There I was, eating canapes and drinking with her husband, Victor, and herself. Then I was embracing Marcella … I was in Marcella’s flat … And it smelled fantastically of cooking. We found ourselves outside her front door, someone had rung the bell, and I suddenly felt like turning on my heels and running. I must admit I was a little surprised by her home, a high-rise gated community, but this seemed to be the favoured school of architecture along this coastline. I stayed in a hotel that felt like the sort of place in which the Mob would take their summer holidays, just down from where she lived. Why was I quibbling? Marcella had offered to cook pasta for me. Florida is not round the corner, but strangely it seemed to get closer and closer daily, until the point that it really seemed to be just round the corner. A letter duly returned thanking me, and saying that I must come to Florida to eat her pasta or risotto. To me, this was akin to writing a blurb on the Bible. When Marcella published her autobiography a few years ago, I received a note from her asking me to write something on the back cover.
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