Chapter Seven
The rain had been steady since mid-afternoon, not the wild, cinematic kind that rattled the windows, but a grey, relentless curtain that blurred the shopfronts across the street and made the few people outside scuttle past with their heads down.
It was the kind of weather that made you think twice about leaving the house at all, let alone to sit in a restaurant.
Inside, Sage & Thyme felt oddly hollow without the usual murmur of customers. The dining room, with its soft amber lighting and mismatched chairs, seemed to be holding its breath. Even the jazz playlist in the background felt too loud in the emptiness.
From the kitchen came the rhythmic clatter of pans being stacked, cupboard doors shutting, and the occasional muffled “bloody hell” from Raj. If the man was going to have a slow night, he was clearly determined to put it to use.
Franco was at table six, standing on a chair to adjust a ceiling lightbulb that had been threatening to flicker out all week. The fact he was doing it in skinny jeans, boots, and an apricot sweater that looked like it belonged in a magazine ad was pure Franco .
Ben smiled to himself. Franco can even turn maintenance work into a performance.
Ollie was behind the bar, polishing glasses with the casual commitment of someone who had nowhere else to be.
His hair was in that artfully careless state it always seemed to be in, and his shirt was only half-tucked, as though he’d either just arrived or had given up halfway through getting dressed.
Every now and then, he would glance at the rain, mutter something under his breath, and go back to buffing the same glass.
In the far corner, Ben sat with his laptop open, a spreadsheet glowing on the screen.
His coat was still damp from the walk over, and there was a faint sheen of rain on his shoes.
He hadn’t been notified that business was dead tonight, which meant he’d trudged through the downpour for nothing more than a slow-drip coffee and the dubious pleasure of Franco calling across the room, “Wow, you made it through the apocalypse!” when he’d walked in.
Ben had ignored him and instead had taken up his usual corner table, the one with a clear line of sight to both the kitchen and the bar.
From here, he could keep an eye on things without hovering.
Not that there was much to watch, unless he counted Franco’s precarious balancing act on the chair or Ollie’s meditative polishing.
The rain made a soft hiss against the windows, and the occasional swoosh of a passing car filled the quiet. The heater hummed. Somewhere in the back, Raj banged something metallic hard enough to make Franco flinch.
Ben checked the time, then returned to his laptop, reviewing the updated inventory figures.
More than three weeks in and he’d already managed to make some progress: the portion sizes were getting more consistent, stock levels were no longer a mystery, and there was at least a loose rotation for staff breaks.
He knew the changes weren’t universally loved—he’d noted the sideways glances, heard the muttered “corporate” jokes—but the place was running more tightly.
Change was slow but it was happening.
A chink surprised him, and he glanced up to see a fresh cup of espresso left by Franco, who was already on his way back to the kitchen without a word.
Good man.
“Ben.”
He looked up. Ollie had abandoned the bar and was leaning against the nearest table, his arms folded, his glass polishing cloth draped over one shoulder like a chef’s towel.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Ollie said.
Ben blinked. “What thing?”
“The numbers face.” Ollie tilted his head. “Like you’re calculating the GDP of a small nation in your head and it’s exhausting.”
Ben set his pen down with a frown. “I’m working.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Ollie’s voice was light, but there was a flicker of something behind it. Curiosity, maybe, or caution. “Question is… how’s it going for you? This whole… storming the castle thing?”
Ben’s lips curved in the faintest ghost of a smile. “Depends who you ask.”
Ollie huffed and retreated to the bar, where he balanced a highball glass on his forehead and stared at the ceiling, as still as a statue.
Franco was in the kitchen with Raj, and Ben had been handed the perfect opportunity for a conversation he’d been anticipating for a while.
“You okay over there?” Ben’s voice echoed in the hush.
Ollie caught the glass before it could fall and set it down. “Fine,” he said, dragging the word out like smoke. “Just communing with the gods of gin.”
Ben closed the laptop, then stood and stretched. He picked up his espresso and walked over. “Busy night,” he observed in a dry tone.
Ollie smirked. “Record-breaking. I broke a sweat slicing that one lime.”
Ben took a seat at the bar, nodding at the half-empty glass beside Ollie. “That water?”
Ollie didn’t look at him. “Sure. ”
Ben raised his eyebrows. “Do you ever not drink during a shift?”
Ollie’s mouth quirked. “That sounded very managerial of you.”
“It wasn’t,” Ben said. He paused. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
Ollie sighed, then rubbed his face. “Depends on the night. On the weather. On… a lot of things.”
The room held that statement for a moment. Then Ollie reached behind the bar for a jug and poured himself another, clear liquid over ice.
“Vodka?” Ben asked.
“Water,” Ollie said. “Tonight.” He took a slow sip, then raised his glass to Ben. “Congratulations. You caught me on one of the rare grown-up evenings.”
Ben smiled faintly. “Lucky me.”
Ollie looked at him sidelong. “You checking up on me, boss?”
Ben shook his head. “Honestly? I was hoping to figure you out.”
“That’ll take longer than one glass of fake vodka.”
Ben leaned forward, his arms on the bar.
“Then start somewhere.” He paused for a second.
“You always drink. You make jokes that are too sharp to be meaningless. And you’ve got this thing where you pretend not to care, but I’ve seen you restock the bar as though it’s a sacred ritual. So. What gives?”
Ollie blinked. “Huh. You’ve been paying attention.”
Ben gave a small shrug. “I’ve been where you are. Not exactly —different vice, different grief—but I know the signs.”
Ollie stared into his glass, swirling the ice slowly. “You think I’ve got a problem.”
Ben hesitated. “I think you’re carrying something, and drinking helps you carry it.”
Ollie didn’t answer right away, but stared down at the bar top, tracing a water ring with his finger.
“I had a brother,” he said finally. “Theo. He was annoying and brilliant and better than anyone I ever deserved to know.” Ollie swallowed. “He died five years ago. Heart thing. Came out of nowhere.”
Ben’s chest constricted. “God. I’m sorry. ”
Ollie gave a shrug. “I was supposed to see him that night, but I cancelled. I told him I was working, but really, I was at some guy’s flat getting drunk and talking shit about the future.” He paused. “By the time I called him back, it was too late.”
Ben didn’t fill the silence but waited.
Ollie exhaled slowly. “I don’t drink to forget him. I drink to stop thinking about what I could’ve done differently. About what I’ll never be able to fix.”
“And you think the alcohol helps?” Ben asked, his tone gentle.
“It doesn’t make it better,” Ollie said with another shrug. “But it blurs the edges and makes the guilt quieter. For a while, at least.”
Ben nodded. “I get that.”
Ollie jerked his head up. “Do you?”
Ben sipped his espresso. “Mine wasn’t a brother. It was… me. My choices. The things I gave up. The man I thought I could be.”
Ollie tilted his head. “You lost someone?”
“I lost time,” Ben told him. “Years of it. Pretending, hiding, being successful and miserable in equal measure.”
Ollie raised his glass. “To miserable men.”
Ben tapped his espresso cup against it. “To better choices.” After taking a drink, he cocked his head to one side. “Can I share something with you that I’ve learned about guilt?”
“Go for it.”
“Someone told me once they’d known people who’d done everything, and people who’d done nothing. Yet they all experienced guilt. That’s just being human. But realistically? What’s done is done, and dwelling on the guilt doesn’t do anyone any good.”
They drank. A long pause stretched out, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“You know,” Ollie said eventually, “you’re not what I expected.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I thought you were going to be a hard-arse. Some suit with spreadsheets and no soul. But you’re more…” Ollie waved a hand. “Messy. In a good way. Human. ”
Ben laughed. “Thanks, I think.”
“Still don’t know if I’m a liability though, do you?”
Ben took a breath. “No. But I know you’re not invisible, and I think you’ve been treated as if you are. As though everyone’s decided you’re ‘just like that’ , so there’s no point in asking more of you.”
Ollie was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed. “Franco tried, once.”
Ben looked up.
“First year I worked here. I was showing up hungover, sometimes already buzzed. He pulled me aside, and he looked so fucking disappointed. He didn’t yell or threaten, just said he didn’t want to watch me fade away.” Ollie’s mouth tightened. “That made it worse.”
“Because he cared?” Ben asked.
“Because I couldn’t stop, not then.” He looked at Ben, his eyes raw. “Still not sure I can.”
Ben nodded slowly. “Then don’t focus on stopping. Just focus on choosing, one night at a time.”
Ollie gave a humourless laugh. “You sound like my therapist.”
Ben smirked. “I had a good one.”
They sat in silence again, the quiet around them companionable now. Outside, rain streaked the windows with silver threads.
“Hey.” Ollie broke the silence. “Thanks for not giving me a lecture or pretending I’m fixed just because I drank water tonight.”
Ben gazed at him. “Thanks for not pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”
Ollie gave a small smile. “Let’s call it even.”