Chapter 14
TOM
Craig’s voice comes through my phone as I sit in the taxi.
“You sure about this?” he asks. “Feels quick. Meeting the husband already. I mean, I’m sure Pete is lovely, but it’s only been a month…” He trails off, the unspoken words hanging heavier than his takeaway coffee.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, sounding far more confident than I felt. “I’m driving this. I want to meet him.”
I can feel Craig raising an eyebrow. “Tom, mate, last time you ‘drove’ something was at the pub quiz when you insisted Celine Dion was Swedish.”
“She’s Eurovision Swedish!”
“Yes, which is different to actual Swedish.”
Still, I double down. “This is different. I need to meet him, just know who he is. I can’t really move ahead with Pete until I know who my competition is.”
This time I can feel Craig frowning. “Tom, this isn’t Love Island. The fact that you’re calling this a competition suggests you’re not quite thinking about this in the right way.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know you shouldn’t think of James as your competition,” he says. “You’re seeing if this man — Pete — fits in your life. That’s the only audition that matters.”
I huff. “Easy for you to say. You’ve already got Phil. You’ve got your setup. Your anchor.”
Craig snorts. “Listen, if James is as important to Pete as Phil is to me, then meeting him isn’t about sizing him up. It’s about finding out if you can happily sit in the same room.”
“Without clawing each other’s eyes out.”
“Stop! If they have a healthy, supportive open relationship, James will genuinely want to get to know you, welcome you, make you feel comfortable, because he knows it’s important to Pete.”
Yes Craig, very sensible. But also, I am currently sweating through my shirt and mentally writing my will.
I sigh. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”
“And if James is even half as charming as Pete claims, you’ll be fine. You’ll hate yourself for overthinking it.”
I chew my lip. “So… no competition?”
“Think of it more like Pete being a participation trophy. One for both of you.”
I laugh despite myself. “Fine. But if he turns out to be some devastatingly handsome lawyer with a six-pack, I reserve the right to panic.”
“Mate, if he’s a devastatingly handsome lawyer with a six-pack, you’ll be too busy imagining throuple Pilates to panic.”
“You know what I mean,”
Craig sighs. “Okay. Just… be yourself. James will most likely be lovely. He’ll want to welcome you, to support Pete. So, relax. Enjoy it.”
Easy for him to say.
I’m less about relaxing and enjoying, more catastrophising and overthinking.
We say our goodbyes and I hang up.
I ask ChatGPT for tips on how to look casual when meeting your new boyfriend’s husband, which gives some questionable advice, although it does suggest I consider my exit strategy beforehand.
Damn, one more thing to think about.
The taxi drives me out past the Downs to Pete and James’s place. From the address, I can somewhat imagine where I am going, but my stomach along with my brain is spiralling as we approach our final destination.
The house looms like something out of a period drama where everyone has terrible secrets and matching candleholders.
A massive, gated property, stone pillars, lights glowing warmly against the night.
The kind of place where you half-expect Judi Dench to open the door and say “we’ve been expecting you. ”
Instead, it’s Pete.
“Tom!” he says, smile as bright as ever. Relief hits me like caffeine. He looks so normal here, even against the backdrop of grandeur. Blue jumper, jeans, that grin that makes my chest fizz. For a moment, it’s easy.
Then he steps aside, and there’s James.
Handsome, of course. Tall, dark hair swept back like he’s in a whisky advert. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to look effortless. But the air shifts the second his eyes land on me. Cold. Measuring. Like I’m a candidate he didn’t want to interview.
“Tom,” Pete says, voice light, “this is James.”
James’s handshake is firm, too firm, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hello,” he says.
Very formal.
Cold as ice.
Immediately, my heart sinks. My rational brain had agreed with Craig’s opinion, that James would be warm and welcoming, to support his partner.
But this was anything but.
I audibly gulp.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I then say.
I feel like I should bow?
James offers a hand to shake.
Shake his hand normally. Not too limp. Not too hard. God, why are you thinking about limpness right now?
We shake hands, eyes locked. It’s uncomfortably intimate.
Behind them, another voice cuts in. “Ooh, so this is Tom.”
A young handsome chap darts across the room. Thirties, messy hair, energy like a golden retriever that’s discovered tequila and decided to start a podcast about it. He bounds over, grinning. “I’m Sam. I’ve heard so much. Welcome to the lion’s den.”
Comforting.
He gives me a warm hug.
I wasn’t expecting Sam, James’s boyfriend to be here.
This already feels messier than I had predicted.
And this was all my idea.
Idiot.
Dinner smells incredible—something with garlic and rosemary—but the atmosphere could curdle milk.
“Dinner’s nearly ready,” Pete announces. “Just a few final touches.”
“Well, smells delicious,” I say.
James stands around in the kitchen and pours himself a red wine, without extending the offer out further.
We sit around a table big enough to host the UN, with me opposite James.
Pete hands me a glass of white with a forced smile. It doesn’t take long for me to pick up on Pete’s manner. He’s on edge, I can sense his nerves, fussing with cutlery, talking sporadically to fill the silences, but also withdrawn, like a schoolboy waiting for exam results.
Sam, meanwhile, has clearly appointed himself Master of Ceremonies.
“So, Tom,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “how long have you and Pete been — what’s the word — romancing?”
I nearly choke on my wine. “Oh, we’re—we’ve just been seeing each other. A little while.”
Sam smirks. “Cute. And you met in Tesco, I hear. That’s some Rom Com shit right there. I’ve always been more a tap on Grindr kind of a guy. Pete too.”
“Sam,” Pete warns softly, but the damage is done. James’s eyebrow arches, and my cheeks burn.
“You’re right. You’re more Recon, aren’t you?” Sam says, giving Pete a wink.
There’s a long silence, met with a frown from Pete as the quip falls flat. James sips his wine slowly, Sam not even flinching at the atmosphere.
I awkwardly smile to relieve the tension.
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Tom,” Sam says. “Hopefully, this one lasts a bit longer.”
James coughs into his wine glass.
Pete pushes his food around on his plate.
This one?
What does that mean?
Sam leans forward, resting his chin on his hand like he’s hosting a talk show.
“So, Tom — tell us everything. How old are you?”
I blink. “Forty-two.”
“Cute,” Sam says, nodding like I’ve just passed a test. “Star sign?”
“Er… Libra?”
“Ohhh, balance and harmony,” Sam says, clearly lying because no one actually knows what Libras mean. “Any siblings?”
“Nope.”
“Wow, only child. Explains the main-character energy.”
Pete coughs into his wine.
“Parents?”
“Both dead.”
“Oh my God, tragic!” Sam gasps, delighted. “Like Disney tragic! You’re like Bambi.”
“Thanks.” I say, unsure if I’m being comforted or mocked.
Sam waves a hand. “Okay, next — worst date you’ve ever been on?”
“Uh…” I glance at Pete, but he just looks apologetic. There’s a pause as I try to find any kind of acceptable dating disaster story. “I once went for dinner with a guy who brought his mum. To the third date.”
Sam’s jaw drops. “No! Was she hot?”
“I—what?”
Pete groans. “Sam.”
Sam ignores him, leaning closer. “Okay, let’s get to the good stuff. Body count?”
“Uhh…”
“Don’t be shy. Round up if you must.”
I flush so hard my ears burn. “I don’t… I’ve never… counted?”
Why am I answering these questions?
James sips his wine so slowly it feels like a judgment.
Sam grins. “I bet it’s respectable. Pete’s is pretty high.”
“Sam.” Pete’s voice is sharper this time, but Sam just winks.
“Fine, fine, we’ll leave the stats for later. But what about kinks? Vanilla, chocolate, or full-on Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked?”
I almost choke on a carrot. “Ummm…”
“Okay, maybe we should move on to something more—” Pete tries to deflect.
Sam beams. “So, Rocky Road.”
“Sam,” Pete moans, but he’s laughing despite himself now, face in his hands.
And that’s when I realise: I’m the comic relief tonight. The bumbling sitcom neighbour who wanders into the wrong apartment with his trousers on backwards. I plaster on a grin and keep talking, because what else can I do? At least if I’m the clown, nobody notices how terrified I am.
As the night continues, I appreciate Sam’s presence more. James offers little except an occasional frown, Pete is quiet and awkward, a side of him I’ve never seen.
Sam, on the other hand, is in his element, filling silences with outrageous stories, most of which I suspect are only half true.
But I can’t help but hyper focus on James. He just watches. Watches in the way a hawk watches a field mouse. Or the way my mother used to watch me when I said I’d done my homework but hadn’t.
Meanwhile, I’m overthinking everything. Am I holding my fork weird? Did I laugh too long at Sam’s story? Should I compliment James’s shirt? Why do his cheekbones look like they could cut glass? Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve turned up at the Hunger Games dinner table unarmed?
Then Sam casually drops a name. “Chris would’ve loved this wine.”
I blink. “Who’s Chris?”
Sam grins. “Pete’s ex.”
The air shifts. Pete stares at his plate. James’ jaw tightens.
“Oh,” I say, brightly, like a man who has just trodden on a rake.
Chris.
The name hangs in the air like someone’s just announced they’ve found a body in the garden. I try to keep my face neutral, but inside my brain is running a full background check on this mystery man.
Chris. Who is Chris? How serious was Chris? Is Chris hotter than me? Probably. Chris sounds like the kind of guy who runs marathons for fun and save kittens from burning buildings. Is he taller? Funnier? Can he eat soup without it dribbling down his chin?
I glance at Pete, but he’s suddenly fascinated by his plate, and James’s jaw is tight enough to crack a walnut.
Which, of course, sends me spiralling further.
Why do they both look like someone’s just mentioned Voldemort?
Was Chris The One That Got Away? The Big Love?
Am I sitting in Chris’s chair right now? Eating off Chris’s plates?
I take a sip of wine, mostly to keep my mouth busy so I don’t accidentally blurt out “So how often do you still think about him?” like a man auditioning for an emotional breakdown.
“Yeah, this is some great wine. We need to get some more of this,” Sam says, taking another big slurp.
I take a slurp of mine.
Towards the end of the meal, I excuse myself to the bathroom. I need a break.
The house is vast, corridors stretching out like arteries. The bathroom itself is pristine, all marble and chrome, the kind of place you’re afraid to exhale in case you fog the mirrors. I stare at myself in the sink.
What am I doing here? Craig was right—it’s quick. Too quick. And James… something about him sets my skin on edge. Cold, clipped, brooding. Pete shrinks in his presence, like sunlight dulled under heavy clouds.
But then I think of Pete’s laugh, the way he looked at me by the harbourside, the warmth I feel around him. That’s real. Isn’t it?
I splash water on my face, breathe, and steel myself to go back.
On the way down the hall, I hear voices. Muffled, but distinct.
James. Low, dangerous. “…this was a fucking stupid idea.”
Pete. Softer, placating. “I wasn’t—”
“You just want to humiliate me.”
I stop, frozen in place. I back against the wall and listen.
“James, please, just give him a chance—”
There’s a bang, like something being slammed up against the wall, followed by silence.
My stomach twists.
I freeze.
I should step in like Pete’s knight in shining armour, but I don’t. I’m just solid like a statue.
Useless.
After a moment of pausing, I step back into the dining room, heart hammering. Sam looks up with a knowing smile. Pete follows a moment later, smile pasted on like wallpaper, eyes down. James strolls in last, face red, yet untouched. Our eyes don’t meet for the rest of the night.
We finish dinner, but my appetite is gone.
Later, Pete squeezes my hand. “Thanks for coming,” he whispers.
I smile, tell him it was lovely, but inside, I’m knotted.
The name Chris is whirling through my mind more than it should.
But more importantly, Craig told me James would be welcoming. Supportive. Lovely.
And all I can think is: Craig was wrong.