Chapter 8
Chloe
By the evening, the newsroom has the exhausted stillness of a place that has given up pretending it’s productive.
Most people have sensibly gone home. The lights feel too bright. My tea has cooled into something punitive. My article is finished and behaving itself, which feels like a minor miracle after the day I’ve had.
I stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary, then close the document before it can change its mind.
That should be it. Laptop shut. Bag packed. End of day.
Instead, I pick up the phone.
This is not emotional, I tell myself. This is logistical. A courtesy. Nothing more.
I dial the restaurant.
“La Cucina di Rosa,” a woman answers promptly. “Angela speaking.”
“Hi,” I say. “It’s Chloe. From the Gazette.”
“Oh hello,” she replies, already distracted. “Just a moment.”
The phone shifts. Sound spills through. Cutlery clinks. Someone laughs, loud and unselfconscious. A voice calls something in Italian, answered immediately in English. Underneath it all, the low, steady hum of a restaurant in full Friday evening swing.
Angela comes back on the line.
“Are you trying to reach Tom,” she asks, practical rather than curious.
“Yes,” I say. “If he’s free.”
She exhales. “He is not.”
Fair enough.
“It’s a bit mad here,” she continues. “He’s talking to customers and I wouldn’t interrupt unless something or someone was on fire or bleeding.”
“That’s completely fine,” I say quickly. “I can call back.”
There’s another burst of sound in the background.
“Honestly,” Angela says, brisk now, “you’re probably better off doing that later. It’s one of those nights.”
“All right,” I say. “Thanks.”
She hesitates for half a beat.
“Tell you what,” she adds. “I’ll give you his mobile number, just in case. He won’t answer now, but if you need to message him later it might save you ringing back.”
Just in case.
That phrase does a lot of work.
I pause. Briefly. Long enough to consider whether this is unnecessary. Long enough to acknowledge that refusing would be performative at best.
“Yes,” I say. “That would be helpful. Thank you.”
She reads the number out quickly, efficiently, the way people do when they are thinking about six other things at once. I write it down on a scrap of paper, my handwriting already showing signs of fatigue.
“There you go,” she says. “Anything else?”
“No,” I reply. “That’s all. I appreciate it.”
“Good evening,” she says before the line goes dead.
I sit there for a moment, staring at the number.
This is fine, I tell myself.
This is purely practical.
I open the messaging app.
I type.
Delete.
Type again.
Me
Hi. It’s Chloe. Angela gave me your number just in case. Hope that’s okay.
I stop. Re-read. Add nothing. Remove nothing.
Just letting you know the feature will be running this Sunday.
That’s it. Informational. Neutral. Entirely above board.
I hover over send.
This does not make you desperate, I think. This makes you organised. And tired.
I press send.
The message disappears.
I put the phone face-down on my desk like it might do something dramatic.
AJ looks up from his screen. “You look like you’ve just made a choice.”
“Work,” I say.
He nods solemnly. “Reckless business.”
I shut my laptop, sling my bag over my shoulder, and finally stand up.
Whatever happens next can wait.
I have done enough for one Friday.
Probably.
Hadrian’s vivarium needs cleaning.
He watches me approach with the suspicious stillness of a creature who believes he is flawless and that any interference is deeply offensive. I lift the lid, remove the water dish, and start the methodical business of tidying. Fresh substrate. Clean glass. Everything returned to its rightful place.
Halfway through, my phone buzzes.
I freeze.
Not because I’m startled. Because I was waiting for it.
I wipe my hands on a tea towel and pick it up.
Tom
Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it.
That’s it. No flourish. No unnecessary enthusiasm.
I stare at the message for a moment longer than necessary.
Me
You’re welcome. Thought it was better than a surprise over breakfast.
I put the phone down and return to the vivarium, determined not to hover.
It buzzes again.
Tom
I don’t read the paper at breakfast. I pretend I don’t care until at least ten.
Me
Very mature.
Tom
Years of practice.
I snort. Hadrian shifts an inch, clearly offended by the noise.
Me
How bad is service tonight?
Tom
Busy. Demanding. Opinions everywhere.
Me
That sounds like Carlisle.
Tom
That sounds like people.
I replace the water dish carefully, checking it’s level. Hadrian approves by not biting me.
Me
Angela said it was mad.
Tom
Angela is being polite. Someone asked if we could “tone down” the garlic.
Me
I assume you escorted them out.
Tom
I smiled and said no.
Me
Heroic restraint.
Tom
I’m growing as a person.
I pause, phone in hand.
Me
Good for you.
A beat.
Tom
That was a very tired reply.
I narrow my eyes at the screen.
Me
Excuse you.
Tom
Observation, not criticism.
Me
I dispute your methodology.
Tom
You typed three words and one of them sighed.
I laugh, short and surprised. I hadn’t realised how tightly wound I was until it slipped.
Me
Rude.
Tom
Accurate.
Hadrian climbs onto his rock and freezes, clearly invested.
I shake my head, phone warm in my hand, irritation and amusement tangling in a way I absolutely do not approve of.
Me
You’re arguing via text.
Tom
You started it.
Me
I absolutely did not.
I lean back against the sofa and exhale, the day finally catching up with me now that it’s slowing down.
Me
You still in the middle of service chaos or have you escaped for the night?
Tom
Escaped. Angie can close down. Time to relax for me. There’s a very specific silence after service that feels like survival rather than peace.
Me
That sounds earned.
Tom
It is. I’ve also eaten something that didn’t involve standing over a bin, which feels indulgent.
Me
High living.
Tom
I try to keep my standards low.
Me
So what does a chef do when he’s not cooking or negotiating with customers about garlic levels?
Tom
I go home and let my housemate remind me that the world does not, in fact, revolve around my kitchen.
Me
Housemate?
Tom
Yes. Rupert.
Me
Of course he’s called Rupert.
Tom
I know. It sounds like I made him up, but he’s real and deeply committed to that name.
Me
I need more information.
Tom
He’s an artist. Properly talented, slightly dramatic, and incapable of making tea without it becoming a statement about the state of the world.
Me
That sounds exhausting.
Tom
It can be. It’s also oddly grounding. He’s very good at calling me out when I disappear too far into my own head.
Me
That’s quite specific.
Tom
Everything about him is. He once spent ten minutes explaining why a particular shade of grey was emotionally dishonest.
Me
Was it?
Tom
I didn’t challenge it. I’d already lost the will to debate colour ethics.
Me
I’m with him on the grey, but I think you handled it sensibly. There’s only so much energy worth spending on colour ethics.
Tom
He’s good company, though. Very observant. Notices when I’m running myself into the ground and calls it out without making a song and dance about it.
Me
That sounds useful.
Tom
It is. Annoying at times, but useful. He keeps the flat human.
Me
I get that. A human flat is nice. I just like my solitude.
Tom
Luckily, Rupert’s out a lot, so I still get my quiet. It’s essential when you work in a place where everything is either urgent or on fire.
Me
Or being asked to be less garlicky.
Tom
I’m still recovering.
Me
May the gods of herbs and spices grant you strength.
Tom
LOL. Much appreciated.
I pull the throw from the back of the sofa, wrap it around my legs, and reach for my phone again.
Tom
What about you? What does your evening look like now that the article’s no longer staring at you.
Me
Tidying. Slowly. With purpose.
Tom
That sounds like someone decompressing.
Me
It’s either that or reorganise my spice rack alphabetically again.
Tom
I won’t judge. I alphabetise invoices for fun.
Me
That feels like a cry for help.
Tom
Or a coping strategy.
Me
Fair.
I shift my weight, phone warm in my hand, the flat quieter than it was an hour ago.
Me
This has turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant.
Tom
It has.
Me
We should probably argue again at some point to keep expectations realistic.
Tom
In a minute. Let’s not rush back into our brand.
Me
Agreed.
I settle deeper into the sofa and reread the last message before typing another one. This is easier than it has any right to be.
Me
Since you’ve mentioned Rupert, I feel entitled to ask. Does Rupert have a girlfriend?
Tom
He would be flattered by the question.
Me
That’s not an answer.
Tom
It depends. Are you asking out of curiosity or are you quietly scouting the local talent?
Me
I’m simply keeping my options open. It would be negligent not to.
Tom
A very responsible position.
Me
Exactly.
Tom
In that case, I should probably say that you’re not Rupert’s type.
I stiffen, irritation flaring quicker than I’d like.
Me
Right.
Tom
Trust me.
Me
Let me guess. Is it my feistiness or is it my curves.
Because historically it’s one of those two. Occasionally a thrilling combination of both.
There’s a beat. Long enough that I can feel my jaw set even though I’m alone in my kitchen.
Me
And whichever one it is, sod you. I’m allowed to be opinionated and I’m allowed to take up space.
I stare at the screen, already annoyed with myself for how fast I’ve gone there, but also very aware of how often I’ve had to.
Tom
No. Stop. That is not what I meant and I’m sorry I landed you there.
And I should have been clearer instead of assuming context would do the work for me.
Me
Context rarely does.
Tom
Agreed.
You’re not Rupert’s type because Rupert is gay. Very confidently so.
I blink.
Me
Oh.
Tom
Yes. That oh.
Me
You really should have led with that.
Tom
I know. I panicked and chose the worst possible sentence structure.
Me
Impressive commitment to chaos.
Tom
It’s a skill. Rupert’s actually been with his boyfriend for years. A burly builder called Glen who looks like he could lift Rupert and most of his feelings in one go.
Me
A builder and an artist. That sounds like opposites attracting in real time.
Tom
It is. Glen is practical and calm. Rupert is all feelings and opinions. They keep each other balanced. Glen reminds Rupert to eat. Rupert reminds Glen that having feelings isn’t a personal failure.
Me
I like that.
Tom
So do I. It makes the house feel like a place people actually live in, not just sleep between workdays.
I read his reply, then the next one, and realise I’ve stopped bracing for impact.
Me
You sound oddly fond.
Tom
I am. They’re good together. It’s reassuring to see something work without fireworks or drama.
Me
Low bar romance. My favourite kind.
Tom
Same. I’ve grown to appreciate things that just… fit.
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again.
Tom
And for what it’s worth, Rupert’s very particular about aesthetics.
Me
I’m bracing myself.
Tom
He appreciates strong lines and confidence. Says curves make a statement. In a good way.
I inhale slowly, annoyed at how easily that lands.
Me
That sounds suspiciously like you borrowing his vocabulary.
Tom
Possibly. Or possibly I just agree with him.
Me
Careful.
Tom
I am being careful. Subtle, even.
Me
Debatable.
Tom
Fair. But I stand by it.
I glance down at my phone, aware of the warmth creeping up my neck and choosing not to pretend it’s nothing.
Me
You’re flirting.
Tom
I am aware. Which is probably against our agreement to not repeat the… “kitchen”.
Me
Probably.
There’s a pause where I stare at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering like it’s waiting for permission.
Me
I should probably tell you to stop.
Tom
You could.
Me
I’m considering it.
Tom
You’re taking your time.
Me
I am.
I exhale slowly.
Me
For what it’s worth, thank you. For the compliment. Even if it was very much outside the agreed terms.
Tom
You’re welcome. And noted.
Me
We should behave.
Tom
We should.
Me
This is where sensible adults end the conversation.
Tom
It is.
I stare at the screen.
The typing dots vanish. Nothing happens.
I lock the phone, then unlock it again.
Tom
I should also confess that I’ve never been particularly good with rules.
Me
That doesn’t surprise me.
Tom
Sometimes I like to test them. Carefully. Subtly, even.
A small sound escapes me, halfway between a laugh and a surrender.
Me
Good night, Tom.
Tom
Good night, Chloe.
I put the phone down, heart doing something entirely unnecessary, and tell myself this was fine.
Just a small bend in the rules.
Nothing more.
For now.