Chapter 10
Tom
“Read it,” Rupert says, lifting his mug. “Trust me. You won’t regret it.”
I eye the paper on the counter. I’ve been orbiting it all morning, pretending it isn’t there.
Rupert grins. “I’m going to wake Glen with a little oral action.”
“I don’t need to know that,” I say.
“You do,” he replies cheerfully, already halfway to the stairs. “It’s part of the household ecosystem.”
I ignore him. As always.
The paper waits.
I sit down. I open it. I brace, out of habit more than expectation.
And then I don’t need to.
It isn’t flashy or defensive. It isn’t written to soothe egos or make amends loudly. It’s careful. Thoughtful. Fair in a way that feels almost personal.
She owns the earlier review without drama. No grovelling, no posturing. Just a calm acknowledgement that she rushed something that required time. That the fault wasn’t the kitchen. It was the pace.
That lands harder than praise ever could.
Then she writes about Nonna.
Not as a hook. Not as branding. As a presence. A kitchen. A woman who mattered.
I have to stop reading for a moment and breathe.
She’s paid attention. Not just to the food, but to what sits underneath it. The care. The restraint. The reason things are done the way they are.
When I finish, I fold the paper carefully and sit there, tea untouched, feeling oddly exposed and oddly steady all at once.
I pick up my phone.
Me
I’ve just read it.
It takes a few minutes before she replies.
Chloe
Congratulations.
I blink. Not quite what I had expected.
Me
That sounds… hostile.
Chloe
It’s Sunday.
Me
Right. You’re grumpy.
Chloe
I am not grumpy.
Me
You didn’t ask what I thought.
Chloe
I assumed you liked it. Otherwise you’d be composing a very polite but emotionally devastating message.
I’m overthinking my answer to this way too much, but eventually decide to keep it simple.
Me
I loved it.
Chloe
…
Me
That ellipsis feels pointed.
Chloe
I put a lot of work into it.
Me
I could tell. You were fair. And generous. And you didn’t have to be.
Chloe
Flatterer.
Me
I’m serious.
Chloe
You’re being suspiciously sincere.
Me
I’m allowed. Occasionally.
Chloe
Disturbing.
Me
You’re deflecting.
Chloe
I’m busy.
Me
Doing what.
Chloe
Being a Peri Peri chicken.
I stare at the message for a second longer than necessary. Read it again. Being a Peri Peri chicken. Right. That’s either a metaphor I’m not invited into yet or the start of something I’m about to regret engaging with.
Me
I’m going to need clarification.
Chloe
No you’re not.
Me
I really am.
Chloe
It means I’m spicy, irritated, and not to be handled without warning.
Me
That sounds like a public safety issue.
Chloe
Men have no clue.
Me
We try.
Chloe
Poorly.
Me
I feel like I’ve arrived halfway through something.
Chloe
I am on my period. I am in pain. I am grumpy. I am not meant for public consumption today.
I stare at the message as soon as it sends, heat creeping up my neck on her behalf.
That explains the ellipses. The sharp edges. The sudden retreat into humour like it’s armour.
I call her before this turns into a thread of increasingly baffling messages.
“What,” she barks.
“I just wanted to check,” I say, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice, “whether Peri Peri chicken comes with a warning label or if this is more of a verbal advisory situation.”
“Oh god,” she groans. “Why did you call?”
“Because that last message deserved a human voice.”
“I overshared.”
“A bit.”
“I am embarrassed.”
“I’m not alarmed,” I say, gently now. “If that helps.”
“I liked that you liked the article,” she rushes out.
“And I shouldn’t have said any of that. This is why I don’t talk to people when I’m hormonal.
Perimenopause is real, turning a normal period into a life event and nobody needs to hear about this.
Argh, and now I am oversharing again. Forget my number! It’s safer.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a full minute after the call ends.
Forget my number. It’s safer.
That lands somewhere between brutally direct and disarming. Mostly disarming.
I don’t text immediately. That feels wrong. Like crowding someone who has very clearly retreated under a duvet made of dignity and hormones.
I make another cuppa. I stand at the window. I consider Rupert’s inevitable commentary and reject it.
Then, carefully, I type.
Me
For what it’s worth, I don’t mind your oversharing. It makes you human.
I watch the message send and immediately regret the word human. What else is she going to be? Too late now.
Nothing.
Two minutes pass. Then three.
I try again.
Me
Also, if you don’t feel like cooking later and want some proper food, I’m happy to send something over. No expectations. You’d just need to tell me where “over” is.
I put the phone down and tell myself that’s enough.
It buzzes a few minutes later.
Chloe
I cannot believe I’m saying this.
But I would like to formally apologise for my entire personality over the last twenty minutes.
Peri-menopause is turning me into a walking public service announcement and I am deeply sorry you were within virtual range.
Food would be… very welcome.
There’s a pause. Then:
This does not mean anything. It just means I am hungry and weak.
Then, finally:
1 Attwood Crescent
Flat 3B
CA20FF
I don’t overplay it. I don’t tease. I don’t comment on the address beyond what matters.
Me
Apology accepted. Entire personality included.
And hunger is a perfectly valid reason for most decisions.
Chloe
That feels like a dangerous philosophy.
Me
I’m a chef. It’s practically doctrine.
Chloe
What are you sending?
Me
Something comforting. Nothing spicy. I’m not a monster.
Chloe
Good. Given my ongoing status as a peri-peri chicken, additional heat is a bad idea.
Me
Noted. Food will arrive quietly and without judgement.
I take a minute to acknowledge that I have agreed to cook for a woman who told me to forget her number ten minutes ago and then immediately gave me her address. This feels significant. Or stupid.
Then I grab my keys before I can analyse it into paralysis.
The shop is quiet in that Sunday morning way, shelves half-restocked, the air smelling faintly of floor cleaner and resignation. I move on autopilot, picking things up without thinking too hard about why my basket is getting heavy.
Back home, I put music on low and get to work.
This isn’t work-work. There’s no ticket rail. No timer barking at me. No one asking whether I can make something without onions because they read somewhere onions are aggressive.
This is muscle memory. Hands moving. Heat controlled. Time allowed to do what it needs to do.
I lose myself in it so much so, I don’t notice Rupert until he leans against the doorway.
“That,” he says mildly, “is a lot of food.”
I glance up. “Hello to you too.”
Glen appears behind him, half-awake, wearing the silk bathrobe Rupert gave him for Christmas and blinking at the kitchen like it’s a documentary. “Are we hosting a party?”
“No,” Rupert says. “Tom is cooking with intent.”
I keep my eyes on what I’m doing. “Go away.”
Rupert doesn’t.
“Are we feeding the street,” he asks, “or have you finally accepted that you enjoy domesticity.”
“It’s for Chloe,” I say, because there’s no point pretending otherwise.
Glen’s eyebrows go up. Rupert’s mouth curves.
“Ah,” Rupert says. “Chloe.”
“Yes.”
“The woman you absolutely do not like,” Rupert continues, innocent as anything.
I stop what I’m doing and look at him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You heavily implied it,” Rupert replies. “Several times. With words. And tone.”
“I said it was complicated.”
“That’s what people say when they like someone and don’t want to examine it.”
I turn back to the counter. “I am making food. She is unwell. This is a normal human response.”
“You’re making a lot of food,” Rupert says.
Glen shifts, finally fully awake now. “Leave him alone.”
Rupert looks affronted. “I’m observing.”
“You’re poking,” Glen corrects. He looks at me. “It’s okay.”
I pause.
“Is it?” I ask.
Glen nods. “You’re allowed to do nice things for people without turning it into a personality flaw.”
Rupert sighs theatrically. “I hate it when he’s right.”
“I know,” Glen says, kissing his temple. “You’ll survive.”
They drift off, Rupert still muttering something about emotional repression and casseroles.
I turn back to the stove.
Maybe this means nothing.
Maybe it’s just food.
But as I pack things up carefully, deliberately, making sure everything will travel properly, I have the distinct sense that I’m doing this for more than practical reasons.
And I don’t stop myself.
Not today.