he ventured, wiggling his eyebrows in a way to communicate he wasn’t sorry for it, either. Penny’s phone rang before she could investigate the matter further.

‘Oh,’ she said, looking at the screen, intending to switch it to silent. ‘Do you mind? I will be five seconds.’ Francesco made a gesture to signify that that was fine. Before she answered she added, ‘And this conversation isn’t over, mister.’

Francesco pouted at her provocatively, and then carried on with his prep.

‘Penny! Darling!’ said Uncle David after she answered. ‘Just thought I’d catch you before lunch service!’ Penny’s Uncle David ran a gastro pub called The Red Panda in Derbyshire, which was where she’d learned about food and honed her natural talent for flavours and textures growing up. ‘Eric’s birthday next month, when Clemmie is home – shall we do it here? Or shall we come down to London for it?’

Eric, David’s husband, loved a big event for his birthday. Penny said, ‘Davvy? It’s not a great time right now actually. Can I take the question under advisement and let you know?’

‘Yes, of course darling,’ Uncle David replied. ‘Just wanted to tell you we miss you!’

Penny smiled. ‘I miss you too. We’ll make a few nights of it for Eric’s birthday, okay? Spend some proper time together.’

‘We’d like that, Pooh-Bear. Let me know what you and Clem are thinking.’

‘I will!’ Penny sing-songed. ‘Have a great shift!’

She hung up, flicked the ringer to her phone off, and made a point of putting it face down and out of reach.

‘My uncle,’ she said, as way of explanation.

‘So nice you’re close to your wider family,’ Francesco replied, slicing quickly at the chopping board. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Try this. It’s the best salmon you’ll ever taste.’ He offered up the flat of the knife to Penny who swiped the salmon on offer.

‘That is good,’ Penny said as she chewed. ‘That might actually be worthy of the superlative. Where’d you get this?’

‘I can’t reveal my suppliers, I’m afraid,’ Francesco replied. ‘And anyway, you were saying? About your uncle?’

She hadn’t been saying anything, really, and yet she confided in him for reasons she couldn’t explain. Probably because he wasn’t prying, he was just chatting. It felt low-stakes. Just two people swapping tales.

‘He’s my dad’s brother, but my dad did a runner when I was a kid and so Davvy took in me and my sister. He’s more of a dad than my biological one, if that makes sense. I don’t see him enough though. I feel guilty about it.’

‘I think everyone feels that way about their family,’ said Francesco. ‘Especially chefs. We work such weird, unsociable hours. We live ghost lives in a lot of ways.’

Penny nodded. She was glad he understood. Francesco took the big board across to the table and she followed, pouring orange juice into tall glasses for them and grabbing cloth napkins from the credenza.

‘He does drive me crazy though, too – so don’t think I am a total angel.’

‘Crazy how?’

‘He’s forever on a campaign to get me to move up to Derbyshire to run his pub. Doesn’t understand why I don’t want the pressure of such a massive place. We fall out about it every three or four months, and then make up and don’t breathe a word of it until the next disagreement is due.’

‘You talk about him with a lot of love, though.’

‘Well, yeah,’ Penny said. ‘He’s a legend.’

Francesco tenderly chopped some tomatoes at the table and salted them after artfully fanning them out.

‘And your biological dad left?’

Penny didn’t typically offer up that information to people she was dating. It was private, and she knew men immediately leaped to the conclusion that she must have daddy issues.

‘My mum got secondary breast cancer when I was nine, and by the time I was ten she had died from it. I think my dad knew it was going that way, because he left before she passed away. I think … Well, actually, I don’t know what to think, because I haven’t seen him since. But in his spinelessness I got the best father a girl could ask for. I’d walk over hot coals for Uncle David. Both my sister and I would.’

‘But she travels a lot, you said?’

‘She does. She’s back all the time though, and we’ll all get together for my uncle’s husband’s birthday in a few weeks. He’ll be sixty-five and will milk every second of it. He’s brilliant.’

They talked easily and happily, occupying the space of Penny’s home together as if they’d done this many times before, eating their brunch and drinking their tea and talking their talk. He kept looking at her intently, asking questions and listening to her answers, nodding as he processed what she said, laughing when she was being funny, and saying lovely, insightful things when Penny asked him about his life, his job, his ambitions. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and so Penny let herself enjoy it, too.

‘This is good. You. Me. This,’ Penny offered, letting the spring sunshine warm her face as it bounced off the water. They’d decided to walk off brunch with a meander to the reservoir. It was freezing – she’d needed a scarf and a hat – but bright, which made all the difference.

‘I think so too,’ Francesco answered, smiling. ‘And to think it almost didn’t happen because you weren’t going to text me …’

Penny let out a ‘ha!’ sound. ‘No! I would have done!’ she said, playfully hitting his arm.

‘No you wouldn’t! A month had already passed!’

‘I was building up to it!’ she insisted.

‘Lies! You were blowing me off.’

‘Okay,’ Penny cackled. ‘I was blowing you off.’

Francesco’s face fell. ‘You were?’

She shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. We’d spoken three words to each other before Stuart cornered you to write your number down. How was I supposed to know you were actually interested?’

‘Ah, yes, I can see how me writing my number down and saying “I look forward to hearing from you” must have given off all kinds of mixed signals.’

Penny rolled her eyes. ‘So you just … gave me your number? How often do you do that? Because that sort of nonchalance makes me think you do it all the time.’

‘Gotta take your chances,’ Francesco said, moving a branch out of the way for them both.

‘So you do do it all the time!’

‘I do not often get invited to leave my number for good-looking café owners who hold eye contact for an uncomfortable length of time, no,’ Francesco said. ‘But it felt like there was a connection, or something. I don’t know. And then when I saw you at Dofi’s restaurant, too. When stuff like that happens it feels like sort of a cosmic obligation to take a leap of faith, don’t you think?’

‘What if the leap means you fall and break an ankle?’

‘Dark,’ Francesco lamented, shaking his head. He was mocking her.

‘I’m serious! I’m thirty years old. I’ve leapt many, many times, and somehow it never pays off. I’m not like “woe-is-me” or anything, I just mean … How do you stay optimistic? Not the general you, I mean you, specifically. How do you, Francesco Cipolla, stay optimistic in matters of the heart?’

They arrived at a small gate and Francesco went through it, and then turned and leaned against it so that Penny couldn’t. She wasn’t expecting it, and so wound up bumping up almost nose-to-nose with him. She looked at him.

‘How do I stay optimistic in matters of the heart …’ Francesco replied, his voice lowered.

Her stomach lurched. He made it feel so easy. He was so comfortable in his own skin, wore the pressure of their date so lightly. Maybe he didn’t feel any pressure at all.

‘Yeah,’ Penny said. ‘Because your optimism is … attractive.’

‘Oh?’ said Francesco, so close now that Penny could feel his breath on the space between her top lip and nose. She realized she had tilted her head to the side, just slightly, ready to be kissed by him. They held themselves millimetres apart, and Penny stopped breathing altogether. She waited for him to lean the tiniest bit forward but instead he held his position, the top corner of his mouth rising up into a half-smile, and Penny realized he was waiting for her to kiss him. She had to go the last half-inch. And so she held onto the fence and pushed her weight to the front of her feet, towards her toes, to make herself reach him. She gently edged herself up towards his mouth so that her lips met his, and there they stayed, tasting one another, giving in to each other’s breath until a man coughed loudly and deliberately and said, good-naturedly, ‘Pardon me but, do you think I could get past?’

They pulled apart and burst out laughing.

‘Sorry,’ said Francesco, moving out of the way to let Penny through, and then the man with his Bedlington Terrier. ‘There you go.’

‘Enjoy yourselves,’ the man said, and it made them look at each other and laugh again.

‘Did that answer your question?’ Francesco said.

Penny grinned. ‘I can’t tell if it answered my question or posed about eighty thousand new ones,’ she countered.

‘I see. Well. Only time will tell …’

‘That’s very true.’

After that they walked hand-in-hand, happy in their mutual silence. What else was there to say? Penny was happy. In that moment, everything was perfect.

4

And so their love affair began. ‘It almost feels too good to be true,’ Penny told her sister on one of their Personal Podcasts. ‘But, easy doesn’t mean bad, does it? Maybe easy just means right?’

‘I think it’s lovely,’ Clementine had replied, somewhere north of Beijing where she’d been called in to oversee a planning issue with the local government. ‘And if you’re not sleeping together yet at least you’re not getting – oh gosh, what word does Sharon use? Dickmatized! At least you’re not getting dickmatized. I think it’s actually quite romantic, taking the time to get to know somebody before you go to bed with them. I think the new sexual revolution is actually about realizing there’s more to intimate relationships than sex.’

Sharon had guffawed when Penny had reported that back.

‘I love your sister,’ she said, wiping tears of amusement from her eyes, ‘and I, too, am thrilled you’re not getting dickmatized. But let’s face it, you’re not going to marry a shit shag, are you? It’s a bit important.’

She held up her thumb and forefinger to emphasize ‘a bit’, looked down at her gesture, and then wordlessly increased it in size.

‘Give me a minute,’ Penny squealed, knocking her hand away jokingly. ‘Five days post-kiss hardly makes me the Virgin Mary.’

‘No,’ said Sharon. ‘You’re right. Enjoy it for what it is! The world could end tomorrow!’

‘Well, if the world was to end tomorrow …’ Penny sniggered, and they both hooted with laughter, knowing that the imminent end of the world might speed things up a bit.

At home that night, as Penny lounged in her cosiest tracksuit, idly wondering what to watch on telly for the hour before bed, her phone rang, and Francesco’s face popped up on screen. Penny stared at it. He was calling her? Who calls anyone anymore? she mused. She loved hearing from him and everything, but a phone call? At least a Personal Podcast could be listened to in one’s own time. The only people who made phone calls anymore, Penny had assumed, were the boomer generation, like Uncle David. She continued to stare at it, not knowing what to do. Penny knew actual husband and wives who didn’t even talk on the phone.

As it stopped ringing and ‘one missed call’ appeared as a notification, Penny turned over the possibilities.

Did you just try to call me? she texted.

Yeah. It’s okay, Francesco replied. I just finished my shift. I can try later if you’re free?

Penny was confused. To talk on the phone? she replied.

That’s what normally happens when one person dials the other, and that other person picks up, yeah.

Oh. Yeah, sure. Later.

Penny switched from her WhatsApp with Francesco to voice note her sister.

‘This is not a drill,’ she said, down the phone. ‘The Italian wants to talk on the phone with me. We have a psychopath on our hands. Repeat: we have a psychopath on our hands.’

Her phone screen lit up with Francesco’s face again.

‘Gah!’ Penny said, holding it like a live bomb. ‘Um … um …’ She slid the button to answer. ‘Hi!’ she said, too enthusiastically.

‘I don’t know if I’m more offended that you’d refer to me as a psychopath, or that you don’t even use my proper name to do it.’

‘Ah. Yes. Well.’ She could hear his smile down the line.

‘I take it you don’t like talking on the phone, then,’ he said.

‘Not so much, no. Bit retro for me. I think Uncle David is the only person who actually calls me, you know.’

‘I just wanted to hear your voice.’

Penny grinned. ‘Well now I’ve accidentally sent you a voice note, you have done.’ He just wanted to hear her voice! Her heart leapt into her throat.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Pottering.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he said. She thought he was waiting for her to continue, but then she could faintly hear him say ‘good evening’ to somebody and then the hum of an engine, and she realized he was distracted by getting on the bus. She waited for him to say something else as he got settled, but he didn’t. He was waiting for her to speak. She took a breath. Penny had talked to Stuart only that afternoon about being unafraid to show Francesco who she really was. That meant being cute and flirtatious with him as well as letting him get a glimpse of some of the ‘realer’, less sexy stuff, too.

‘I get tired sometimes,’ she said, deciding now was the time to tell him, cards on the table and all that. ‘So I needed a quiet night.’

‘I see,’ he said.

‘I was pretty sick a couple of years back. It still gets me, sometimes.’

Finally Francesco said a full sentence. ‘You’ve alluded to that a couple of times actually. I didn’t want to pry, but I have to admit I’ve been curious. Was it serious?’

‘Stage two breast cancer at twenty-five. So now my body doesn’t like me to get carried away. I don’t think I’ve been getting as much rest as I need lately so, you know, I’m getting some down-time.’

‘Twenty-five,’ Francesco said, his shock evident. ‘That’s so young.’

‘Yeah. About as young as my mum was when she first got it, except hers came back and …’ Well. Francesco knew the rest.

‘I didn’t know you’d had it too,’ he marvelled. ‘That’s a really shitty hand to be dealt.’

‘It was. And it was tough.’ It felt good to say that. It wasn’t lost on Penny that for somebody who’d minutes ago said she didn’t like to talk on the phone, it suddenly felt really good to be chatting to Francesco. That was the thing about him, she contemplated – all the rules she thought she had were increasingly not applicable. Stuart had said as much, too. He’d basically accused Penny of self-sabotaging every relationship she had by withholding information or affection and then blaming the other person for it not working out. It was a surprisingly insightful observation for him to make, and it had made Penny’s blood boil for about ten seconds before she felt a wave of acknowledgement rush over her. What Stuart had said had some truth. She could begrudgingly admit that. Penny could hear the shouts of lively teenagers in the background as she waited for Francesco’s reaction. She put a cushion behind her head and stretched out across the sofa.

‘I can’t begin to imagine,’ he said, as the noise behind him died down. ‘Do you mind talking about it?’

‘I can’t say it’s all that thrilling.’

‘Well, one day, I want to know everything about you.’ He always seemed to know the right things to say. Penny felt relieved that she didn’t have to share any more, as well as a vague sense of gratitude towards Stuart that she’d shared at least a little bit. ‘But for now,’ he carried on, ‘tell me where you are, right this second. This bus ride home is freezing and I need the entertainment.’

Penny looked around. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sat on my couch with a bottle of water – hydration station over here – and the remote is in my hand because I’ve been watching movie trailers instead of picking an actual movie, and I lit a very luxurious not one but two candles. Different fragrances, too. It’s called layering apparently.’

‘Sounds snuggly.’

‘It is. I’m very good at snuggly. You could even go as far as to call me the Queen of Snuggly-Ville.’ She pulled the blanket off the arm of the nearby chair and put it over her legs so that she was even snugglier.

‘And how does one get the opportunity to visit Snuggly-Ville?’

‘Oh, well, it’s incredibly difficult to get in. Very exclusive.’

‘Do you want company? Somebody to do nothing with?’

Penny sat upright. Her hair was unwashed and she was hardly dressed to impress.

‘I mean, I’m going to be very boring company,’ she said. ‘But … I do kind of want to see you.’

‘I kind of want to see you too. Shall I hop in a cab once I’ve showered? I have a discount code for a Bolt.’ He paused. ‘Not that you’re not worth the full price Uber, ha. Have you eaten? I can bring dinner? Or … foot lotion! I can bring foot lotion!’

Penny balked at the suggestion. ‘Foot lotion?’

‘I’ll give you a foot massage.’

‘Francesco, I’m not having sex with you. Not tonight. I am way, way, way too tired for that.’ The idea of him naked, on top of her, made her skin prickle in anticipation – but she was serious. She hadn’t fostered emotional intimacy as a gateway to a shag. Plus, she probably had about another hour and a half in the tank before she passed out.

‘Just for your feet, Penny. Physical touch as a love language, remember? Can you give me some credit, please? It wouldn’t be your feet I’d rub if I was trying to get you into bed.’

‘You’re doing that flirting thing again, aren’t you?’

‘Is it working?’

Penny looked around the flat. It was actually pretty tidy – she had a cleaner come for two hours once a week, to help stop the place getting really bad, and they’d been just yesterday. Penny was a mess, but her house wasn’t. If she dimmed the big light a bit more and lit the lamps instead, they could lie on the sofa and drink tea and …

‘Yes. It is. Come over. Just an hour or two.’

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘You just kick me out if I overstay my welcome, okay?’

‘Okay,’ she replied. ‘Deal.’

‘I can offer you water, or beer,’ Penny said, walking Francesco up the stairs to her place. ‘In fact, anything you can find in the fridge that doesn’t require a glass and/or my help is all yours.’

‘Water is fine. I’ll get it. Could I just have one thing first?’

‘If it’s within reach, you can have anything you want.’

Francesco tipped his head to the side and licked his lips.

Penny lowered her voice and whispered, ‘Oh. Well. Yes, you can certainly have that.’

They kissed hello and then Penny flopped down onto the sofa and watched Francesco manoeuvre himself through her kitchen. It was nice to be exhausted but to have company. It was nice that she hadn’t lied about how she was feeling, or put on a show for him. She’d done that enough times before in the past – even on her worst days she’d let nobody other than her uncle and her sister know just how low she felt, how helpless and miserable and defeated she often was. That was why she didn’t have hundreds of friends – it was too much hard work to hide the truth of herself and her limitations. She’d rather have a close-knit group who knew her completely than a huge group of acquaintances who knew her hardly at all. Like Sharon – Sharon accepted her, warts and all, and it was one of the most rewarding friendships of Penny’s life.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Francesco asked, putting down two glasses of water he’d added lemon, ice, and mint from the balcony herb garden to. ‘The kettle is boiling. Tea?’

‘Tea,’ she replied. ‘Yeah. With milk, please. There’s a tiny plastic carton on the top shelf of the fridge. Or there’s oat milk in there too, if you prefer.’

Francesco fussed around, making tea and peering into plastic Tupperware boxes in the fridge and asking after their contents. He tried some of her Pasta Yiayia and brought over the box of tiramisu that Sharon had given her.

They talked about the food, and about the playlist Penny had on. (‘It’s from the second season of Master of None,’ she told him, and he said he hadn’t seen it. ‘You haven’t seen it? Oh Francesco,’ she gushed. ‘You’ll love it. We’ll watch it here, one weekend. Okay?’ Francesco had smiled and said yes, they should do. The meaningful pause afterwards meant they’d both clocked the intention to see each other again, like it was a no-brainer. Of course they’d watch Master of None together! Of course they’d spend a day in her house, on the sofa, doing just that!)

‘It’s so badass that this is your life,’ Francesco said, as he pulled her feet up onto his lap for the massage he’d promised. ‘This apartment, Bridges, the way you talk about your uncle and your sister and Sharon … you’ve really got your shit together, haven’t you?’

‘Thank you. That’s a kind thing to say.’

‘I’m not very happy at work. I think I’m sensitive to everyone else’s lives because I’m trying to build up the courage to change some things about my own.’

Penny nodded. ‘It’s a horrible feeling when things don’t sit right. But I’d have thought working under Anthony Farrah would have been a total dream, no?’

Francesco scrunched up his nose and lightly shook his head. ‘I want my own place,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing to me that you do. It’s really inspiring.’

‘What’s stopping you?’

‘Money,’ Francesco lamented. ‘And courage.’

‘The first thing I understand,’ Penny replied. ‘I got a big medical insurance pay-out, so that’s how I made this dream come true. The second thing, though – I’m fairly sure that has to come from you.’

‘You mean you don’t have any extra courage stored in another Tupperware that you can lend me?’

‘Afraid not. Do feel free to take the pasta you liked, though.’

‘No courage, but plenty of sustenance. Got it.’

Penny giggled. ‘Can’t climb the mountains of the mind until you’ve been properly fed,’ she said. ‘And I’m not just saying that because food is my business.’

‘I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t in the kitchen,’ Francesco pondered. ‘If I wasn’t a chef I think I’d still end up in restaurants, maybe front of house or as a mixologist or something.’

‘Oh,’ said Penny. ‘I totally know what else I would do.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Number one, I’d be a beautician. I just think it must be so satisfying to help people feel better about themselves through something as straightforward as waxed legs or a different arch in their eyebrows. Number two, I’d be a teacher. I don’t know for what subject because, to be honest, I wasn’t hugely academic at school myself. Maybe home economics? Do they even still teach that? Or, number three, if I didn’t own Bridges, I would …’

‘Run away and join the circus,’ Francesco supplied.

‘Noooooo.’

‘Become a nun, for the habit?’

‘Tempting, but no.’

‘Stunt double?’

‘Not that, either. Counsellor, I think. For cancer survivors. Pay it forward and all that.’

Francesco absorbed this information. ‘You’d be a great counsellor,’ he said. ‘I’d trust you.’

‘Cheers,’ she replied.

‘Was it horrible?’ he asked. ‘Is it still horrible? You said about being tired …’

‘My joints seize, sometimes,’ Penny explained. ‘I don’t sleep through the night well – even by myself, let alone when I’m sharing a bed. And I’m not very good at sharing a bed, even though I love waking up with someone. I sweat. From every pore. Sometimes I forget people’s names. My libido is pretty up and down. I feel bloated for seemingly no reason, and sometimes just … weird. Empty. Anyone going through treatment right now would kill to be on the other side. When you’re in it, all you want is for it to be over. But nobody told me about this bit. The aftermath.’ She was determined not to be emotional, to not give cancer another tear. She gathered herself. ‘I was declared cancer-free four years ago now, but I have hormones injected every month because it was a hormonally-driven strain that I might always be in battle with, so I’m effectively in early menopause. Which I’m sure is very erotic to know.’ There it was – more of her truth.

Francesco nodded. He didn’t offer her advice or solutions, or insist she look on the bright side: she was here! She was alive! He just kept rubbing her feet and letting her talk. It felt good. Not the foot rub – though that was wonderful. But to give air to all of her feelings: sometimes she worried that saying all this out loud would make it grow. That shedding sunlight on her anxieties would encourage them. But as she spoke it felt like a relief. She did more pretending than she gave herself credit for.

‘I’m lucky to be here. I know that. And I do my best to get on. I’m in a fortunate situation, and I had Uncle David, and my sister, and Eric all rallying around me. I’d never felt so looked after. Protected. Loved. But I’m also human. And I still find this hard. Harder than I make it look, sometimes. And, well, you may as well know that it was as soon as I got diagnosed that my ex ended things with me. Kind of like how my dad left my mum, weirdly. I was always the strong one, the cheerleader in our relationship, but then he couldn’t do the same for me. Not that I’d have wanted him to stay out of pity, but it was pretty devastating. And embarrassing. I haven’t really had a relationship since.’

Francesco shook his head gently in disbelief. ‘Wow. That’s … a lot.’

‘Yeah. I think Mo had wanted to end it for a while and then had to do it as soon as I got diagnosed or else he’d be the monster who dumped me halfway through treatment. So. Now you know all the skeletons in my closet.’

‘You’re a strong woman, though. Not in spite of it all. Because of it.’

Penny shrugged.

‘You’re a strong woman who knows it’s okay to be vulnerable. Not a lot of people understand that. I think it’s a very special trait.’

‘I don’t know about that. I feel like a spikey hedgehog most of the time – balled up, not letting anyone really help.’

‘Thanks for telling me. Thanks for letting me ask.’

‘Thanks for caring,’ she replied, gently.

Francesco nodded. ‘Is this pressure still okay?’ He motioned to her foot.

‘Yeah, that’s good. I might need you here every night.’

‘Easy tiger.’

Penny leaned her head against the side of the sofa, closing her eyes, breathing deeply and smiling just slightly. Francesco studied her, and Penny caught him doing so as she opened one eye.

‘It’s rude to stare.’ She smiled as she said it.

Francesco didn’t smile back. He thought about something, and then decided to say it: ‘I think I could fall in friendship with you, you know.’

Friendship? Penny thought, alarmed. Her whole body tensed.

‘Oh, you mean this isn’t …’ Penny opened her eyes properly and watched him rub her foot, which had tensed up in horror. Was he telling her this wasn’t romantic? That he just wanted to be her friend?

‘No,’ he said. ‘It is. Sorry. I didn’t mean …’ he trailed off. ‘Okay, you told me some stuff, so now I’ll tell you some stuff, okay?’

‘… Okay.’

‘I’ve never had a proper teammate before, you know? Somebody who I fancied and wanted to rip their clothes off and who I laughed with, yeah, but never somebody who was also just my mate. Because the passion and stuff fades, doesn’t it – or at least, it changes – and I have this theory that before I fall in love with somebody – my person – I’d like to fall in friendship with them first. As the basis of it.’

‘So you … don’t wanna sleep with me.’ She said it as a statement.

Francesco laughed. ‘I do not have words for the extent to which I want to sleep with you, Penny Bridge,’ he replied, and relief washed over her. ‘But also, I just want you to know that it’s easy to be with you. And I just think you’re the coolest. I really respect you. Which sounds like the corniest thing in the world to say because of course I’ve respected anyone I’ve gone out with but, I mean … I feel like my best version of myself with you. Not like I need you to be better, to be my life coach, but … even after knowing you this short amount of time, I suppose you make me play my best game. Because you’re a good player too.’

‘Francesco. It would be my honour and privilege to fall in friendship with you right back.’ She reached out to one of his lotion-covered hands and laced her fingers with his. ‘I’m very pleased to be spending time with you.’

‘Is that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard? Falling in friendship?’ He held his free palm up in question. ‘Wait, don’t answer that. It’s lame city, I know.’

Penny closed her eyes again and smiled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not.’

Francesco didn’t say anything in response, he simply absorbed what she’d said. Penny moved so that instead of sitting at the opposite end of the sofa she was curled up beside him, her head on his chest. He wiped his hands on the cloth he’d thought to leave on the coffee table and then tenderly played with her hair. He watched the flame from the candles dance as they burned down. On the speaker the notes of an old Italian song he recognized from his childhood played – his parents had owned it on CD in the car. It was from a film called Senza Sapere Niente Di Lei – ‘Without Knowing Much About Her’. His parents had always been very happily married, and he’d always had the sense they loved each other, but that they worked to like each other, too. That’s what he wanted for himself.

He noticed Penny’s breathing had deepened. She was asleep. Francesco listened to the inhale and exhale noises she made. He let the rhythm of her breathing wash over him, becoming a meditation.

Him.

Her.

He felt peaceful, and protective.

Eventually, seeing the time on the big clock by her TV, Francesco moved Penny’s head over to a cushion and slipped away, covering her with the blanket. Tip-toeing, he cleared away their empty water glasses and put them in the sink, blew out the candles, and checked the back door to the small terrace was locked. He took out the key and put it soundlessly on the sideboard. Then he let himself out – but before he headed down the stairs he looked back to where she slept, committing the moment to memory.

‘Hey sis,’ Clementine’s voice came through the phone. ‘That was a superb voice note you sent – you continue to sound … I don’t know? Really dreamy? But like, in a good way. In a I’m not worried way. He just sounds like a real stand-up guy, and I know we don’t know many of those – well, many straight ones – but if you think he might be one of them, I am totally on board. Everything here is great, but I’m ready to come home for a bit. I’ll be back for two whole weeks on Saturday! Can you imagine? I don’t think I’ve had two weeks in my own bed all year yet. I’m excited for us all to get together for Eric’s birthday, too. Why don’t we go up there? We never go up there. And, when I’m back, I’d like to talk to you. I’ve got an idea. No – a suggestion. Just something I want to run by you. Also I am desperate to come and see the café and eat your food and be on your sofa and have you over for dinner. I’ve really missed you lately! More than usual. I just want my big sister. Okay, that’s all from me. Keep me up to date with this handsome Italian situation, please. Does he take bookings for the foot massages? Love you. Bye!’

Penny listened to the message right before the first breakfast order came through, and spent the next few hours wondering what Clementine’s ‘suggestion’ might be. Penny was the older sister but it was Clementine who acted like it. It hadn’t always been that way. As with almost everything in her life, most things changed with the cancer. Penny had been so full of life up until then. Ambitious, but without taking anything too seriously – she’d loved working in kitchens and learning about food and then playing hard, too, taking impromptu trips to new cities and staying up all night. She’d been a textbook twenty-something until she wasn’t. Life was divided into ‘Before I Got Ill’ and ‘After I Got Ill’, and in the after bit, Clementine definitely became the protector, and Penny had had no choice but to let her.

‘Pen, there’s a bloke out there who says he has to compliment the chef,’ Stuart said from the doorway of the kitchen, a tea towel in his hands, interrupting her last dishes of the day. ‘Says your heirloom carrots are the best he’s ever had, for a little café.’

‘You what?’ Penny replied. ‘He said that? For a little café?’

‘He’s a handsome bastard. Italian, I think.’

Penny smiled in understanding. ‘There’s ten minutes left of service. Let me just get this Panzanella out and then tell Francesco I’ll be right up.’

Stuart started to leave. He turned around and said, ‘Pen?’

Penny looked up.

‘I like him.’

She grinned. ‘Me too.’

Penny pulled a baking sheet lined with kale from the oven and put it on the counter, arranging it on a plate with radicchio leaves and beetroot before sprinkling croutons over the top and spooning smoked ricotta on the side. She lost herself in the music of her art, drizzling over olive oil and saba, finishing the plate with flaked salt.

‘Service!’ she called out, and Estelle, a petite blonde with half her head shaved, appeared to whisk it away.

Penny looked around the kitchen. It had been a busier service than normal, and her section was a mess.

‘Bobby?’ she said in the direction of the pot-wash. ‘I’m just running upstairs for a sec. Do what you can over there and then I’ll sweep and mop. I know you need to leave by half past.’

‘Cheers, boss,’ said the kitchen-hand from behind a mound of sudsy water. ‘I promise I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.’

‘I know,’ Penny said. ‘It’s cool. Thank you.’

Penny headed up the six or so stairs from the lower ground level kitchen at the back to the main part of the café out front. Stuart saw her as she turned the corner and from behind the counter tipped his head in the direction of the window where, at a table meant for four, sat Francesco on his own. She walked over, smiling.

‘Can I buy you a coffee?’

‘Hello, you,’ Penny replied. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I told you I needed to eat here,’ he said, as way of explanation. ‘And now I have. Penny, you’re brilliant. I didn’t want you to know it was me you were feeding. I wanted to be treated like any other regular guy.’

‘Yes, I would have been rather distracted to know I was cooking for the world’s best foot masseuse.’

‘You understand my logic, then,’ retorted Francesco. He hadn’t shaved that day and his five o’clock shadow made him look rugged and outdoorsy. He dabbed at his lips with his napkin delicately, the gesture at odds with his appearance. It was – oh god, Penny cringed, I need to come up with another bloody word for him – disarmingly sexy.

‘You left without saying goodbye last night,’ Penny said. She pulled up the chair opposite. Francesco looked like a framed picture with the street in early bloom behind him, the light hazy as evening threatened to arrive soon, his jacket in a pile beside him.

‘Like I said in my text, I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘I’m a terrible host,’ Penny said. ‘Falling asleep on you like that.’

‘Nah,’ Francesco replied. ‘I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to do so.’

They stared at each other, beaming.

‘It’s good here,’ Francesco said. ‘It’s really, really good. The food, the vibe, the service. You deserve all the hype.’

‘Did you hear that, Stu?’ Penny said, turning around. ‘Great service, he said!’

Stuart raised a hand to say he’d heard.

‘What’s it really like, having your own place? I know we talked about it a bit last night but honestly, chef-to-chef, are you satisfied?’

‘Chef to chef?’

Francesco nodded.

‘It’s the fucking best.’

Bobby interrupted them then, rounding the corner of the stairs and lingering at the table on his way out of the door. ‘Thanks again, boss. It’s pretty decent down there, but it’s not perfect.’

‘Give your mother my love,’ Penny said. ‘And tell her I’m determined to get that chowder recipe out of her sooner or later!’

‘Will do, boss. Cheers.’

‘Well,’ Penny sighed. ‘That’s my cue. I’m a kitchen porter down and I get too tired if I linger, so I’m sorry that I can’t stay and drink coffee with you.’

‘Oh, well – let me help,’ Francesco said, standing. ‘I don’t have anywhere to be. I’m not going in until five thirty. I can play kitchen porter with you.’

Penny raised her eyebrows and lowered her chin. ‘You want to help clean the kitchen?’

‘Sure!’

‘On an afternoon when you are not working at your job, which is in a kitchen?’

‘Come on,’ he said, already walking away. ‘Many hands make light work and all that.’

Penny shrugged. ‘As long as it isn’t a pity hand,’ she said after him, meaning: don’t feel sorry for me because I told you I used to have cancer.

He turned around and caught Stu’s eye as he did so, winking at him and so bringing him into the joke. ‘Have you ever been told you complicate things too much? I just wanna hang out with you! I don’t care what we do!’

Penny felt weirdly suspicious, but conceded. ‘Okay,’ she said, knowing Stuart was looking at her and deliberately ignoring his smugness. She knew he felt proud of the hand he’d had in her current contentedness. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’m so sure.’

‘You could just stand and keep me company as I finish off,’ Penny said, after they’d assessed what needed doing and she’d pulled her apron back on.

‘Pass me an apron, too,’ Francesco replied. ‘Like I said: many hands make light work. And maybe being behind the scenes of the famous Bridges Café means I’ll get some insider info on how the magic is made.’

‘I guard my secrets with my life,’ Penny warned, wiggling her eyebrows.

‘I have my ways of seduction,’ said Francesco, taking a step closer to her.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Penny laughed, and she didn’t. She leaned forward and kissed him deeply, pulling back before she got carried away. He tasted like coffee and promise.

‘Mmmmm,’ Francesco smiled. He added, ‘One more please.’

She leaned in and kissed him again, the length of her body pressed up against his. He put one hand behind her neck and held her to him.

‘I find your payment terms very favourable,’ he joked in hushed tones when she pulled away again, his hand lingering on her waist. His touch made the top of Penny’s thighs ache.

Sex-y.

Francesco set about with the last of the pans in the dishwash area as Penny sprayed and wiped down all the surfaces, and he’d been right: working together meant they got done in super quick time.

‘What are we listening to?’ he asked across the kitchen, after about ten minutes of companionable effort.

‘The High Low podcast,’ Penny replied.

‘They’re funny,’ he said, resuming his work.

Penny snuck glances of him from the other side of the workspace. She watched him crumple his face, concentrating on the two women coming from the speaker talking about the high maternal death rate in black mothers. He nodded slightly, as if agreeing with the point at hand, and Penny saw the way it made the muscle of his shoulders ripple under his t-shirt, how his neck moved.

‘It’s rude to stare,’ he said, not looking up from the sink. ‘You taught me that.’

‘Caught red-handed,’ Penny said.

He flashed her a smile, elbow deep in the bubbles from the washing up.

Francesco loaded the last few pieces into the dishwasher, pulled the plug on the sink, and then rinsed everything down with the shower head attached to the plug.

‘Let’s go outside for your smoke,’ he said, after Estelle and Stuart had come down to say goodbye for the day.

‘I’ll mop us out and we can share a San Pellegrino from my stash out there,’ Penny replied.

‘How illicit.’

‘Just go,’ she said, laughing and pointing to the exit.

He stood outside the open door, against the walk-in fridge. It was his turn to watch her now, and it had turned into an unspoken game: she’d watched him and not been bothered at being caught, so now he watched her without hiding it, refusing to shy from doing exactly the same.

‘Listen,’ Penny said, as she crouched down to the bottom step, her 4 p.m. ritual, passing him a can of her fizzy drink and preparing to roll a cigarette. ‘Can I be totally upfront with you?’

‘You can,’ Francesco encouraged, moving towards her. He stood in front of her and she forgot what she was going to say. She swore she could feel the heat radiating from his trousers, and her breath got shallow at his proximity.

‘I, um …’ she began, and then BOOM. Somehow the pair of them went from two separate entities to enmeshed together, mouth to mouth, breathlessly consuming each other. Penny stumbled so that her back was against the outside wall, and she could feel Francesco through his jeans. They moved up against one another, the friction getting more and more urgent, the kissing deeper and deeper. Penny melted into Francesco’s every movement, furious with passion. He moved to her jawline, her neck, he pulled at Penny’s apron, pawed at her chef’s whites to find his way to bare skin. Whatever she’d been about to say was forgotten.

‘Mmmm,’ she moaned, electrified by him. And then: ‘Wait – wait!’

Francesco pulled away. ‘Stop?’ he said.

‘No,’ Penny intoned. ‘Not stop. Upstairs.’

‘Upstairs,’ Francesco repeated. ‘Good.’

Penny pulled him by the wrist so that he was inside, locking the back door behind him. She led the way through the sparklingly clean kitchen and up to the café so they could get to the flat, Francesco pushed up against her back, kissing her neck and behind her ears, stopping every few steps so that she could turn around and have their mouths meet.

In her front room she said, ‘Can I shower? I don’t want our first time to be when I smell like a kitchen.’

‘I don’t care what you smell of,’ Francesco told her, coming in for another kiss, but she put a finger to his lips and insisted.

‘I do. Wait here.’ As she left, she said to her Amazon speaker: ‘Alexa, play some Frank Ocean. Thank you.’ She lit a sandalwood incense stick on the table.

‘You’re very polite to your voice-activated technology,’ Francesco said, loosening his belt.

‘When the A.I. revolution comes, it is I who shall be spared,’ Penny smirked, noting the way he was making himself more comfortable. She added: ‘Okay, hold on.’

Penny returned only after she’d taken the day off her, standing naked in front of him, hair damp and loose around her shoulders, her eyes wide and lips parted.

Francesco took in the sight of her.

‘Come here,’ he growled, standing and walking towards her, taking her hand. ‘This is going to be a lot of fun.’

5

‘Okay, mmmm. Yeah,’ Penny lightly sighed.

‘Yeah?’ Francesco asked.

‘Yeah,’ Penny said. ‘Yeah. That feels good.’

‘Okay. Good. Could you just …’

‘Oh. Sure. Like this?’

‘Or maybe—’

‘Ouch! Watch my hair, it’s caught—’

‘Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

Francesco and Penny had initiated incredibly bad sex.

He had kissed her – kissed her everywhere. Penny had let his tongue roam her body, her cheeks, her chin, her breasts, her thighs, between her legs. She had undressed him, and pushed him onto the sofa, rolling a condom onto him and straddling his lap. She’d braced herself for the feeling of being filled, of handing herself over to him, of their two bodies becoming one … but it wasn’t working.

‘What if I go on top?’ Francesco said.

‘Yeah, okay,’ Penny murmured, moving off him and lying back.

He loomed over her, and she grumbled, ‘I just – these cushions. I’ll just move these …’ She picked up a throw pillow and dropped it to the floor.

Silently, and with increasing half-heartedness, Francesco pumped away. His eyes were scrunched closed in intense concentration. Penny coughed a little. She’d been hugely turned on but now things felt significantly less … lubricated.

Francesco stopped for a second to wipe hair from his clammy brow.

They made eye contact and smiled, Francesco going to speak but seeing that Penny was about to, and Penny going to speak but seeing Francesco was about to, and so both nervously giggling and neither saying anything until Francesco uttered, gingerly: ‘Should we stop?’

Penny said, ‘Yeah. It’s okay. Let’s stop.’

The relief was palpable to them both.

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