Chapter 17
Philip
Amonth in, Toronto has stopped feeling temporary.
Not home yet.
That would be generous.
But no longer like I am sleeping in someone else’s life.
The boxes are gone. My books are on shelves.
I have acquired a plant from a woman in the office who insisted the flat needed “something alive” and then looked at me as though I had personally failed every windowsill in Canada.
I know where to get decent coffee, where to avoid at rush hour, and which meetings can be survived by looking thoughtful and saying, “I think we need to consider positioning.”
In short, I am functioning.
Convincingly enough that some days I almost believe it.
It is Saturday morning, grey and cold enough that the city outside my windows looks offended by its own existence, and I am halfway through answering emails when my phone rings.
Sophie.
I answer immediately.
“What’s happened?”
“Possibly nothing,” Sophie says, which is never a reassuring opening, “but Jamie has just shown me an Instagram account for a hamster called Heath and I have questions.”
I frown.
“There are many hamsters in the world.”
“Yes, but not many called Heath.”
“That proves absolutely nothing.”
“The hamster also appears to belong to someone called Mark.”
I go still.
Sophie hears it.
“Oh,” she says slowly. “Interesting.”
“Send me the link.”
“Philip.”
“Sophie.”
“Fine. But if this is connected to Whitstable Tattoo Man, I expect gossip.”
“You’ll get none.”
“We’ll see.”
The text comes through a second later.
I hang up before she can continue being nosy and tap the link.
Instagram opens.
@hamsteroftheheath
For a second I just stare.
Then I laugh under my breath.
“No.”
The profile picture is Heath glaring suspiciously out from the fold of blue wool.
My chest tightens.
Apparently Heath living in hats was not a one-off travel arrangement but now an accepted household standard.
I read the bio.
London rodent. Survivor of seagull attacks. Collector of hats.
I sink onto the sofa.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
That is Heath.
That is Mark.
No one else on earth would describe my hamster as a survivor of seagull attacks.
I start scrolling.
First post.
Heath tucked into the blue beanie, only his nose and eyes visible.
Caption: New residence. Same anxiety.
I laugh.
Actually laugh.
Because it is ridiculous and because it is painfully, unmistakably right.
Second post.
Heath sitting in a food bowl.
Caption: I was informed this was enrichment. I disagree.
Third post.
A video.
Heath climbing over Mark’s tattooed forearm while Mark says in the background, “You are literally climbing onto me and still look offended.”
My breath catches.
That voice.
Low, dry, amused.
I have not heard it in a month.
And hearing it now feels disarmingly immediate, like someone has opened a door I had put furniture against.
I keep scrolling.
Heath in another hat.
Heath glaring from inside a cardboard tube.
Heath asleep under a folded flannel.
There are far more posts than I expected.
And far more followers.
Thousands.
I stare at the number.
My hamster has developed a stronger fan base in four weeks than I have managed in nearly forty years.
That feels unnecessary.
I am still trying to process that when I reach the newest post.
And stop breathing.
It is a photo of Mark on the sofa.
Shirtless.
Flat on his back, one arm bent behind his head, Heath sprawled across the centre of his chest as if this is his assigned throne.
Mark’s skin still slightly flushed. Tattoos stark against bare skin. He is looking down at Heath with a small, helplessly fond expression.
Caption: Post-run recovery with my emotional support housemate. He contributed nothing except judgement.
I stare.
This is profoundly unfair.
Because it is Heath.
Because it is Mark.
Because there is something so stupidly easy and domestic about the picture that my chest twists before I can stop it.
I zoom in.
A low point, personally.
Heath looks furious.
Mark looks comfortable.
At home.
And suddenly every post before this rearranges itself into something more dangerous than funny.
Mark cleaning Heath’s cage.
Mark’s voice in the background of videos.
Mark casually surrendering knitwear to rodent occupation.
Ordinary evenings and ordinary mornings I was not expecting to see again.
My phone rings.
I accept the call on speaker and keep my eyes on the screen
“Well?” Sophie demands.
I let out a slow breath.
“You may have found him.”
There is a sharp inhale.
“Oh my God.”
“Please don’t.”
“No, I’m sorry, but this is objectively incredible.”
“It really isn’t.”
“Philip, your hamster is internet famous.”
“Yes, I’ve gathered that.”
“And Tattoo Whitstable is shirtless on the internet?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“How do you know he’s shirtless?”
“Because I looked at the account too. I’m not an amateur.”
I close my eyes.
“Of course you did.”
She goes quiet for a moment.
Then, softer, “You miss him.”
I lean back against the sofa.
“I miss the hamster,” I say.
“Liar.”
I say nothing.
Across an ocean, my sister waits me out.
“I haven’t spoken to him in a month,” I admit eventually.
“And now he’s in your living room.”
I stare at the phone.
At the image of Mark’s sofa.
Mark’s chest.
Heath in his ridiculous hat.
She is right.
That is exactly what this feels like.
Not memory.
Presence.
Sophie says, “Are you going to message him?”
I should say no.
Instead I hear myself ask, “Would that be a terrible idea?”
“Yes.”
I wait.
Then she adds, “But less terrible than staring at his nipples for the next six hours.”
I open my eyes.
“I hate you.”
“You zoomed in.”
I hang up on her.
Then I sit there in silence, Instagram still open, Mark still shirtless, Heath still furious.
This is absurd.
I am a grown man with a senior editorial role in Toronto.
I should not be emotionally destabilised by rodent content.
And yet.
My thumb hovers over the message icon.
No contact for a month.
Exactly what I asked for.
A clean line.
This account should not change that.
Except suddenly the line feels fake.
Artificial.
Like the universe has quietly pushed Mark back into my day and is waiting.
I open messages.
Type three different openings.
Delete all of them.
Hi, I found the hamster account and am apparently jealous.
No.
So Heath has become more famous than both of us combined.
Absolutely not.
Why are you shirtless on the internet?
Jeez.
I rub a hand over my face.
Then I type:
I appear to have discovered that my hamster has become an online public figure.
I stare at it.
Neutral enough.
Light enough.
Nowhere near honest enough to be dangerous.
My thumb hovers.
Then I hit send.
And just like that, after four weeks of silence, Mark is back on my screen.