A waiter interrupts my thoughts with a bowl of steaming arancini and a big platter of antipasti plus some bread.
I’m actually starving, I realise.
‘This looks amazing,’ I say.
‘Better than pie and peas?’
‘Nearly as good as. And that’s a huge compliment.’
Nadia frowns. ‘Eat and then you’ll realise that what you just said was total sacrilege.’
Three mouthfuls in of some stuffed peppers wrapped in Parma ham, I’m already wavering. If I’m honest, there are very few pies as good as this. And once I’ve had one of the rice balls, I’m a convert.
I contemplate for a moment pretending that pie still wins, but she’s looking very fierce.
‘I will say that a good pub pie is better than a lot of the stuff that I would usually order from an Italian,’ I settle on. ‘But I didn’t know what the best things to order were.’
‘What would you have chosen?’
‘I’m not really sure, but probably none of this.’
Nadia tsks. ‘Honestly.’
‘So do you cook Italian food too?’
‘Yep, but only for friends and my dad’s side of the family, never for my mum’s. They’d disown me. What about you? Do you cook?’
‘Kind of. As in, not as much as I should. Very basic. But I did learn a couple of things from my ex-w…’ I nearly said ex-wife there. Out loud, which I rarely do. ‘From my ex. And am not too proud to use them still.’
Nadia looks at me for a moment, like she’s wondering whether to say anything or not, and then says, ‘So talk me through your top cooking tips.’
We talk about food for quite a while (possibly a little over seriously on my part until I feel that we’ve definitely moved far away from any ex mentions) until the conversation shifts somehow to the first cars we ever drove. (Nadia drove straight into a wall on her first time out – no-one was injured – and didn’t drive again for five years and then passed her test first time; at seventeen I thought I was an incredibly skilled driver and was astonished by every one of my five failed tests.)
The stunningly delicious food keeps coming (I love listening to Nadia’s Italian whenever a server comes to the table) and the conversation’s as good as the food.
We’ve just finished sharing a truly spectacular tiramisu, when Nadia says, ‘Whoops, look we’re almost the last in here.’
‘Oh yes.’ I hadn’t noticed; for however long we’ve been here it’s like I’ve had everything I need in the world at this one table. ‘We should probably let the staff clean up and go home and get back down to the river and do our reshoot. If you still have time?’
‘Definitely.’
* * *
As we walk, Nadia says very naturally into a lull, ‘It sounded difficult with your ex?’ And suddenly I find myself telling her all about the nightmare ex-wife thing. Which I never, ever do if I can help it because usually I just don’t like talking about it.
‘Yeah,’ she says simply at the end. ‘That was her, not you. Which I hope you know. She didn’t deserve you. You’re wonderful.’
And I feel very, very, well, justwarmwhen she says it.
‘Thank you.’ I smile at her and give her a quick gratitude hug that I have to fight with myself not to prolong.
And then Nadia – just in the nick of time so the moment doesn’t get too maudlin or full of regrets or embarrassment about what an idiot I was to marry someone so entirely wrong for me – says, ‘Wow, that’s aseriouslygarlicky smell coming out of that restaurant,’ and then we talk about garlic (and, yes, with the right person, you really can have a garlic chat).
* * *
We go back to the same spot where we shot our first video and get ourselves into position again, standing close together.
It’sreallyhard not to justinhalethe scent of whatever shampoo Nadia uses, but I have to make sure I don’t do it, because she’d be able toseeme because we’re basically watching ourselves.
