‘Stop sighing and delete that app.’
Willa looked up from her phone with a start, blinking her way back into consciousness as if a stage-hypnotist had just released her from his control. She wasn’t aware she’d made a sound. She locked her phone, but still men’s faces seemed to float in the air before her, three-quarter profiles and folded arms with bulging biceps burned into her retinas. She wiggled her thumb, which ached from swiping, and stretched out her hand to pat Billy Jowl, the grizzled Jack Russell–bulldog cross curled up beside her on the couch.
Her best friend, Kat, stood before her, holding out a steaming bowl. ‘Take it — it’s burning me.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ Willa dropped her phone face down onto the velvet upholstery and took the bowl with both hands. Kat sat down on the other side of the sleeping dog and stirred her own bowl with her fork, mixing the meat into the pasta. ‘Voilà, signorina: Pappardelle alle Bolognese.’
‘For a change,’ Willa said. Kat cooked very good spaghetti bolognese, very often. She took a large mouthful, swallowed and said, ‘This is excellent. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to look a bolognese in the eye again after dinner with Anders on Wednesday.’
‘Was the date terrible? Please say it was terrible because, although I would try, I would definitely struggle if you went and fell for someone who sounds like his name is a plural.’
‘It was terrible,’ Willa reassured her…
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