Chapter 3
Tom
By the time I turn into my street, my jaw aches from clenching it all the way home.
The housing estate in Denton Holme, one of Carlisle’s unshowy corners, is a sprawl of identical houses and apologetic front gardens, built quickly and cheaply and never pretending to be anything else.
It’s quiet, it’s fine, and it’s not where I imagined I’d end up, but it’s what I can afford, and that only as a house share.
The front door sticks when I push it open.
The smell hits me immediately.
Something is burning. Something else is being aggressively overconfident.
“Rupert,” I call, dropping my keys onto the shelf by the door. “What are you doing?”
“In the kitchen,” comes the reply, enunciated with surgical precision, as if he’s announcing the opening of a cultural institution rather than courting a fire hazard. “Engaged in a domestic experiment.”
Oh, fuck. All the culinary gods may help me.
I follow the sound of frantic stirring and find Rupert at the hob, barefoot, wearing paint splattered trousers and a linen shirt that has never once met an iron. He holds a wooden spoon like a sceptre. Steam curls up from a pan I do not trust.
“You’re home early,” he says, without looking round. “How refreshingly punctual of you.”
“You’re cooking,” I say. “Explain.”
He turns, affronted. “Because I am a fully formed adult.”
“You set fire to rice last week.”
“That was an interpretive response to carbohydrate tyranny.”
Rupert has the poshest accent I have ever encountered.
Perfect vowels, careful consonants, the sort of voice that sounds like it should be discussing chamber music or hedge funds.
This would be less confusing if he weren’t from Leeds, working class, and the son of a man who once repaired my car with a hammer and a deeply expressive vocabulary.
Rupert simply prefers to curate an alternative narrative.
“I had a day,” I say, dropping my jacket over a chair.
“I sensed a disturbance,” he replies calmly. “The atmosphere has been testy since approximately six o’clock.”
“You’re burning onions,” I say. “That’s not the atmosphere, that’s dinner.”
“They’re caramelising with intent,” he says. “Please don’t rush them.”
Rupert is an artist. He paints, sculpts, and once spent a month creating an installation entirely out of takeaway menus and existential despair. He is also, tragically, a part time waiter.
That is how we met.
He applied for a job at the restaurant. I hired him.
I regretted it almost immediately. Rupert is an amazing human being but a catastrophic waiter.
Not malicious. Not lazy. Just constitutionally incapable of remembering orders, carrying plates without commentary, or refraining from telling customers how their energy might affect the meal.
For the sake of our friendship, Rupert no longer works for me.
“What has befallen you,” he asks now, stirring with unnecessary flourish, “that you arrive home vibrating with suppressed violence?”
I drop my bag onto the chair and pull the folded newspaper from my jacket. “Read this.”
He takes it with both hands, as if handling something sacred, and clears his throat.
“Ah,” he says, immediately slipping into performance mode. “The Last Bite. Carlisle's infamous restaurant review.”
He reads aloud, voice smooth and sonorous.
La Cucina di Rosa promises rustic Italian comfort but delivers something closer to polite disappointment. The tomato sauce, intended to be the heart of the dish, lacks depth and body, leaving the pasta swimming in what can only be described as a watery afterthought.
He pauses, eyes flicking up to me. “Watery,” he repeats softly. “A bold choice of word.”
He continues.
While the setting is warm and the service earnest, one hopes the kitchen will find its footing before the novelty of a new opening wears thin.
Rupert lowers the paper slowly. “Well,” he says. “That is… unsparing.”
“It’s lazy,” I snap. “She ordered one dish.”
“One dish,” he echoes. “A minimalist approach.”
“I went to see her,” I admit, reluctantly.
His eyebrow lifts. “You went to the newspaper.”
“Yes.”
“To confront a critic.”
“Yes.”
He sets the paper down with exaggerated care. “Tom.”
“She called my Nonna’s sauce watery.”
Rupert exhales slowly, like a man preparing to deliver bad news in a drawing room.
“And what, pray tell,” he says, “did you hope to achieve by presenting yourself in person to the keeper of public opinion.”
I hadn’t thought it through. I’d seen the word watery in print and something in me had snapped. Pride, mostly. The part of me that still hears my grandmother’s voice every time that sauce hits the pan.
“I wanted her to explain herself,” I say.
“You wanted blood.”
“I wanted fairness.”
He gives me a look that suggests those two things rarely arrive separately.
“I may have raised my voice,” I add, because pretending otherwise would be pointless. “Briefly.”
Rupert hums. “A passionate crescendo.”
“She deserved to hear it.”
“Undoubtedly,” he says. “Whether she deserved the volume is another matter.”
I grab a beer and lever the cap off with more force than necessary. The anger is still there, but now it’s tangled with something more irritating. The memory of her standing there, calm as anything, letting me burn myself out.
“She couldn’t even remember what she’d eaten,” I say. “One plate. That’s all.”
Saying it again brings the frustration back, sharp and immediate. One dish. One opinion. A whole reputation dragged along behind it.
Rupert’s stirring slows. “That is… unhelpful.”
“It’s insulting,” I say. And worse, it suggests the food didn’t land. I’d rather be furious than sit with that thought.
“Her editor stepped in,” I continue. “They’re printing a retraction.”
Rupert stops stirring.
Not gradually. Completely. Spoon suspended mid air, onions sizzling in quiet protest.
“A retraction,” he repeats, slowly, tasting the word. “That is no small thing.”
He turns the hob down with exaggerated care, then sets the spoon on the counter as if this development deserves his full attention. He wipes his hands on a tea towel that was never clean to begin with and leans back against the worktop, considering me.
“Well,” he says at last, “that suggests panic. Or conscience. Possibly both.”
“And they are giving me a full feature! She’ll be back next week to give my food another try.”
Saying it out loud makes my stomach tighten. A review you can argue with. A feature you either earn or you don’t. There’s nowhere to hide in a long piece. No single sauce to blame if the whole thing falls flat.
Rupert’s face splits into a grin. “Oh, how wonderfully theatrical.”
“This is not theatre,” I say.
“It absolutely is,” he replies. “Second act. Same players. Higher stakes.”
“This is my livelihood,” I say, sharper than I mean to. The words come out edged with something I don’t usually let people hear. Fear, probably. Or the quiet knowledge of how close to the wire I’m running.
Rupert’s expression softens, just a touch. He nods once, like he’s noticed something important.
“It still feels like an audition,” I mutter.
“Of course it does,” he says. “You built something fragile and now someone with a platform is coming to look at it closely.”
Rupert turns back to the hob with a flourish and immediately winces.
“Oh.”
He peers into the pan, stirs once, twice, then sighs. “I have, in my enthusiasm, moved past caramelised and into charred philosophy.”
I lean over. The onions are beyond help. “They’re black.”
“They are,” he agrees. “I shall call it intentional depth.”
“You’ve been stirring them for ten minutes.”
“Yes, well. I was emotionally occupied.”
He tips them into the bin with a dramatic flick of the spoon and starts again with the patience of an angel.
“Glen’s coming over,” he says casually. “I thought I’ll play domestic god for my darling.”
“He’ll enjoy that.”
“And then we’re off to the pub. Darts championship. His friends are very invested.”
I snort. “I still don’t understand how the two of you work.”
Rupert smiles to himself. “Because love is broad minded.”
“Glen is a builder,” I say. “A proper northern lad. He once called risotto fancy rice.”
“He did,” Rupert agrees fondly. “And yet he brings me tea while I paint and listens to me talk about colour theory.”
“And his mates adore you.”
“They tolerate me,” Rupert corrects. “Which is the highest compliment.”
I watch him move around the kitchen, comfortable, unselfconscious. Glen’s world and Rupert’s couldn’t look more different, and yet they slot together effortlessly. No explaining. No apologising. Just acceptance on both sides.
Rupert glances at me. “So. This critic.”
I stiffen. “What about her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Why does that matter.”
He shrugs. “Conversation.” He grabs a massive pot of cream from the fridge and I really hope he is not planning to use the whole thing in whatever he is creating.
“And what does she look like?” he adds, innocently.
I frown. “Why are you asking.”
Rupert smiles, all polished calm. “Purely out of social interest.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve described the sauce in great detail. I’m merely curious about the human who offended it.”
I hesitate, then realise I’m being ridiculous. “Chloe,” I say. “Her name’s Chloe.”
“And?”
“And what does Chloe look like.”
I exhale through my nose. “She’s… confident.”
“That’s telling me nothing,” he says pleasantly.
I hesitate, then shrug. “She’s got curves.”
It comes out flat, like a neutral observation, which is exactly how I intend it. Rupert’s knife pauses anyway. Not stops. Just slows, like he’s clocked something interesting and is filing it away for later amusement.
“They suit her,” I add, because apparently my mouth hasn’t received the memo to shut up.
Rupert makes a soft, pleased noise but doesn’t look at me. He tips the garlic into the pan, the sizzle sharp and immediate, and the smell shifts from acrid to sweet. Salvageable. Just.
“She didn’t back down,” I say, watching the steam curl up. “Most people do. They either apologise or get louder. She did neither.”
“How terribly inconvenient,” Rupert murmurs.
“She stood there,” I continue, frowning at nothing in particular, “and argued back like she had all the time in the world. Like my temper was something she could simply wait out.”
Rupert stirs, slow and unhurried. “Ah.”
“That calm,” I add. “It’s infuriating.”
“And effective,” he says.
I take another swallow of beer. The image comes back without invitation. Her chin tipped up slightly. The way she’d held my gaze, green eyes steady, like she was timing me rather than reacting.
“She gave as good as she got,” I say instead. “Didn’t blink. Didn’t soften it. Just met me head on.”
Rupert turns the hob down and finally looks at me.
“You are describing a woman who refused to be intimidated,” he says mildly.
“I’m describing an argument.”
“And yet,” he replies, returning to his onions, “you sound invigorated.”
“I’m irritated.”
“You’re animated.” He smiles, entirely unconvinced. “And she sounds memorable,” he adds.
“She called my sauce—”
“I know, I know. But she got under your skin.”
Rupert turns back to the hob at last, as if remembering that food is the point. He adds mushrooms to the pan without ceremony, then pepper, the sharp smell cutting through the air. A splash of oil follows, then herbs pinched between his fingers and rubbed together out of habit.
The kitchen smells better almost immediately.
“So,” he says, carefully casual, “do you find her attractive?”
The question lands badly. Too direct. My first instinct is to swat it away, which is usually a sign I shouldn’t.
“That’s not relevant,” I say.
Except my head immediately fills with unhelpful detail. The way she held my gaze. The way she didn’t step back when I loomed. The fact that she stood there like she had nowhere else to be. None of which has anything to do with attraction. Obviously.
Rupert hums and keeps cooking, which somehow makes it worse.
“I noticed her,” I say instead. “That’s different.”
“It always is,” he replies mildly.
The doorbell rings. Rupert’s face lights up.
“That’ll be my darling.”
He goes to open the door and returns a moment later with Glen in tow. His jacket is dusted with the day’s work, his smile easy and familiar. Rupert kisses him without hesitation, the kind of greeting that says this is solid and settled and uncomplicated.
“All right, Tom,” Glen says.
“All right.”
Glen sets a carrier bag on the counter and peers into the pan. “Mushroom stew.”
“Your favourite,” Rupert winks.
They move around each other with practised ease, passing plates, bumping shoulders, comfortable in a way that’s impossible to fake. I watch it longer than I mean to, a faint, unexpected tightness settling in my chest.
Once we all sit around the small dining table, Rupert gestures expansively with his fork. “Tom has met someone.”
Glen looks up. “Oh?”
I exhale sharply. “What Rupert means is that I got a bad review in the Gazette and went to speak to the critic.”
Glen nods slowly. “That can be rough. People round here take that column as gospel.”
“Exactly,” I say, turning to Rupert. “Which is why this whole thing matters.”
Rupert chews thoughtfully, then swallows. “And yet.”
“And yet what?”
“She rattled you… in a very non work way,” he says mildly.
“No,” I snap.
I push my chair back. “I’m going to my room. I don’t need this interrogation.”
Rupert lifts his glass. “Classic avoidance tactic.”
Glen laughs, the sound easy and unbothered. “Textbook.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I head for the stairs, irritation fizzing under my skin, their giggling following me like an accusation.
In my room, I shut the door and lean against it, breathing out slowly.
Infuriating.
That’s all.
I’m forty-five years old and I still house share like a broke student, not because it’s charming but because it’s necessary. Because one bad year and one bad lawyer wiped out everything I’d built before. Because starting again doesn’t come with a safety net, just long hours and thinner margins.
This isn’t attraction or pride. It’s survival.
La Cucina di Rosa isn’t a hobby or a vanity project.
It’s my second chance. Every booking matters.
Every review matters. One careless sentence in a popular column doesn’t just bruise my ego, it threatens rent, wages, electricity bills, the quiet hope that this time I might actually keep what I’ve built.
So yes, of course she got under my skin.
But purely in a professional way.