Surprise Me Always (Claimed on Sight #2)

Chapter 1

Philip

Iam three sips into my pint when I realise my leaving drinks have somehow become a full-scale tribute night to my professional competence, my emotional unavailability, and my alarming ability to survive on Marks & Spencer meal deals and sarcasm.

“Speech,” says Becca, lifting her glass.

“Absolutely not,” I protest.

“Just a few words,” says Ollie.

“I have plenty of words,” I tell him. “I’m an editor. That’s the whole problem. I know exactly how many terrible ones a speech would contain.”

That gets a laugh, which is annoying because it encourages them.

We are crowded around two pushed-together tables in a pub in Islington that tries very hard to look like it has always been here, all reclaimed wood and hanging plants and artfully mismatched lampshades.

It smells of beer, fried food, perfume, and wet coats.

Outside, London has spent the day being grey in a committed, almost religious way, and everyone has come in carrying the last of the drizzle with them.

It should feel cosy. It mostly does. But there is a loose thread running through the evening that I can’t stop tugging at in my head.

Wednesday.

I leave on Wednesday.

It sounds both impressively soon and slightly made up.

Becca leans across the table. “You don’t get to leave the country without saying anything inspirational.”

“What exactly about me has ever suggested I am inspirational?”

She gives me a long look.

Luke snorts beside me. “You’re hardly known for keeping your opinions to yourself.”

I turn my head and find him hunched over his drink as if it has personally offended him by being too cheerful.

Luke writes crime novels with titles that sound like they should come with a body bag and a warning from the police.

He also dresses entirely in dark colours, looks permanently inconvenienced by the existence of other people, and has somehow become one of my closest friends.

Not that either of us would phrase it that way in public. Or private, frankly.

“I didn’t realise you were paying attention,” I tell him.

Luke grunts and takes another sip of red wine. Red wine in a pub. Psychotic behaviour, if you ask me, but he insists it is better than lager and says this with the conviction of a man who has opinions about tannins and suspects the rest of us are philistines.

I take a drink and let my gaze drift around the room while everyone resumes talking over each other.

My team is here, plus two authors, one production manager, and a publicist who I am reasonably sure only came because she heard there might be chips.

It is loud in that pleasant, Friday-night sort of way.

Glasses clink. Somebody at the bar shouts a laugh that rises above the rest and then disappears again.

I should be having a better time.

That sounds ungrateful. I know it does. I am not blind to the fact that being taken out for drinks by people who like me is, objectively, nice. So is the reason for it, in theory.

A senior editorial role at a large publishing house in Toronto is not the sort of thing people are expected to look miserable about.

It is a good job. More than good. It is the kind of job you say yes to before your fear of change can get in the way. Better pay. Bigger list. More influence. A chance to build something. A fresh start.

There is no denying it is a brilliant opportunity, and every time someone says so tonight, I smile and nod like the well-adjusted man I am pretending to be.

Becca nudges my arm. “You disappeared there for a second.”

“Impossible. I’m far too present and emotionally available.”

She grins. “Nervous?”

I roll the pint glass slowly between my hands. “About moving to another continent or about having to fake enthusiasm for Zoom meetings in a different time zone?”

“Either.”

I consider lying. It would be very easy. I am excellent at reassuring other people with half the truth.

Instead I shrug. “A bit.”

“That’s normal.”

“Mm.”

“You’ll be amazing.”

“There goes my entire editorial routine,” Luke mutters. “Two years of training you to anticipate my moods and now you’re emigrating.”

Becca throws a beer mat at him, which he catches one-handed without looking. I can’t help but laugh.

For all his cultivated misery, Luke is irritatingly loyal. He has not come tonight because he enjoys group social events. He would rather lick a bus window. He is here because this is one of the last chances we get to do this.

“Nothing changes for you,” I tell him. “You just get your commas corrected remotely. Do try to remember time zones before emailing me one of your literary emergencies.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I already have Toronto on my phone.”

“I’m touched.”

“Don’t be. It’s entirely selfish. If you have a breakdown due to lack of sleep, I’ll have to find a new editor and I’m too old to build trust with strangers.”

“You’re forty.”

“Exactly.”

Across the table, Ollie raises his glass again. “Seriously, though. We are all very proud of you, Philip.”

That lands more softly than the earlier teasing, and for a moment the table quiets around the edges.

I hate sincerity when I’m in the centre of it.

“Thank you,” I say, because I’m not a monster.

“And devastated for ourselves,” says Becca. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I agree.

“You’ve set the bar unreasonably high,” says Julia from production. “The next person better be charming, terrifying, and able to spot a continuity error from across a room.”

“That’s no one,” says Ollie.

Luke takes a sip of wine. “Most people have at least one terrible flaw.”

That gets a laugh.

“Do you know, for somebody whose career depends on language, you’re really very lazy with it,” I tease him.

He shrugs. “Efficiency.”

I let the laughter carry me for a few seconds. It is easier that way, being the version of myself everyone understands. Funny. Competent. Easy to have around.

I have spent a long time being the least difficult person in the room.

My phone buzzes against the table. I glance down and see a photo notification from my sister.

For one mad second, I think Sophie might have sent me something sentimental and brace accordingly.

Instead it is a picture of Jamie wearing a saucepan on his head and what appears to be a school jumper on one leg.

I smile before I can stop myself.

Beneath it, she has written:

Jamie says this is airport fashion. Thought you’d want inspiration.

Me

Tell Jamie his vision is ahead of its time.

Sophie

Noah says don’t forget he still expects Canadian sweets.

I put the phone down and feel the familiar tug in my chest. The move has felt practical right up until this moment, which is irritating given that this moment involves a saucepan.

I take another sip of my beer.

“Family?” Becca asks.

“My nephew appears to be dressing for Heathrow like a tiny eccentric with no adult supervision.”

“Good for him.”

“He’s six. He can carry it off.”

Luke glances at me. “You’ll miss them.”

It is not really a question.

I shift one shoulder. “There are planes. Video calls. Excessive bribery through imported gifts. We’ll manage.”

He says nothing to that, but there is a whole paragraph in his silence.

I ignore it.

Someone gets up to order another round, and the conversation fractures into smaller ones. Publishing gossip. Office politics. A truly vicious discussion about deckled edges. I lean back a little and let it wash over me. There is comfort in listening without contributing, in being just present.

I had not planned on taking the Toronto job when I first interviewed for it. That sounds ridiculous now, given that I accepted it less than forty-eight hours later, but at the time it had felt theoretical. Flattering, but theoretical. A possibility in a different lane of my life.

Then it became real all at once.

A job offer. A relocation package. A start date.

A sequence of practical decisions made quickly enough that none of the emotional ones had time to put their shoes on.

I tell people it feels like the right moment for a change.

I do not tell them that sometimes I walk around my house in Hampstead and feel like I am haunting it.

It is a nice house. Small, but beautiful in a London way. I have worked hard for it. I have designer shelves, decent art, and a kitchen that suggests someone in it has strong opinions about olive oil.

Most evenings, though, it is just me and Heath.

Heath, who is adorable, unreasonable, and emotionally unstable enough that I have had to explain to more than one vet that yes, my Chinese hamster really does seem to panic-shit when left alone too long.

And there is no denying it: buying a hamster at forty-two is not the act of a man in the middle of a rich and bustling personal life.

It is the act of a man who tells himself he enjoys his own company and then names a rodent Hamster Heath from Hampstead Heath because there is nobody there to stop him.

I rub the condensation off my glass with my thumb.

“Penny for your thoughts,” says Luke.

“That would barely cover the cost of one.”

He studies me for a moment. “Are you actually looking forward to this?”

There it is. Straight through the ribs.

I give him a look. “I’d ask if you could be less direct, but I know that would confuse you.”

“I’m not fishing for reassurance. I genuinely want to know if you want to go.”

Around us, the noise of the pub swells and shifts. Somebody starts singing very badly near the toilets. It is impossible to tell whether they are drunk or merely optimistic.

I keep my gaze on the table. “I do,” I say, which is true enough to be useful.

Luke waits.

“It’s a good job,” I add.

He says nothing.

I sigh. “And yes, before you say it, I know that isn’t what you asked.”

I look up at him.

“I think,” I say slowly, “that wanting to go and wanting to leave aren’t necessarily the same thing.”

He nods in agreement.

“That,” he says, “is the first intelligent thing you’ve said all evening.”

“Thank you.”

He takes a sip of wine. “For what it’s worth, I think taking the job is sensible.”

“Ah. The sweet balm of your support.”