Page 36 of Heart of The Night

‘In just about every way apart from those three magic words. Even told her in French.’

Chloe’s eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘So why not in those three words?’

My smile faltered as I sighed, my chest filling with a simmering apprehension. How could I explain to her that, despite Cara’s evident enthusiasm, something whispered to me that she wasn’t yet in love with me? That she wasn’t ready to confront an outright declaration of love? It felt too soon, potentially even reckless.

Yet, I couldn’t deny the profound love I held for her. Each passing day offered a new insight into her character, a new reason to hold her closer to my heart. Each revelation, every shared moment, simply cemented my conviction that she was my match, as if tailor-made for me, like we were destined to orbit each other in this vast universe. And therein lay the beautiful torment – the certainty of my love for her, coupled with the patience it demanded.

‘I’m worried it might be too soon,’ I said, my gaze shifting to my hands in my lap, fingers rubbing together. The room, filled with the lingering scent of tea and soft murmurs, felt strangely heavy. Chloe granted a pause, a moment’s silence as she considered my reply.

‘For her, or for you?’ she asked carefully.

A grimace distorted my features. ‘For her.’

‘I see.’ She gave a small nod. ‘Well, I hope she’ll get there eventually.’

I merely nodded, knowing neither of us could predict with certainty which turn Cara’s heart would take. But I hoped more than anything that it wouldn’t lead her away from me.

§ § §

As I walked home after lunch with Chloe, the boutiques I passed reminded me all too sharply of Francesca’s dress, still hanging in my wardrobe. Cara’s discovery of it had engulfed me in regret, like a storm cloud breaking all at once. It was a stark mirror to my own fears of finding something of Aaron’s stashed away in her flat – a token from a past I’d rather she forget.

As I threaded my path through the throng of people that flocked Regent Street, I drew my phone from my pocket. The last conversation I’d had with Francesca had been in my office when she begged me for a second chance, and I’d delivered what I hoped was the final blow to our ties. Yet, her dress remained – a silent, unresolved note. To rectify that, reaching out seemed like the best course of action. The question, then, was whether to ring or text her. It seemed plausible that she might dismiss both forms of contact, yet on the slim chance she might engage, a call felt too direct, too brusque. Texting, however, seemed the softer, more considerate route, offering her the buffer of time to recover from the surprise. And if she didn’t respond, her dress was destined for donation to a charity.

But what to write? Should I lead with a casual greeting or get right down to business?

A sense of self-irritation started to curl up at the edges of my mind as I realised I was falling into that age-old trap of mine: overthinking. It was a trait Andy found endlessly amusing, always ripe for his relentless teasing. Alex, on the other hand, was a kindred spirit in this regard, sharing the same compulsive need to examine every angle before committing.

‘Just write what you want to say,’ Andy’s voice seemed to echo in my head, an imagined reminder of his knack for staying laid-back in situations where others might fret. ‘Then deal with the rest from there.’

Shaking off my hesitation, I decided to heed what I reckoned would be his advice. I quickly thumbed out a message to Francesca: You in town? Still got that orange dress of yours.

Some minutes later, just as I was opening the door to my flat, my phone buzzed against my thigh. A strange clenching in my chest caught me off guard, until I realised it was the guilt flaring at the thought of facing Francesca again – the guilt over the heartbreak I’d left in my wake. I shuddered at the possibility of once again seeing her pretty hazel eyes, glossed with the sheen of unshed tears, her features etched with the hurt I’d inflicted. I hoped she had made peace with my decision, moved on, and wouldn’t see this as a chance to rekindle something that was definitely over. The mere thought of causing her more pain was dreadful. It was a situation I desperately wanted to avoid.

But as I pulled out my phone, it was Jian’s name flashing on the screen.

I answered straight away. ‘Hello, Jian.’

‘Hi, Will. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.’

‘Not at all. Just got home. Timing couldn’t have been better.’

‘Great.’

‘So, tell me. What’s this about a conglomerate breathing down Fusion’s neck?’ I asked, simultaneously kicking off my shoes and making a beeline for the staircase to reach my study; I knew this conversation would require pen and paper.

‘Well,’ Jian began, a touch of hesitation creeping into his mellow voice. ‘The conglomerate in question goes by the name of Gastronomy Group. You might have heard of it. It’s been about six months since they first showed interest in acquiring Fusion. We turned them down, naturally. Since then, things have happened that, added together, don’t seem right. I can’t say for certain if they’re behind our issues of late, though – it’s just a hunch. For example, we’re suddenly having trouble with our suppliers.’

‘Suppliers?’ I echoed as I entered my study, my attention divided between the ongoing conversation and the familiar layout of my desk. I quickly located my favoured notepad and picked up a pen, scribbling down supplier issues, followed by a question mark.

‘Yes,’ Jian replied, the strain in his voice growing more distinct. ‘A number of key ones have either hiked up their prices substantially or, even worse, ceased delivery outright. It’s started to hurt our menu – the quality is being compromised. It’s hard to maintain our standards without the proper ingredients, as you can imagine.’

‘Which suppliers, specifically?’ I asked, my pen poised to write down his response.

‘Mainly the ones dealing with specialised ingredients – stuff we can’t find elsewhere easily.’

‘That’s unusual, but not completely unheard of,’ I murmured, more to myself than to Jian. ‘I’ll need a list of these suppliers, Jian. Please send it to my email.’ I rattled off my address before nudging the conversation forward. ‘What else has been a cause for concern?’

‘Well, our rent. Our landlord is suddenly hinting at a significant increase. We’ve had a great relationship for years. It doesn’t add up.’ Jian’s voice held a note of exasperation.

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