That should matter.
It does matter.
It is also nowhere near enough.
“Thank you for letting me.”
She looks away briefly.
When she looks back, her expression is still composed, but there is something softer underneath it. Not permission. Not a request. More dangerous than both.
“You did good,” she says.
From her, that is not a small thing.
I feel it in my chest.
“Well,” she says.
No.
I hate well.
Well is a door closing politely.
“I’ll send the draft through,” I say.
“Good.”
“Before anything runs.”
“Good.”
“I’ll make sure Marie Louise knows the station needs proper time with it.”
“Good.”
Good, good, good.
We have become the worst conversation in Britain.
Pippa’s mouth presses together as if she knows it too.
“Safe drive,” she says.
That is the moment I should fix it.
There is a version of me that does.
A better version, perhaps.
Or at least a braver one.
Instead, I nod.
“Thanks.”
Her eyes hold mine for one beat too long.
