“I wanted her to explain herself,” I say.
“You wanted blood.”
“I wanted fairness.”
He gives me a look that suggests those two things rarely arrive separately.
“I may have raised my voice,” I add, because pretending otherwise would be pointless. “Briefly.”
Rupert hums. “A passionate crescendo.”
“She deserved to hear it.”
“Undoubtedly,” he says. “Whether she deserved the volume is another matter.”
I grab a beer and lever the cap off with more force than necessary. The anger is still there, but now it’s tangled with something more irritating. The memory of her standing there, calm as anything, letting me burn myself out.
“She couldn’t even remember what she’d eaten,” I say. “One plate. That’s all.”
Saying it again brings the frustration back, sharp and immediate. One dish. One opinion. A whole reputation dragged along behind it.
Rupert’s stirring slows. “That is… unhelpful.”
“It’s insulting,” I say. And worse, it suggests the food didn’t land. I’d rather be furious than sit with that thought.
“Her editor stepped in,” I continue. “They’re printing a retraction.”
Rupert stops stirring.
Not gradually. Completely. Spoon suspended mid air, onions sizzling in quiet protest.
“A retraction,” he repeats, slowly, tasting the word. “That is no small thing.”
He turns the hob down with exaggerated care, then sets the spoon on the counter as if this development deserves his full attention. He wipes his hands on a tea towel thatwas never clean to begin with and leans back against the worktop, considering me.
“Well,” he says at last, “that suggests panic. Or conscience. Possibly both.”
“And they are giving me a full feature! She’ll be back next week to give my food another try.”
Saying it out loud makes my stomach tighten. A review you can argue with. A feature you either earn or you don’t. There’s nowhere to hide in a long piece. No single sauce to blame if the whole thing falls flat.
Rupert’s face splits into a grin. “Oh, how wonderfully theatrical.”
“This is not theatre,” I say.
“It absolutely is,” he replies. “Second act. Same players. Higher stakes.”
“This is my livelihood,” I say, sharper than I mean to. The words come out edged with something I don’t usually let people hear. Fear, probably. Or the quiet knowledge of how close to the wire I’m running.
Rupert’s expression softens, just a touch. He nods once, like he’s noticed something important.
“It still feels like an audition,” I mutter.
“Of course it does,” he says. “You built something fragile and now someone with a platform is coming to look at it closely.”
Rupert turns back to the hob with a flourish and immediately winces.
“Oh.”
