“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, evenpeople, 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 theCumbria Timesmight 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.”
