“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.”
