Page 95 of Heart of The Night

The distant murmur of the city had faded into a forgotten whisper, overwhelmed by the intensity of my concentration. The blinds were drawn, shutting out the bright afternoon sun and casting the study in a cool, muted light. I sat at my antique desk, the edges worn smooth from years of use, my desktop computer glowing in front of me. A cup of tepid English Breakfast tea remained neglected at my elbow, its steam long since faded into the air.

Before me lay the fruits of my clandestine labour – a file thick with the weight of implication, damning evidence against Gastronomy Group. Every detail meticulously documented, every piece of evidence scrutinised and cross-referenced. Robert’s revelations had been the linchpin, transforming my suspicions into hard, irrefutable facts – a solid case. Without his insider perspective, I might have struggled to substantiate the claims. I made a mental note to update him later and to thank him once again.

Now, it was time to take the next step: submitting a formal complaint to the Competition and Markets Authority. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking expectantly in the email draft. Within it, the summary of evidence lay like a coiled snake, waiting to strike.

‘Right, Will,’ I muttered to myself and leaned forward in my chair, the leather creaking in protest. ‘This is it.’

I attached the dossier to the email, the progress bar inching forward. As it completed, I reviewed the email one final time, ensuring every detail was exact, every accusation precise. Satisfied, I hovered the cursor over the Send button, my heart thudding a quick, heavy beat.

In that suspended moment, memories of the past weeks flooded back: the long days and late nights, the drama with Francesca and Cara, and the constant pressure of building this case amidst the demands of my actual job. Balancing this pro bono effort with my professional obligations and personal turmoil had been a merciless ordeal. Yet, through it all, a single thread of purpose had guided me – a desire to see justice served, to protect the small and vulnerable from the rapacious claws of corporate greed.

With a decisive click, I sent the email, watching it vanish into the ether. There was no turning back now. I sank into my chair, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. The deed was done. The wheels of bureaucracy would begin their slow, grinding turn, and I could only hope they would crush Gastronomy Group in their path.

I reached for the forgotten cup of tea, its cold bitterness a symbol of my relentless pursuit. The battle against Gastronomy Group was far from over, but this was a significant step forward. I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction; I had struck a blow for justice, and that was enough. The quiet of the flat wrapped around me, and I relished the temporary peace. Whatever lay ahead, I was ready to face it.

I glanced at my watch, its polished face glinting dully in the muted light. The hands pointed to three o’clock. Time had slipped away in the fervour of my work, and I needed to start on dinner. It was poker night; Jason, Andy, and Alex were coming over, and I had promised a good meal before the cards were dealt.

I would be serving them chicken biryani, Cara’s favourite dish. The thought brought a faint, wistful smile to my lips. I wasn’t making it purely out of culinary enthusiasm; I had a plan. There would be more than enough for everyone, and I intended to send some home with Jason for Cara. A small token of care – a way to look after her and keep her close, even from a distance.

I stood up, the leather chair groaning in relief, and stretched the stiffness from my limbs. The task ahead was a welcome distraction from the weight of the case.

In the kitchen, I set about gathering the ingredients. As I measured the spices, the aroma wafting up, memories from the past week swirled in my mind. It had been exactly one week since Cara learned about Francesca’s pregnancy. Seven days of unbearable tension and fragile conversations, each laden with the uncertainty that now loomed between us.

Last Sunday, her world had tilted on its axis. I still saw the stricken look in her eyes, the way her hands trembled as she absorbed the news. That image haunted me, as did the painful knowledge that she hadn’t reciprocated my feelings. I deeply regretted choosing that moment to declare my love for her, allowing something meant to be pure to be sullied by the mire of our situation. But I had been desperate, driven by a blind, foolish hope that my words might anchor her, might convince her to stay. Yet it hadn’t been enough. Her misgivings were palpable.

On Monday, she worked from home, needing space to process the chaos. Tuesday saw her return to the office, a shadow of her usual self. She was more impersonal, more reserved. The warmth that used to fill our interactions was replaced by a cautious formality. Whenever I sought reassurance, she gave what she could, but it was apparent she was still grappling with her emotions; she struggled to be physically intimate, each attempt at closeness met with a perfunctory kiss or a turned cheek. She was clearly drawing a line, reminding me that she was still undecided, that she needed time and space to think.

The week crawled by, each day a mirror of the last. We hadn’t gone on any dates; the evenings we once spent lost in intimate conversation were now replaced by uncomfortable silence. Yet, amidst the painful distance, I could see her effort to bridge the gap; the lunches we shared were her way of not completely shutting me out. I clung to those moments, even if they were tinged with melancholy. With Violet, Ellie, and Andy as constant companions, there was no space for the raw, honest talk we needed. We danced around it instead, clinging to the illusion of normalcy even as it crumbled beneath us. I watched her, my heart breaking a little more each day, knowing she was slipping further and further away.

Sighing, I moved to the hob and heated oil in a large pot. The sizzle of onions hitting the pan was an oddly soothing, almost meditative sound, a brief respite from the tumult of my thoughts. I added the spices and the rice, followed by the marinated chicken, and covered the pot, letting it simmer.

As the rich aroma filled the kitchen, the thought of Cara overwhelmed me. Her absence felt like a wound that refused to heal, a persistent whisper of potential permanence. I could almost see her standing there, deep-blue eyes lighting up as she inhaled the scent of her favourite dish. Her laughter would dance through the room, mingling with the sizzling of spices, and her touch would awaken a fire that no one else could spark, a flame that would forever belong to her.

I imagined her taking the first bite, her eyes closing in delight, a soft moan of satisfaction escaping her lips. ‘Will, this is amazing,’ she would say, a smile breaking across her face, her approval filling me with triumph.

But then, the memory of her stricken face intruded, the tremble in her hands as she sat on the bed, my phone in her grasp. I wished I could erase the hurt, turn back time, and spare her the pain. But I couldn’t. All I could do was hope, and I loathed the powerlessness it laid bare within me.

Perhaps tonight, in the company of friends and the comfort of familiar traditions, I could find a measure of solace.

§ § §

The scent of chicken biryani lingered in the air as the lads and I sat at the square dining table. Over dinner, the conversation had flowed easily, the lads delicately avoiding any mention of Francesca and Cara. Their tact did not go unnoticed, and I was quietly grateful for it. The constant turmoil of my personal life had been a relentless shadow, and any reprieve, however brief, was a welcome relief.

Jason shuffled the cards expertly, the pristine deck gliding smoothly between his fingers. To his immediate left, Andy leaned back in his chair, patting his belly with a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

‘Will, that was top class,’ he said, releasing a satisfied sigh. ‘Chloe won’t want to kiss me later, but it was well worth it.’

‘Absolutely,’ Alex chimed in, stacking his chips into neat piles, ever meticulous. ‘You outdid yourself tonight.’

I smiled, a glimmer of satisfaction mingling with my fatigue. ‘Glad you liked it.’

Jason, ever the observer, eyed me closely. ‘You look knackered, though. Have you slept at all?’

I scratched my cheek, shrugging. ‘Caught a few hours. It’s been a long week, though. Just sent off a formal complaint to the CMA about Gastronomy Group.’

‘Did you?’ Andy’s eyebrows arched. ‘Well done.’

‘Must’ve been intense,’ Alex murmured, casting me a worried look. ‘Juggling that and everything else.’

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