My mother, Nana and I were having lunch in an Italian restaurant in South Kensington. We used to go there often when my father was alive, but it was our first visit without him. The proprietor greeted us with such warmth and enthusiasm and exaggerated hand gestures that I had to check over my shoulder to make sure a proper celebrity wasn't about to push past me as if I was invisible through their big designer sunglasses. But then, when he offered us the best table in the restaurant - the one by the window where passers-by would see you and rush for a table - I realised that all the fuss was just for me (or Arriet Rosa as he insisted on calling me).

"I see you on the telly," he announced with the heightened tones of a proprietor eager to inform the rest of his customers that celebrities dine at his restaurant, "And Mama too," he added, smiling radiantly at Mama Rosa, "And Grandmama. Bella! Bella! Bella!"

"Olivia, actually," Nana replied, with a smile I feared might be a little patronising when we hadn't yet eaten. "Bella was my cousin."

But Mario just laughed as if Nana was being funny.Then Mario spoke words I shall never forget, "I buy your book, Arriet - you sign it for me?" And before I had time to ask about the Pasta of the Day, my Infinite Wisdom was on the table in front of me, lying hopefully between crostini and a bowl of black olives. So I took his pen and wrote, 'To Mario - ciao, Harriet', just to let him know I was international. He would like that.