Page 9

the foundry

ELLIE

T he comforting aroma of baked cheese and rich tomato sauce curls through the kitchen, warm and familiar.

The lasagne sits in the centre of the table, bubbling at the edges, the scent of fresh basil rising in lazy spirals.

This isn’t just dinner, it’s tradition. Friday nights, my lasagne, the three of us around the table.

David takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then sets his fork down with a sigh and rests a hand on mine. “You know, Ellie, I swear this gets better every time.”

Across the table, Mia swings her legs, curls bouncing as she launches into a debrief of her math test. “So then, Mr Jacobs tried to catch us out with this stupid question, right? But I remembered what you said, David. Keep it simple. And boom! I finished first.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand. “Knew you’d ace it, bug.”

David nods along, still smiling—but I catch it. The slight delay. The fraction of a second where his eyes flick to his phone on the as it lights up on the table. The way his fingers tap the stem of his wineglass like they’ve got somewhere better to be.

“That’s great, Mia.” he says, turning his phone so the screen faces the table.

Mia doesn’t notice. She’s already diving into the next part of her story, hands flailing for emphasis. But I do. The tiny disconnections. The subtle switches. The way presence can be offered, then withdrawn, without ever leaving the room.

Still, I tell myself it’s nothing. He’s had a long day. Stress. Meetings. The never-ending carousel of networking and numbers. His job pulls at him in a hundred directions at once. And sometimes, dinner—the one I make us sit down to every Friday—is just another thing to show up for.

“So,” I say, keeping my smile in place, “anything trip you up?”

She frowns, thinking. “Well, there was this one question?—”

“Speaking of good news,” David cuts in, straightening in his seat, voice suddenly bright. “The firm got a couple of tickets to a gig at The Foundry tomorrow night.”

He’s animated now. Just like that. Like someone flipped a switch and plugged him back in.

David works in finance. Not the spreadsheets-and-numbers kind, but the polished, high-stakes side— the firm , as he calls it, deals in private equity, wealth portfolios, venture capital.

I’ve never fully understood the details, but I know the language: opportunity, leverage, return.

Deals struck over club dinners and quiet rounds of golf.

It’s less about money, more about movement .

Who you know, what you can make happen, and how clean you can make it look on paper.

And David’s good at it. He has that easy, inherited confidence.

The kind that comes from growing up around handshakes that mean more than signatures.

He doesn’t just ask for things—he secures them.

Knows which strings to pull, which favours to call in, and how to make you feel lucky he thought of you.

There’s something magnetic about it.

“I managed to grab two,” he adds, meeting my eyes. “Thought you and Naomi might want a night out.”

I blink. “The Foundry?”

He nods. “Yeah. Some indie band, apparently. Everyone’s talking about them. I figured it might be your thing.” He smiles, and this time it lands—earnest and hopeful—like he wants it to be the right gesture.

“Thank you,” I say, a little surprised. “That’s… really thoughtful.”

And it is. The gig, the timing, the offer to hold down the fort with Mia—he didn’t have to. But he did.

Still, something in me twists and I don’t know why. A quiet question with no obvious answer.

The line outside The Foundry snakes around the block, full of low chatter, laughter, and cigarette smoke. The bass from inside pulses underfoot like a second heartbeat, thudding through the warm air.

It’s one of those classic British summer nights. The kind that clings to your skin, heavy with leftover heat from the day, a mix of humidity and energy that makes everything feel alive.

The sky’s still holding onto its light, stained pink at the edges, and people linger in the street like no one’s in a rush to go home.

Everyone’s dressed lightly in tank tops, crop tops, and linen shirts unbuttoned halfway down.

Naomi’s already fanning herself with the back of her phone, her curls frizzing slightly at the ends.

“I swear to God,” she mutters. “If I don’t get a drink in the next ten minutes, I’m going to melt into a puddle of glitter and sass. And I’m already losing circulation in my toes standing here.”

“You’d lose circulation sitting still on a sun-bed. You’re so dramatic.”

“Rude.” She pauses. “Accurate, but rude.”

I glance down at my outfit, shifting on my feet. I opted for a simple sage green cami tucked into a denim mini skirt, paired with my favourite ankle boots and a light knit cardigan slung over my arm.

Naomi clocks it immediately. “You and that bloody emergency cardigan,” she says, eyes dancing. “What are you preparing for? A sudden snowstorm? A surprise Arctic expedition?”

“It’s called being practical ,” I respond, deadpan. “You’ll be begging for it when you’re cold later.”

She snorts. “If I get cold, I’ll flirt my way into someone’s hoodie like a normal person.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling now. I’ve made an effort tonight. A nod to who I used to be, back when getting dressed up for a night out meant music, mischief, and that giddy thrill I haven’t felt in years.

I take a breath and let it out slowly. Tonight is supposed to be fun. Just me, Naomi, and whatever bad cocktails they’re serving inside.

“So,” Naomi says, tone light but a little too deliberate, “David got the tickets?”

“Yeah. Someone from his office had extras, I think.”

“Nice of him.” She hums. Casual.

I feel the weight behind it—the pause, the unsaid—and something twists low in my stomach. But I smile anyway, brushing it off. “It’s nothing shady. Probably just someone at work who owed him a favour. You know what his work’s like.”

Her eyes narrow, not unkind, just sharp. “And he just gave them to you?”

“It’s not a trap, Nay.” I huff. “He thought I could use a night out. That’s all.”

There’s a pause. She knows it hasn’t always been easy with him, and she’s been my sounding board since the beginning.

She’s heard it all. The silent treatments.

The sudden, too-late gestures. The way David could twist a situation until even I wasn’t sure what had actually happened.

She knows the patterns as well as I do. Held my hand through the fallout.

Passed tissues through the bathroom door and poured me wine when I didn’t want to talk.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.”

“Look, he’s been better lately. Really . He’s trying.”

“You always say that.”

“I know.”

A beat. “You still believe it?”

I pause, unsure whether to lie, deflect, or crumble entirely. “I have to, Naomi.”

She doesn’t press. Just gives my hand a small squeeze, anchoring me the way she always does. Then she changes the subject, letting the moment drift off like steam. Because that’s what best friends do when you’re not quite ready to hear the things they already know.

“So, who’s actually playing tonight?” she asks. “I didn’t even check.”

“Honestly? I have no idea. I didn’t really come for the music.”

Naomi grins. “You came for the cheeky Vimtos and questionable decisions.”

“Exactly,” I say, grinning. The kind we’ve been making since we were sixteen—when we were definitely too young to be out drinking, flirting our way to free shots, heels in hand by midnight, and no idea how we were getting home.

“I’ll leave the car park snogging to you, though.”

Naomi gasps, mock-offended. “Excuse you—I have standards.”

I arch a brow. “Do you? Tell that to that scaffolder you climbed like a tree.”

She snorts. “He was charming, actually. And built like a Greek god.”

“With the personality of a houseplant.”

“Details,” she says breezily, linking her arm through mine as the queue shuffles forward.

Posters and gig flyers cover the walls, the type you usually half-glance at and forget, until one of them stops me cold.

Special Guests: Midnight Reverie

The words don’t register at first. Like my brain’s buffering. Then it hits. My lungs seize. My vision narrows.

“What the…” Naomi steps forward, squinting at the poster. Her voice drops. “Shut the actual front door.”

It’s his name. His band. That crooked smile, now ten feet tall and airbrushed.

And he’s here.

My heart’s pounding so hard I think I might spontaneously combust.

Naomi turns to me, slow as anything. “Wait a second… Kieran Hayes? Your Kieran Hayes? Festival guy?”

My throat closes. I nod once.

She stares at me. “Ellie. Is this… are you… what is HAPPENING ?”

Then, quieter. “Mate, how long has it been?”

I try to dodge her gaze, but there’s no escaping Naomi. Not when she smells romantic chaos.

The words crawl out of my mouth. “Less than a week.”

Naomi blinks. “Pardon?”

“I saw him.” A beat. “At the hospital.”

“You what ?”

“I thought it was just a coincidence,” I whisper. “Same name. And then I pulled back the curtain and… there he was. In the fucking flesh.”

Naomi actually screams. A full, unfiltered, guttural wail that makes at least four people in the queue whip around.

I shrink behind my cardigan like it might save me from public shame.

“NO. WAY. How the hell did you not tell me?!”

“I was processing.”

“Processing?” She throws her hands in the air. “Processing what? That you ran into the Kieran Hayes, festival-god-Kieran, and just—what? Gave him a plaster and sent him on his way?”

“Steri-Strips,” I correct.

“Oh my god, I’m going to scream again.”

She does. Quieter this time, but still deeply dramatic.

“What happened?” she demands, grabbing my arm like she’s about to stage a full interrogation. “Tell me everything .”

I shake my head, breath catching. “It didn’t go well. I froze. I was trying to stay professional, but he recognised me straight away.”