Chapter 11
Mark
Philip is still looking at me when I lean across the breakfast bar.
I kiss him because it feels easier than sitting inside that look for too long.
Slow this time.
Not the quick amused brushes from earlier.
Something quieter.
His mouth melts against mine almost immediately, warm coffee on his breath, one hand coming up to rest against my wrist.
I let it linger.
Long enough to feel the shift of his breathing.
Long enough that when I pull back, his eyes stay closed for half a second before opening.
My heart gives a stupid little stutter at that.
“The upside of all the engineering nonsense,” I say, because I apparently cannot leave a moment alone, “is that I can now spend unreasonable amounts of time hiding in a garage with old cars and call it work.”
Philip huffs a laugh.
“A noble use of global success.”
“I think so.”
“You’re basically a very wealthy grease monkey.”
“That feels rude.”
“It was affectionate.”
I chuckle and reach for my coffee.
Philip picks up another hash brown.
I watch his fingers close around it and have the deeply inconvenient thought that I could get used to this far too quickly.
My phone starts vibrating against the counter.
I glance at the screen.
Mum video calling.
Of course.
I answer before she can hang up and immediately escalate to Dad, because she’ll assume I’ve been murdered.
Mum’s face fills the screen.
“Well,” she says, “you do still exist.”
“Morning to you too.”
Behind her is the familiar blur of my parents’ kitchen. Dad with a newspaper. Someone small tearing past the doorway, which means my brother is already there with the kids.
Mum peers at me.
“You look suspiciously cheerful.”
“I’m eating breakfast.”
“Hm.”
Her eyes narrow.
I become aware, rather unhelpfully, that Philip is sitting directly opposite me in my T-shirt and boxers, halfway through a hash brown.
He lowers his gaze very firmly to his plate as if he is suddenly fascinated by poached eggs.
I bite back a smile.
Mum catches it instantly.
“What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing.”
“You are.”
“I’m eating.”
“You don’t smile at eggs, Mark.”
Across from me Philip lifts his eyes and gives me a very clear don’t you dare.
I consider it.
Ignore it.
“Are you alone?” Mum asks.
I take a sip of coffee.
“No.”
Philip closes his eyes briefly.
Mum goes very still.
Dad lowers his newspaper.
“Oh?” Mum says.
I set my coffee down.
Then get up and walk round the breakfast bar.
Philip watches me approach with the wary expression of a man who knows he is about to be betrayed.
I sit on the stool beside him instead, close enough that our knees knock lightly.
His eyebrows pull together.
I angle the phone so we are both in frame.
Then, under the counter, I give his thigh a gentle squeeze.
It says: relax. I’m not throwing you to wolves.
Some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
Only some.
“Philip,” I say.
He turns slowly to the screen.
There is resignation in the look he gives me.
But no panic now.
“Hello.”
Mum’s face lights up.
“Oh, hello, Philip.”
Dad lowers the paper enough to wave from behind her.
Philip lifts one hand awkwardly.
“Hello, Mr and Mrs Harris.”
“Oh none of that,” Mum says immediately. “You’ll make us sound ancient.”
“We are ancient,” Dad calls.
Philip lets out a small laugh.
I feel it more than hear it, because he is close enough now that our arms are almost touching.
Mum notices everything, naturally.
“Well,” she says brightly, “it’s lovely to meet you.”
There is enough pointed meaning in the word lovely that I rub a hand over my mouth.
“Mum.”
“What? I’m being polite.”
Philip glances sideways at me.
There is accusation in it.
Also reluctant amusement.
I squeeze his thigh once more, briefly.
He nearly chokes on his coffee.
Worth it.
“How long have you been in Whitstable, Philip?” Mum asks.
Philip clears his throat.
“Since yesterday.”
Mum’s eyebrows climb.
She turns slightly and mouths something to Dad that I do not need to hear to know exactly what it is.
I look out towards the patio and pretend not to notice.
This is going excellently.
“And what do you do, Philip?” Mum asks, settling in like she has all the time in the world and a fresh source of entertainment.
Philip glances sideways at me.
I keep my face studiously neutral.
Cowardice is no longer an option.
“I’m an editor.”
Mum blinks.
“Books?”
Philip nods.
“Yes.”
“Well,” she says, visibly delighted by this entirely separate development, “that sounds glamorous.”
Philip gives a small laugh. “It’s mostly deadlines and people panicking in emails, but occasionally there are books.”
Mum waves a hand.
“Do you know anyone famous?”
Philip hesitates.
I can practically see him debating whether there is a safe answer to that.
Apparently deciding there isn’t, he says, “A few.”
Mum leans closer to the screen.
“Anyone I’d know?”
Philip names two people I vaguely recognise and Mum nods politely but without much spark.
Then Philip adds, “John Brooks is one of my regular clients.”
There is a full second of silence.
Mum gasps.
Actually gasps.
Dad lowers the newspaper completely.
“No,” Mum says.
Philip blinks.
“Yes?”
“Not John Brooks.”
Philip looks briefly alarmed, as though he may have accidentally disclosed state secrets.
“Yes?”
Mum clutches a hand dramatically to her chest.
“I love The Ashmoor Murders.”
Dad snorts. “You love all of them.”
“I do,” she says, not taking her eyes off Philip. “I have read every single John Brooks book.”
Philip laughs nervously.
Mum points at the screen.
“You are coming to Sunday lunch.”
Philip chokes.
Beside me, I feel the jolt run through him.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s very kind but—”
“No, no, absolutely,” Mum says. “I insist. Anyone who knows John Brooks and can explain to me whether he’s really killing off Detective Marsh in the next one is welcome in my house.”
“Mum,” I mutter.
“What? This is important.”
Philip is laughing now, faintly pink around the ears, but I can feel the hesitation returning under it.
The caution.
The too much too soon.
He glances at me.
I don’t say anything.
Partly because Mum has already bulldozed the invitation into existence.
Partly because I suddenly realise, with a small drop in my stomach, that I want him to say yes.
More than I should.
Philip clears his throat.
“That’s genuinely lovely of you,” he says, “but I need to see my sister tomorrow.”
Mum pauses.
“Oh?”
Philip nods.
“She lives not far from here, and this may be my only chance before I leave for Toronto on Wednesday.”
Wednesday.
The word lands with an odd, unpleasant heaviness.
Philip leaves on Wednesday.
That has been built into every hour of this from the beginning.
Temporary.
Contained.
Safe in the way deadlines are supposed to make things safe.
And yet hearing him say it now, with his leg pressed against mine and my mother already trying to claim him for Sunday lunch, makes the date feel suddenly less theoretical.
Less like information.
More like a wall.
Beside me Philip is still smiling, apologetic and warm.
“I promised my sister I’d come by,” he says. “And I don’t know when I’ll see her again once I’m gone.”
“Oh, of course,” Mum says at once, all sympathy now. “Family first.”
Dad nods from behind his paper as though he personally approves this message.
Mum sighs.
“Well, that is disappointing, but understandable.”
Philip smiles.
“Thank you for the invite.”
“And if plans change,” she says, pointing at the screen, “you come for lunch.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
He says it kindly enough that Mum accepts defeat with only moderate visible reluctance.
I keep my face neutral.
Keep my hand resting where it is against Philip’s thigh.
Keep my breathing even.
Wednesday.
Three days.
Not even that, really.
Today is half gone already.
I hate that my brain does that maths automatically.
Mum is still talking.
Dad says something about the children.
Philip laughs politely.
I answer where required.
But part of me has snagged on that one sentence and refuses to move on.
Because it reminds me that Philip is already speaking in departures.
Already arranging goodbyes.
Already fitting this weekend around the life that starts somewhere else.
Eventually Mum winds down enough to let us go.
I end the call and set the phone face down on the counter.
The kitchen falls quiet again.
Philip lets out a breath beside me.
“Well,” he says.
I huff a faint laugh.
“Sorry about that.”
He smiles sideways at me.
“She’s intense.”
“That’s a polite version.”
“She’s lovely.”
I nod once.
But my chest still feels oddly tight.
I get up and walk back round to my side of the breakfast bar, more because I need movement than because I need coffee.
Philip watches me.
I can feel it.
“You alright?” he asks.
Casual question.
Not casual answer.
I stare out through the glass doors towards the pale line of sea beyond the garden.
Then say, before I can edit myself into something less honest, “Sounds different when you say it out loud.”
There’s a pause behind me.
Not long but long enough.
“Wednesday?” Philip asks quietly.
I nod.
Silence stretches for a second.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer.
“Yeah.”
Just that.
Yeah.
No joke.
Because he knows exactly what I mean.
And the fact that he knows makes the kitchen feel smaller somehow.
Like the walls have moved in around the one thing we have both been politely not touching.
The end of this.
Or what is supposed to be the end of this.