“Carlisle is not that big,” I say, very calmly. “Nor is the county, if we’re being honest. At some point I will be reviewing the same place twice in a fortnight and pretending not to notice the wallpaper.”
“You’ll travel,” she says. “The Lake District is on our doorstep. New openings. Revamps. Pop ups.”
“I already travel,” I say. “I practically live in my car. My satnav knows my soul.”
Marie-Louise’s mouth twitches, which is the closest she comes to sympathy. “Mr Bragg believes the demand is there.”
“I am one person,” I say. “With one stomach.”
I know it lives in a plus size body, but I like it there. I eat sensibly, most of the time, I know when to stop, and I trust my taste more than my appetite. The rest is genetics. The women in my family are built generously, with curves that arrive early and refuse to leave, and frankly I consider that excellent news. If anyone feels the urge to have an opinion, they’re welcome to admire quietly and move on.
“You’re not exactly polishing off three courses,” Marie-Louise says. “You never do.”
I sigh. “Fine.” I know when I’m beaten. The little vein ticking above Marie-Louise’s eyebrow tells me this is not a battle I can win.
“Good,” she says, and moves on like she hasn’t just rearranged my entire life.
The meeting rolls on around me. I write, listen, calculate how many evenings this new schedule will steal and howmany mornings will start with a croissant eaten in the car. I think about my calendar, my fridge, and whether this is finally the year I accept that elasticated waistbands are a gift, not a failure.
When it ends, chairs scrape again and everyone scatters. As I stand, Marie-Louise catches my arm.
“One more thing.”
There it is.
“Yes?”
“Mr Bragg would like you to focus on quality. Not just coverage.”
Mr Bragg.The name lands with the same dull thud it always does. Ever since he swept in with his logistics money and his opinions, the Carlisle Gazette has been treated like a misbehaving subsidiary rather than a newsroom.
“I always do,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “But he’s particularly keen on the new independents.”
“So am I,” I say. “When they’re good.”
She studies me for a beat. “And when they’re not?”
“Then I say so,” I reply. “Politely.”
She nods. “Try to keep it constructive.”
“I always do,” I repeat. This time, she looks like she almost believes me.
I head back to my desk. Three columns. Nine restaurants. A lot of miles, a lot of opinions, and far fewer quiet evenings at home with Hadrian. I open my diary, stare at the blank spaces, and tell myself this is fine. Busy is manageable. Busy is familiar.
The drive back from Penrith is becoming routine, which tells me two things: one, I’ve been spending far too much time on the A6 lately; two, Marie-Louise was not joking about the new schedule.
The sky is already sliding towards dark as I steer out of town, headlights flicking on more out of habit than need. Two restaurants in one afternoon now feels less like a special effort and more like a standard Tuesday. My stomach is fine. Tired, but fine. My brain is another matter.
Hadrian is not fine. Or at least, my inner gecko-mother insists he isn’t.
Of course I made sure he had everything he needed before I left this morning. Heat lamp glowing. Bowl topped up. Everything exactly where it should be. He is a creature whose greatest ambition is lying very still under a warm light, and yet I still worry like I’ve abandoned a Victorian orphan in a snowstorm.
Then again, this might be the upside of having a gecko. He doesn’t sulk, he doesn’t need walking, and he has never once acted like my working late is a personal betrayal. If anything, he’ll be mildly offended if I disturb his evening by turning on the big light.
The road stretches ahead, empty enough to lull me into thinking I might enjoy the drive. That illusion lasts until my thoughts slide straight back to work. Two menus. Six dishes. Pages of notes. A review that needs to be fair, sharp, and written before I forget how anything actually tasted.
