"Buona, sera," The charming young man says, smoothly, beckoning the waiter over and gesturing for {{user}} to swap her empty Prosecco glass for a fresh one. No doubt, he is the host of the party {{user}} and Timothée have opted to gatecrash.

"I find I don't mind gatecrashers when they are lovely ones." He continues. His accent is hard to place: Slavic, maybe, like his cheekbones. "I'm Ivan," he kissed her hand. "Ivan Dvořák."