While puttanesca sauce is commonly referred to as 'whore's sauce,' it was not officially recorded as such until the 1950s, a lot later than the time that this story is set

It was too late to have a proper meal. They had been talking for hours, shifting from standing at the bar to an empty table and when everyone had left, he helped her clear and set up for closing. She led him to the kitchen, still talking and he watched as she made a simple dish made from the leftovers. It was delicious. When they had scraped the last of it from the bowl, he quizzed her on what it was called and she giggled. Not a light frothy giggle, something earthier. The timbre of it flipped his stomach and warmed him up even more than the dish.

'It is called puttanesca.'

'What does it mean?' Jack liked languages.

'It means 'throw any old scraps together and make a simple dish' sauce. Like making use of the food from the bin.'

'Is that particularly funny in Italian?'

'Well a lot of people call it the whore's sauce. A dish a lady of that class would make. We don't tell that to the customers.'

He was taken aback. Concetta was a refined delicate speaker. Where did this matter of fact tone of voice come from? She caught his eye and giggled again. There it was. That fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

'Have you never visited a whore, Gianni?'

He was astonished by her frank conversation.

'No.'

'Have you never been unfaithful?'

Jack's mind spooled back to the war. Only once, had he been unfaithful. Rosie would have skinned him alive and made sure her father would have stamped on him for good measure if she had known. He had never told anyone.

'Only once. During the war.'

'And?'

Jack turned red. He didn't want to say anymore. Concetta was usually a lot more tactful than that. But tonight, her eyes were gleaming and a curious smile played upon her lips. She sat back and watched him stammer through his version of events. The French girl was blonde with a name he couldn't pronounce, she had laughed at his coarse accent. They had bathed in the river together and they had dried off seeking comfort in a mercifully empty barn full of hay. It sounded like such a cliché but that was how it had happened. It had been a heady rush of half an hour and feeling exhilarated, they'd parted ways, never to see each other again. He had hardly thought of her over the years and hope she was married to a good farmer with several children by now.

'Very cute' was the resulting comment. He looked up at her. She was smiling again. Not a malicious smile. She had genuinely enjoyed the story. The atmosphere in the room felt off kilter. Jack had heard all his life about how a woman was a jealous creature if you mentioned another but that wasn't what he was seeing here.

'Does your wife know?'

She knew the answer but was waiting for him to tell her. She was leading him into a path untrodden and he was allowing her to lead him there. He supplied the answer and waited for her next move.