Chapter 1
Chloe
The pressroom smells likeburnt coffee and panic, which feels about right for a Monday morning. Chairs scrape, laptops open, and someone is already sighing like they’ve been personally wronged by the concept of a week ahead. I sit halfway down the meeting room table with my notebook open and my pen uncapped, pretending I am calm, professional, and not quietly wondering whether I left the heat lamp on for Hadrian.
Marie-Louise clears her throat and every conversation dies. Editor of the Carlisle Gazette or not, that kind of authority feels wildly incompatible with a name like Marie-Louise Buckett, which sounds built for a manor house with chandeliers, not caffeine-fuelled chaos. She has the posture of a woman who has already had this meeting three times in her head and none of us came out well.
“Right,” she says, tapping her pen once. “Week ahead.”
There is a low murmur as people lean forward. News is listed, sports argue about column inches, features ask for photos that do not exist yet. I make notes, nod in the right places, sip coffee that tastes faintly of regret.
Then Marie-Louise looks at me.
“Chloe.”
That one word does a lot of heavy lifting. I look up, polite smile in place.
“Yes?”
“We need to talk about your column.”
Ah. That sentence never leads anywhere fun.
She folds her hands. “Mr Bragg has been reviewing engagement figures.”
Of course he has. My column,The Last Bite, never fails to get him twitchy about numbers.
“He’s very pleased,” she continues. “Your readership is strong. Letters are up. Online comments are lively. Restaurants are still advertising, despite pretending they don’t care what you think.”
“That is my favourite genre of pretending,” I say.
A few people snort. Marie-Louise does not. She never does. She allows humour to exist in the room the way one allows a draft. Briefly.
“As a result,” she says, “he wants more.”
“More?” I repeat.
“Your column will now run three times a week.”
The pressroom goes quiet in that way that suggests people are already doing the maths on my behalf. Three times a week is a lot of meals. A lot of driving. A lot of pretending to be delighted by a jus.
I nod slowly. “All right.”
“And,” she adds, because of course there is an and, “each column needs to cover at least three restaurants.”
My pen pauses mid-word.
“Three?” I say.
“Yes.”
“Each?”
“Yes.”
I stare at her. “That’s nine restaurants a week.”
She meets my gaze. “It is.”
