Chapter 5
TOM
I lie sprawled on my bed, one arm folded beneath my head, the other clutching my phone like it’s a lifeline. My room is dim except for the golden spill of the bedside lamp, casting long shadows across the pictures on my wall.
My phone finally buzzes; it’s Craig calling. I answer immediately, grateful for the distraction.
“Alright, lover boy,” Craig says, voice warm and teasing down the line. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet all day.”
I grin despite myself. “You make me sound like I’ve got some sordid secret.”
“You do. It’s called a crush. Now come on, give me everything.”
So, I do. I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, recounting the whole strange, wonderful encounter with Pete at Tesco. Craig interrupts constantly with questions, gasps, exaggerated noises of approval.
“You met in Tesco? Tesco?” Craig cackles. “That’s not romantic, that’s a Clubcard commercial.”
“No, but it felt romantic,” I say, laughing. “Organic, not matching on some stupid app. Like a real-world connection. It honestly felt like I was in some kind of ‘90s Hugh Grant film.”
Craig hums approvingly. “Real is good. Real is rare. And he’s handsome, right?”
“So handsome.” I bite my lip, the memory of Pete’s smile making my chest fizz. “Like cheek dimples kind of handsome.”
Craig groans dramatically. “Well, thank God. I was starting to worry you’d end up alone forever with just Buster the cat for company.”
“Buster’s already planning the wedding,” I shoot back.
“Don’t pretend that Buster gives a fuck about anything other than the tuna in your cupboards.”
“True.”
We fall into easy laughter, the kind that’s carried us through years of friendship.
It still amazes me, sometimes, that Craig and I made it through.
We’d dated briefly in our early twenties—two weeks of drunken dinners, ill-advised kisses, and one particularly awkward fumble in Craig’s old student flat.
By mutual, silent agreement, we’d decided we were better off as friends.
Over twenty years later, that decision felt like the smartest thing I’d ever done.
“So, you’re already very healthily planning the wedding in your head?” Craig asks.
“Yes.”
“Based on a conversation in the fruit and veg aisle.”
“Yes.”
“With someone you’ve not even swapped numbers with.”
“That’s right, yes.”
“Excellent, can I have front-row seats at the ceremony? I need an excuse to dress up.”
“Of course you can. Your husband not wining and dining you this week?”
Craig snorts. “Don’t make me laugh, the most excitement we had was watching the final of The Traitors New Zealand on Tuesday night.”
“Wow, that sounds about as fun as my speed dating rejection email.”
“Actually, it was exceptional television. That said, we have a busy weekend ahead of us.”
“A busy weekend as in a DIY project in the spare room, or a busy weekend as in you’ll need two days and a vitamin injection to recover from it?” I ask.
“Definitely the second one,” Craig admits.
“You dirty dogs. I don’t care what you say, your sex lives are far more exciting than mine.”
There’s a pause, just long enough for my phone to buzz again. I pull it away from my ear and glance at the screen. It’s Daniel.
Craig hears the silence. “What is it?”
I hesitate. “…Daniel.”
A groan rattles down the line. “Oh, for God’s sake. What does he want?”
I open the message: We need to meet. Just that. No context. No explanation. My chest tightens.
“He says he wants to meet,” I murmur.
“Of course he does,” Craig snaps. “That’s what he does—he dangles you, reels you back in, just to keep control. Ignore it.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. Daniel. The name still stings. Ten years of my life wrapped around a man who made everything conditional.
“He sounds serious,” I say quietly.
Craig’s voice sharpens. “Serious? Tom, he was serious about controlling what you wore to brunch. He was serious about making you doubt yourself every five minutes. About you walking on eggshells every day. He doesn’t get another chance.”
I nod, though he can’t see me. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
The warmth returns to Craig’s tone. “Forget Daniel. You’ve got something good starting here with your new imaginary husband Pete. Don’t let that bastard ruin it before it’s even begun.”
I swallow. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Craig exhales, satisfied. “Good. Now, enough drama. Come over for dinner this week — Thursday? I’ll cook. We can make plans about how you’re going to live in Tesco for the next month until you bump into this guy again.”
I grin. “Deal. As long as it’s not that lentil stew again.”
“Excuse me,” Craig protests, “my lentil stew is legendary.”
“It’s legendary for giving me wind.”
By the time we say our goodnights, my chest aches with affection for my best friend.
But when the line goes dead, silence creeps back in. I stare at Daniel’s message, thumb hovering. Craig’s voice echoes in my head: ignore it.
I should. I know I should.
Instead, I type: About what? And hit send before I can stop myself.
The second it goes, regret prickles at my skin. Too late now.
I set the phone down on my chest, close my eyes. I listen to the faint hum of traffic outside, the purr of Buster curled on the chair. I tell myself I won’t look at the screen again, not until morning.
Another buzz.
I don’t want to look. But I have to. Just to know. I reach for my phone.
The message is not from Daniel.
There’s a momentary sigh of relief, which swiftly disappears as I recognise the name on the screen.
Another name that sends a shiver down my spine.
Another message I don’t want to read, but know I have to.
I can’t stop thinking about the blood, the message reads.