Flanked by two beaming bimbettes wearing smiles as big as their boobs and very little else, Romano Rinaldi grasped the wooden handle of the Parmesan dagger and held it dramatically above his head.

‘And now, like an Aztec priest performing the ultimate sacrifice, I open the heart of this cheese, the very heart of Italy!’ he cried, plunging the cutter home and simultaneously bursting into a rendering of Verdi’s ‘ Celeste Aida ’ that went on, and on, and on.

In the soundproofed control booth, Delia’s glance met that of the director.

‘Coked again,’ she muttered.

‘You amaze me,’ the director replied drily.

He touched a button on the console before him.

‘Technical edit,’ he said. ‘Romano, the teleprompt script to camera three, please.’

He switched off the microphone link to the studio beyond the triple-glazed window.

‘I’ll cut in some of that promotional footage the producers’ association sent us,’ he said with a brief, harsh laugh. ‘Maybe one of those scenes with lots of cows. Then lay Lo Chef’s big aria under, fade it out and meld to the teleprompt VO with cutaways to him gabbing to camera.’

‘You’re a star, Luciano.’

‘Thank God for digital is all. The trailer segment has to be ready to air tomorrow. In the old days, that would have taken Christ knows how many man-hours. Even with the money the parmigiani are slipping us under the table, we’d still have had a hard time costing out.’

Delia nodded vaguely. She looked, and was, preoccupied.

‘How much longer till wrap-up?’ she asked.