I always forget how loud it gets in the Elk in the Woods, what with the nonstop chatter and the music bouncing off the horned skulls on the wall. Nonetheless, it is a nice place to fall into as the sun sets on a Sunday afternoon, and it was nicer still to have a teatime tête-à-tête with Nora in the red lotus room in the back. We had a seat by the window, where I saw that Mr Christian’s across the way is, confoundingly, closed, with an A4 sheet in the window that reads: Closed until further notice. Apologies. Said A4 sheet is suspiciously Times New Roman on white, as if Mr Christian packed up real quick, hugging a jar of pennies as he ran. What happened, Mr Christian? No return ticket from New Year’s in the Bahamas? Or was it the result of a visit from the food hygiene cops? Bugs in the baking flour? Rats behind the pots of gourmet jams? I wanted a loaf of bread today, Mr Christian, and I would not have said no to a cupcake.

Everyone around us was getting chips, but we had signed up for cake. “Toffee crème brûlée,” the waitress said, and she was Mia Farrow in the seventies. “A chocolate pot,” she said, but she must have seen, in our eyes, that we were going for gold. “Banoffee pie,” she said, and we said: “Oh!” There was banoffee pie for two, then, and fresh mint tea on a wavy-rimmed saucer.

“I have a ghost,” I started to say, later, but then I thought I should back up a little, because who wants to be the woman hunched over in the corner, wringing her knobbly hands and darting her eyes about wildly? “I mean,” I said, “I was on the sofa the other day and it started shaking – I mean, sometimes at night, well, really, anytime during the day, but at least once a day there is a sound in my apartment,” I said, and I couldn’t stop, though I knew I was starting to sound crazy. “No, honestly, once a day, just a quick knock, like someone knocking, but just once, loudly, and the other day I was on the sofa and it started shaking.” My eyes were darting about, I’m sure, though my hands were steady, and Nora said: “Are you mad?”

“That is what Olive said!” I said. “I said, ‘Olive, the sofa is shaking,’ and he said, ‘Are you mad?’ But then the lampshade began vibrating, so I pointed at it; he saw it too, and he said, ‘Someone is doing construction somewhere.’” I think I allowed myself a breath.

“It is pipes,” Nora said, and I narrowed my eyes at her. “I believe in pipes,” she said, “and you believe in ghosts.”

“I don’t know that I believe in ghosts,” I said, “but you know there’s that show on TV?” “I’ve never seen it,” I said, “but I’ve seen the trailer, and I think what it is is, you think you have a ghost in your house, and you call these people, and they use those cameras that film in low light, and they come over and suddenly everyone’s screaming.”

“Do not call those people to your house,” Nora said, and she reached over with her fork to sample my leftover toffee.

Back from holidays is best for seeing everyone, just like at school, and I wonder if it is like this for old people, too. Friday we had a full house for a steak dinner, and Saturday Emily called to invite us over to touch the pasta machine. The boy was feverish on the couch, but a pasta machine is a pasta machine, so at half past seven I flagged down the number 38 bus to Angel.

In a deep peach kitchen, Emily made a flour well on the kitchen counter and broke two eggs into it. She rolled the dough into balls and said, “You want to try the machine?” She plugged the machine into the power outlet, and Lucy and I said, “Ohh. I thought it would be hand-powered.” In our minds we saw Italian grandmothers with flour in their hair, and goats in the yard. Still, a pasta machine is – all together now – a pasta machine, so I said: “Yeah, okay,” as if I do this every day. I tell you! Making pasta is great! The folding of the dough, the flattening, the even-flatter flattening, the flatter-still flattening, the very-flat flattening. The cutting into tagliatelle. It must have been well past nine by the time we put the water on to boil. “This is great,” I said, “but I tell you, sometimes I am quite happy to buy my pasta at Tesco.”

Carl came by at some point, Carl who is half-Japanese and half-Swedish so his eyes are the colour of sand, and Carl and Lucy live in Los Angeles, so of course I said, “Do you go to the Giant Robot shop all the time?” I tell you! They do! “And do you know Eric Nakamura?” I said, and Carl said, “Yes.” “Tell me more,” I said, and I put down my fork. “I know Eric,” he said, “but I think Martin is cuter.” “Ya!” I said, “Me, too!”

I remember that before Maud and Yaya and I left New York to drive to LA, people said, “Oh, LA. You’re going to have to drive everywhere, and you’re going to get stuck in traffic. There’ll be all this smog. You’re going to hate it.” We got to LA and it was the candy-coloured stuff of our dreams. I remember the palm trees, I remember the swoosh of the Getty Center, I remember that day we were at the beach. That first balmy night we went out with Jude and Chad; we drove with the windows down, we fell into a bar somewhere. Later that night, rolled in and tucked up in the boys’ living room, Maud and I laughed till we cried.

I have a soft spot for LA. It’s the Neutra houses, I think, and the Eameses, and in the background it sounds of the sea and Spanish-speakers. I remember thinking, when I lived in America and this was a relevant thing to think, that it would probably be curious and interesting to spend time in a city that seems to have such a strong Asian American population. I don’t tend to get hyped up about yellow power, but I can’t help being Chinese. I think I thought LA would be like living in the pages of Giant Robot.