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She doesn’t sit for long and joins me with the cooking, opening cupboard doors and drawers, looking for a colander and a pasta server.

“My God, your kitchen is so organised. How do you keep it so tidy?”

“I like things in order.”

“You’re not kidding. You should see my kitchen. It’s clean—please don’t think I live in a pigsty, because I don’t. It’s just that my drawers are full of stuff, and my cupboards are very haphazard. I’ve the kind of stacking where you close the door and hope to God everything doesn’t fall out on you the next time you open it.”

I shudder. Maybe this is a sign. We aren’t meant to be. Could I really be with someone who doesn’t take the organisation of their cupboards seriously?

“I’ve never seen your apartment,” I say, wondering if this is a good or bad thing. Should I be making a move on someone when I haven’t even seen where they live?

“You don’t want to. You’d have a panic attack as soon as you walked through the door. I have a coatstand with a thousand coats on it, several piles of shoes stacked by the door, and a welcome mat that says Happy Halloween.”

“Sounds like panic attack material.” I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead.

“I’d have to have a major clear-out before you visited, probably have to hire a skip.”

I serve up the pasta, pour over the sauce, and take both dishes over to the table as Alice grabs two glasses from the cabinet and fills them from the tap.

“I have bottled water,” I tell her, shuddering at the thought of what could be lurking in the water from the pipes.

“Well, save your money.” She smiles as she takes the seat opposite me. “I thought carbonara was spaghetti?”

“It is, but it’s messy, so I cooked shells instead. Is it okay? Do you like carbonara?”

“I love carbonara. Although I remember this one time, this guy took me to a really posh Italian restaurant, and I had no idea what half the stuff was on the menu as it was all in Italian, and the only thing I knew was the carbonara. I was relieved because you can’t go wrong with a carbonara—or so I thought, because halfway through the meal, I told him the ham was really smoky in flavour, and he told me, very casually like it was the most innocent thing in the world, that it was cured pork jowl, and I was like ‘What the hell is jowl?’ and he said it was pork cheek.” She glares at me, eyes wide, horror on her face, before she says, “Cheek. I mean, who eats cheek? I couldn’t eat the rest of it, and it put me off carbonara for months.”

I smile, and she reads me so well.

“Oh my God.” She drops her fork on the side of the dish. “It’s not, is it?”

“Don’t worry.” I shake my head, laughing at her. “You’re safe. It’s pancetta.”

“I don’t know what part of the pig pancetta is, but I don’t want to know; otherwise, a favourite food of mine is going to be ruined forever.”

We eat the rest of the meal while chatting about work, and then we tidy up together. The rhythm of doing something together settles into my bones and makes me feel like she belongs here.

This is where she should be. This is what I’ve been missing.

She takes care of putting away my things and doesn’t rush the job, which dispels all the niggling worries about how messy and disorganised she is.

I make tea, knowing Alice still has to drive home, and I wonder if the opportunity is going to present itself the way I’d hoped it would. There hasn’t been a point in the evening when I’ve been able to bring things up, but I’m still hoping.

“I read your story,” I tell her, handing her a cup of tea.

“You didn’t.” Her eyes widen before she glances down.

“I had nothing else to do on my lunch break.” Which is true, so I read it another two times while I sat in the garden on my own.

“Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed.” She puts her hand over her face.

I hate it when she does that.

“It was so bad. I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, I think that’s the point. I wasn’t thinking at all, and I just wrote. I didn’t even know what I was writing until it was done.”

It’s not the opener I was hoping for. I thought she might declare her intentions and ask me if I took anything from it, but she seems genuinely embarrassed and ashamed. I’m just about to tell her how much I enjoyed her writing when she asks me where I got my mugs from, tapping on the porcelain like she’s testing out their strength.

I falter slightly, not wanting to move the conversation on, but she launches into a long tale about a favourite mug of hers that had flowers on it, which Jamal put in the dishwasher by mistake and ended up ruining. And the moment is gone.