Chapter 16
Tom
I’m doing everything properly.
Knife where it should be. Board clean. Heat controlled. The kitchen smells right, which usually settles me. Usually, if my hands are busy, my head follows.
Today it doesn’t.
My thoughts keep drifting back to Chloe. To the way she left this morning, quick and careful, like someone tucking something precious out of sight. To the final thanks. And the realisation that hit me once she had disappeared, that I never asked her why we can’t be… more.
I’m reducing heat under the Bolognese sauce when my phone vibrates against the counter.
I sigh, wipe my hands on a towel, and glance at the screen.
Chloe
Can we talk?
That’s it. No emoji. No softening. No full stop either, which somehow makes it worse.
My heart starts beating faster. Talk can mean anything. But it does sound suspiciously like this could be good news.
I step away from the cooker, asking Angela to keep an eye on the sauce, and take the phone with me into the back corridor, where it’s quieter and I can pretend I’m not suddenly bracing myself.
For half a second, something hopeful flickers. Ridiculous and unwelcome. The thought that maybe she’s changed her mind. That maybe she wants to try this after all.
I squash it immediately. Hope is a dangerous ingredient. Too much and everything curdles.
I call her.
It rings twice before she picks up.
“Hi,” she says.
Her voice sounds different. Tight. Controlled.
Whatever this is, it isn’t what I briefly, stupidly imagined.
“Hi,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “What’s wrong?”
There’s a pause on the line. A breath.
And in that silence, I know this call is going to change something. I just don’t yet know whether it’s going to break or sharpen what we have.
She starts carefully.
Too carefully.
“I’m at work,” she says. “Or I was. I’ve just come out of a meeting. And I want you to know that I’m about to say some things that are not… polite.”
My stomach tightens. “Okay.”
Another breath. Longer this time.
“The Cumbria Times are running a piece about us,” she says. “About you. About me. About the feature article. About how I am apparently a morally compromised harpy who can’t tell journalism from erotica.”
There it is.
My jaw clenches. “What?”
“They’ve got a photo,” she continues, the words speeding up now, control slipping. “Of us in the car. Kissing. Very PG. Very normal. But that doesn’t matter because context is optional if you’re a misogynist with a byline.”
I close my eyes.
“They followed me,” she says. “Actually followed me. From my flat. To your house. Camped outside like we are the new Brangelina. Then followed us back this morning. It’s unhinged.”
“That’s harassment,” I say flatly.
“Yes,” she snaps. “But apparently it’s also journalism now.”
She doesn’t pause anymore. It all comes out in one rush, sharp and furious and edged with something that sounds dangerously like hurt.
“They’re calling the feature about your restaurant bullshit. Saying I rewrote history because I fancied you. That I mistook ‘serious reporting’ for ‘steamy smut’. That the Gazette is some sort of cosy little corruption machine and I’m the idiot who exposed it by not keeping my legs crossed.”
My hand tightens around the phone.
“And my editor,” she goes on, voice cracking, “is under pressure from the owner. They want me to apologise. Publicly. Pull my column for a month. Have every future piece vetted. Chaperoned. Like I’m sixteen and can’t be trusted near cutlery.”
“That’s bollocks,” I mutter.
“And if I don’t,” she says quietly now, the anger giving way to something colder, “I’m out. Fired. That’s it.”
There’s a beat.
Then, bitterly, “So congratulations. You are officially the most expensive date I’ve ever had.”
“That’s not funny,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “I’m spiralling.”
I lean against the wall, the busy dinner service suddenly very far away. “Chloe. You did nothing wrong.”
“I know that,” she says. “Intellectually. Emotionally I would like to crawl under my desk and set fire to the concept of hope.”
I picture her, jaw tight, eyes bright with unshed tears she will absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
She exhales hard down the line, the sound sharp.
“And before you say it,” she adds, voice brittle now, “yes, I know this isn’t your fault. Intellectually. But practically? You come out of this fine.”
I don’t interrupt.
“You get sympathy,” she goes on. “You probably get bookings. People will be patting you on the back for being the poor man caught in the crossfire. Trust me, I’ve read the article.
He calls you a fortunate beneficiary. And I get dragged like I’m some sort of cautionary tale about women who can’t keep it together. ”
That one lands.
I feel it in my gut, a flinch I don’t quite manage to hide even though she can’t see me.
“You’re right,” I say slowly.
She laughs, sharp and ugly. “Oh, don’t. Don’t do the noble thing.”
“I’m not,” I reply. “I’m just… not going to pretend the system isn’t skewed.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then a quieter, more dangerous tone.
“You benefit,” she says. “Even if you didn’t ask for it. Even if you didn’t mean to. And I hate that I’m the one paying for something that we both chose.”
I close my eyes.
“I hate that too,” I say. “And I don’t like that my name gets to stay clean while yours gets picked apart.”
She doesn’t soften at that. Good. She shouldn’t.
“And the worst bit,” she says, voice cracking despite herself, “is that they’ve made me doubt myself. Just a little. Like maybe I should have known better. Maybe I should have stayed colder. Smaller. Less human.”
Something in my chest tightens painfully.
“You being human is not the mistake,” I say, quietly but firmly. “The mistake is a world that punishes you for it.”
She snorts. “You’re dangerously reasonable.”
“I’m trying to be honest,” I say. “I don’t want to apologise my way out of this or pretend I can fix it. I can’t. But I can sit in the uncomfortable bit with you.”
There’s a pause. A long one.
“Fuck,” she mutters. “I really want to be furious with you.”
“I know,” I say. “I’d understand if you were.”
“I am,” she admits. “A bit. And that makes me feel like a terrible person.”
“It makes you someone who’s been hurt,” I say. “By something bigger than both of us.”
She goes quiet then. Not the controlled quiet from earlier. A tired one.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she says finally.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” I reply. “And I won’t push you either way. But whatever you choose… you don’t have to pretend this didn’t matter.”
Her breath catches, just slightly.
“That’s the problem,” she says softly. “It did.”
And in the silence that follows, I know this is the moment where things could fracture.
Or deepen.
And neither of us gets to control which one it will be.
“I should go,” she says eventually. “I need to think. And possibly stare at a wall.”
“Call me,” I say. “If you need anything. Anything at all.”
Another breath. Softer now.
“I will,” she says, and I don’t know if she means it.
Before she hangs up, I add, carefully, because this feels like the sort of thing that only gets one chance, “And Chloe… when you’re sharp with me, or angry, or pushing me away, that doesn’t hurt because you’re being unkind.”
She’s silent.
“It hurts,” I continue, quietly, “because it tells me how alone you feel right now. And I wish you weren’t carrying that on your own.”
For a second, I think I’ve gone too far.
Then she swallows. I can hear it.
“Right,” she says, her voice steadier than I expected. “Well. That’s horribly perceptive.”
“I have my moments.”
She lets out a small, tired huff of laughter. “Thank you. For… not being awful.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
“Me too,” she replies.
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, the distant kitchen noises drifting back into focus. Something inside me aches in a way that has nothing to do with rejection and everything to do with recognition.
Then I put the phone down, go back to the cooker, and stir the shit out of the sauce.
Because right now, this feels like the only outlet for my anger.
I barrel into our shared kitchen still half-dressed, already late, already irritated, and walk straight into Rupert kissing Glen like early morning kisses are a breakfast option.
“Good Lord,” Rupert says mildly, not breaking contact. “Do give a man some warning.”
Glen grins at me, entirely unapologetic, and gestures with his chin towards the counter. “Brought you the Times.”
I follow the gesture.
The paper is open. Flattened. Waiting.
My stomach drops.
I cross the kitchen in three strides and pick it up.
I read the headline.
Something in my chest goes cold.
By the second paragraph my jaw locks so hard my teeth ache. By the third I’m shaking, actual heat flooding my arms and neck in a way I haven’t felt in years. I have to consciously stop myself from tearing the page in half.
“Oh,” I say, very quietly. “That fucking wanker.”
Rupert finally disengages, wanders over, peers at the article over my shoulder.
“Well,” he says after a moment. “That’s a load of horse manure.”
“They followed her,” I snap. “They fucking followed her. And they’ve turned her into some sort of moral lesson with a lipstick problem.”
Glen winces. “That’s bollocks.”
“I’m Mr Philips in the article, but she’s just Chloe.
As if I’m someone important and she isn’t worth the title.
” I go on, rage building now that it’s got somewhere to go.
“They imply she can’t tell the difference between reporting and romance writing.
They frame her like she tripped and fell into my bed because she can’t help herself. ”
Rupert’s expression hardens in a way that means business. “Ah. Yes. Classic.”
I slam the paper down on the counter. “And I get to be the charming idiot who benefited without meaning to. The harmless man. The lucky chef.”
“Of course you do,” Rupert says coolly. “Penis privilege is terribly resilient.”
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing now. “They’re going to ruin her. Professionally. Reputationally. They’ve already got her editor panicking.”
Rupert folds his arms. “Right. Then we’re not panicking. Panicking is for amateurs.”
I stop pacing and look at him.
He straightens his hoody, all clipped vowels and calm authority. “Chloe is being sacrificed because it’s easier than fighting back. Which is appalling. And predictable.”
“They want her to apologise,” I say. “Publicly.”
Rupert’s lip curls. “Over my dead body.”
Glen raises an eyebrow. “That escalated.”
“I am deadly serious,” Rupert continues. “This is the sort of thing that makes my mother write letters.”
The knot in my stomach I had been ignoring finally loosens.
“I want to call Chloe,” I say. “But I don’t want to make this worse. I don’t want to turn into another man deciding what’s best for her.”
Rupert nods. “Good instinct. Don’t bulldoze. Stand beside.”
I pick up my phone, then hesitate.
“She already feels like she’s alone,” I say quietly. “Like the world’s closing ranks.”
Rupert’s voice softens. “Then you make sure she knows it hasn’t.”
I look down at the paper again. At her name. Twisted. Reduced.
Something settles in me. Cold. Determined.
“I’m not letting this stand,” I say. “Even if all I can do is be loud and inconvenient.”
Rupert claps his hands excitedly. “Oh good. I do loud very well. I can help.”
I take a breath, steadying myself.
Because whatever happens next, she does not face this on her own.