She tossed her cigarette down into the car park below and went back inside. To her horror, the light mounted above the door to the studio was glowing green. She was late, and Romano Rinaldi didn’t like to be kept waiting. She shoved the door open and ran up to the stage where he stood, sweating and hyperventilating, in the toque and white uniform which had had to be changed four times that morning after being spattered with assorted ingredients.

‘I’m so sorry, Romano!’ Delia said breathlessly. ‘I had to pop out for a moment to take a very sensitive business call. I didn’t want Leonardo listening in. Actually, it was about something we need to…’

‘It’s nothing,’ the star interrupted, jerking both hands outwards as though to symbolise the jettisoning of redundant cargo. ‘I don’t need any praise or applause. The great artist is always a great critic as well. Today I was magnificent. I know that instinctively, in my belly, in my heart!’

He grasped her arm and broke into the gaping, toothy, beard-framed smile that was one of his professional hallmarks, an image of which featured on the labels for the evergrowing list of sauces, oils, cookware and other products branded under the Lo Chef trademark.

‘I’m getting better and better, Delia,’ he confided. ‘This is only the beginning of the rich, prolific middle period for which I shall always be remembered. The years to come…’

Lost for words to describe adequately the splendours of the future that awaited him, he relapsed into a long heartfelt sigh. Delia patted his shoulder.

‘I understand, Romano, and I completely agree. Now you go and get changed, and then we must have a brief discussion. I realise that this is a difficult moment for you, after putting on such a superb performance, but there are some very important and urgent issues that we need to address.’