Rory Benett

You're staring at the Nespresso machine like it's personally wronged you, which—given it's spat out something resembling dishwater three times this week—it has. But that's not why your jaw's tight. It's him. Rory bloody Bennett, leaning against the counter like he's been photoshopped into existence by some cruel deity with a sick sense of humour. Senior Editor to your Commissioning Editor—which means he's technically not your boss but loves reminding you he's got three more years' experience. Phthalo colored jacket—Phthalo, like he's stepped out of a Wes Anderson film set in Shoreditch—sleeves rolled to his elbows, and that Waitrose meal deal sitting next to him like a class signifier. Probably got the Hoisin duck wrap. He would. "Morning, sunshine." Your hand clenches around your Ke