Chapter 18
Tom
Iam standing in the foyer of Radio Carlisle wondering at what point my life took a sharp turn into other people making decisions on my behalf.
“Relax,” Rupert says brightly, adjusting his scarf like this is a casual brunch and not a local radio station with opinions. “It’s radio. They can’t see you panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” I say.
“You’ve rearranged that leaflet stand three times,” he replies. “And you’re gripping your phone like it might attempt escape.”
I loosen my grip. Marginally.
This was Rupert’s doing. A friend of a friend who works at Radio Carlisle, a presenter who likes food and mild controversy. Rupert had said it like it was nothing. A chat. A bit of balance. A chance to be reasonable.
I do not feel reasonable.
“I run a restaurant,” I mutter. “I am not meant to be on air talking about ethics and newspapers.”
“You are meant to talk about food,” Rupert says soothingly. “And about being a decent human being. Both of which you manage daily.”
“That is in a controlled environment,” I say. “With knives.”
He pats my arm. “You’ll be marvellous. Calm. Measured. Earnest in a way people find reassuring.”
“I am not earnest.”
Rupert gives me a look. “Thomas.”
I sigh.
“What if I say the wrong thing,” I ask. “What if I make it worse.”
“You won’t,” he says. “Because you’re not going in there to defend yourself. You’re going in there to tell the truth. And the truth, conveniently, is on your side.”
A young woman appears, clipboard in hand. “Tom Philips?”
I nod, heart doing something unnecessary.
“I’m Daisy, the producer. You are on in two minutes,” she says cheerfully. “I’ll take you through in a moment.”
She disappears again.
I turn to Rupert. “I don’t want this to hurt her.”
Rupert’s expression softens. “Then don’t make it about you. Make it about fairness. About how this actually works. About how ridiculous it is to pretend food exists without people.”
I take a breath. Then another.
“I don’t like this,” I say.
“No,” Rupert agrees. “But sometimes the right thing isn’t comfortable. It’s just… required.”
The studio door opens.
“Ready,” Daisy calls.
I straighten my shoulders, because apparently this is happening.
Rupert gives me a grin. “Go on. Be calm. Be kind. Be very boring.”
I snort despite myself.
As I step towards the studio, one thought cuts through the nerves.
This isn’t about publicity.
This is about not letting her stand alone.
And that, at least, I can do.
The studio is smaller than I expected. Cosier. Less dramatic. Which is either reassuring or deeply misleading.
I sit opposite the presenter, a woman with kind eyes and the sort of voice that could talk you through a power cut without making it sound like the end of days. A red light blinks on. Headphones settle over my ears.
“Tom Philips,” she says warmly. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Thank you for having me,” I reply, hoping my voice sounds steadier than my pulse feels.
“We’re talking food today,” she says. “And a little bit about… context.”
A careful choice of word.
“Before we get into that,” she continues, “tell us about La Cucina di Rosa. For listeners who haven’t been yet.”
I breathe out. This part I know.
“It’s a neighbourhood restaurant,” I say. “Italian-inspired, but honest about what it is. It’s about care. About doing small things properly, consistently. My Nonna believed food should taste like effort.”
She smiles. “And the name.”
“Rosa was my grandmother,” I say. “Italian. Very opinionated. She had no patience for shortcuts.”
A soft laugh from the producer’s booth. Good. Human.
“And now,” the presenter says gently, “your restaurant has found itself in the middle of a rather loud conversation.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say.
She nods. “Listeners will have read the editorial published this morning in the Carlisle Gazette. And it came as a bit of a surprise given that most expected an apology from the newspaper.”
I feel a small, fierce flicker of pride for Chloe.
“Yes,” I say. “I read it.”
“And the paper has chosen to stand by their journalist.”
“They have,” I reply. “Which matters.”
“How did you feel reading it.”
I don’t answer straight away.
“Relieved,” I say finally. “And grateful. Not because it defends me, but because it explains the work. Calmly. Precisely.”
She leans forward slightly. “There’s been an accusation that personal feeling and professionalism can’t coexist. What’s your take?”
I suck in a breath before answering, because this is the bit where people usually reach for something neat and polished, and I don’t want to.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that a lot of men have been taught to believe professionalism means pretending you don’t feel anything at all.”
She tilts her head, inviting me on.
“I’ve done it myself,” I admit. “Especially earlier in my career. You learn to talk about food, work, success, even people, as if none of it touches you. As if caring too much somehow makes you sloppy.”
“That’s quite an admission,” she says gently.
“It should be,” I reply. “Because it’s nonsense.”
I shift slightly in my chair, aware now of the quiet in the studio.
“The truth is, I’ve always relied on feeling,” I continue. “I just didn’t call it that. I called it instinct. Taste. Experience. Gut. Those words sound more respectable when men use them.”
She nods, very still.
“When Chl—Ms Ingram writes with warmth,” I say, “it gets labelled emotion. When men do the same thing, it gets called insightful. That’s not accidental. That’s habit.”
The presenter studies me for a moment. “You sound… affected by this.”
I huff a small, humourless laugh. “I am.”
She smiles, not unkindly. “Some might say that proves the point. That emotion is clouding your judgement.”
I meet her gaze through the glass.
“If emotion disqualifies you,” I say, “then the Cumbria Times might want to explain why outrage, moral panic, and a man hiding outside someone’s home with a camera don’t count as emotions too.”
There’s a brief, delicious pause.
She clears her throat. “That’s… a fair question.”
“I’m not saying journalists shouldn’t be questioned,” I add. “They should. But questioning the work means engaging with the work. Not the gender of the person who wrote it. Not their personal life. And certainly not pretending that caring is some kind of ethical failure.”
She nods again. “So, you’d say Chloe calling this out was necessary?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “And overdue.”
The red light flickers, then steadies.
“And if the Times were listening now,” she asks, “what would you say to them?”
I don’t smile.
“I’d say that if your argument depends on pretending one person’s emotions are dangerous while your own behaviour is neutral,” I say, “it might be time to look a little harder at who you are.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward.
It’s thoughtful.
She glances down at her notes, then back up at me.
“Before we wrap up,” she says, carefully neutral, “is there anything you’d like to say to Chloe. Or perhaps an apology.”
The question lands softly and heavily at the same time.
I don’t answer straight away.
“No,” I say finally. “Not here.”
She waits.
“What I have to say to Chloe,” I continue, “isn’t for radio. Or for Carlisle. It’s for her. And I’ll tell her myself.”
There’s a small, respectful pause.
“But,” I add, “there are people I do want to say something to.”
She nods. “Go on.”
“My staff,” I say, without hesitation. “Because they don’t deserve even a second of doubt about what they do. They show up every day and cook their souls out. They are brilliant. And none of this has anything to do with their work.”
I swallow, surprised by the thickness in my throat.
“And our regulars,” I go on. “For the extra footfall. The queues. The noise. They’ve been patient and kind and very understanding.”
She smiles.
“And our guests,” I finish. “For the added drama. We didn’t put it on the menu.”
A soft laugh from the studio.
“This will calm down,” I say. “It always does. And then we’ll go back to what we do best. Steady, good food. A warm room. A place people feel welcome.”
She lets that sit for a moment.
“And nothing for Chloe,” she asks gently, once more.
I shake my head.
“No,” I say. “I respect her too much for that.”
There’s something in my voice now that I don’t bother smoothing out.
“What I owe her,” I add, “is privacy. And honesty. And saying things to her face, not through a microphone.”
The presenter inclines her head. “That’s very clear.”
The red light clicks off.
“And that,” she says, “is all we have time for.”
I take the headphones off, heart still racing, but calmer now.
Some things, I realise, don’t need to be broadcast to be heard.