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.