If you can handle the heat...

...stay in the kitchen, says writer Olivia Petter, who explains why it’s always the hub of any house party

When he opened the fridge door, I knew that was it. His face was glowing, a luminous masterpiece complete with full lips and a chiselled jawline. The artificial light seemed to hit every part of him just right; it was like looking at a piece of art.

‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, perusing the shelves in front of him with an impressive amount of concentration, given it was 2am and the DJ had already started playing Abba. I tried to speak, but words failed me. ‘Ah, here we go. The good beer,’ he said, passing me a bright-blue can of something and then proceeding to take one for himself. ‘I’m Joe.’ And that was the moment I met my husband.

OK, not quite. But that’s what I thought was happening at the time. Joe and I proceeded to spend the entire evening talking, huddled in the dimly lit corner in between the fridge and the sink while the rest of the house party whirled around us, totally unaware of the love story unfolding before their very eyes.

We exchanged our family histories, film recommendations and bad first-date stories. He was much taller than me and, at one point, I remember hopping up onto the kitchen island while he stood in front of me so we were closer to eye level, my hands clinging onto the marble countertop either side of my legs because it cooled my sweaty palms. The chemistry was electric – so, naturally, I started to visualise a future with this man. Or at least I did, until I discovered that Joe had a girlfriend of three years; he proposed to her two months later.

But that’s beside the point. Because for those few sacred hours, I was in denial – and, subsequently, in a Richard Curtis rom-com. The funny thing is that this isn’t the first time I’ve fallen in love in someone else’s kitchen. It used to happen on a regular basis when I was at university, when there was a different house party almost every night of the week. And the kitchen was at the heart of every one of those parties, a beating pulse around which the entire celebration could revolve. Nothing has changed as I’ve got older – the kitchens are more stylish, perhaps, but they’re just as full and rowdy come the night of a serious get-together.

There are several explanations for this. The first – and most obvious – is that, at every party, the kitchen is usually where people keep the alcohol. For this reason, it is a hotspot of energy and anticipation. It’s the space people pass through to grab another drink, satiate their gnawing hunger with some crisps and dips, or quickly guzzle some tap water. In many houses, too, the kitchen is also a pathway to the garden, meaning it becomes a motorway for smokers, frequently shuffling through for their next fix and a one-on-one gossip.

But despite all these ongoings, the kitchen is also a place to pause. An intimate and quiet spot where people can actually hear each other without having to shout over cheesy tunes. This is why a houseparty kitchen can also be the perfect place to foster romantic connections.

As for what qualities make a good kitchen, there are a few key factors at play. First is the island – and not just because it’s something for hopeless romantics to hop on to. A decent kitchen island can serve as a centrepiece for the entire party, somewhere that can be piled high with abundant drinks and snacks. It can also, in some cases, turn into an excellent stage for dancing – just be sure to remove your shoes first.

Also integral is low-level lighting (no one wants to be blinded by ice-white spotlights) and decent tiling (forest greens and dusky pinks are always a win). This is what turns a regular kitchen into a cool kitchen, the kind in which you want to take photographs – and who wouldn’t want their house party to be commemorated on Instagram?

Last but not least, don’t forget about those dark, dim corners. This is where the true magic of every house party will happen, even if there is an overflowing bin next to it. Though my meeting with Joe didn’t end in a proposal, let alone a kiss, that doesn’t make it any less memorable. Not in my head, anyway. Because I’ll always cherish those few hours I spent with him, thinking this was the story I’d tell for years to come: the moment I met the one. Even though it wasn’t, the pure possibility of it all gives me plenty of hope. And, like a cooling kitchen island, that’s something worth holding on to.

The chemistry was electric – so, naturally, I started to visualise our future. At least I did until I discovered Joe had a girlfriend of three years; he proposed to her two months later