Chapter 21
Philip
Sophie calls on Sunday afternoon while I am trying to persuade an author that no, his detective cannot “smirk smirkingly” because that is not how adverbs or human faces work.
I put her on speaker and keep typing.
“If Noah has glued Jamie to furniture again, I’m busy.”
“That only happened once.”
“It happened twice.”
“The second time was festive craft.”
“Still adhesive-based imprisonment.”
She ignores me.
“I need to discuss the hamster account.”
I stop typing.
Slowly.
Of course she does.
“Please get a hobby.”
“This is my hobby.”
“This is not a hobby. This is online rodent surveillance.”
“This is quality family content.”
I sigh and reach for my phone.
Instagram opens before I can stop myself.
@hamsteroftheheath sits there like the digital manifestation of several poor life choices.
Sophie says, with zero shame, “Also, I know he’s gay, but your tattooed friend has no business looking like that while holding a hamster.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“He is not my tattooed friend.”
“He is shirtless in at least twelve posts.”
“You counted?”
“I have eyes.”
“You are married.”
“So? I’m not blind.”
I bark out a laugh.
Then glance down at the latest post.
Heath beside a tiny cake with one raspberry balanced on top.
Caption:Three months of surviving this tenancy arrangement.
I smile before I can stop it.
Sophie catches the silence immediately.
“There. That.”
“What?”
“That little fond smile you do now.”
“I did not smile.”
“You absolutely smiled.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“You never hang up. You’re too nosy.”
Unfortunately, this is true.
I keep scrolling.
Heath in sunglasses.
Heath asleep in the blue beanie.
Heath glaring at strawberries.
Heath sprawled on Mark’s chest like he is staking a claim.
Sophie lets out a dreamy sigh.
“Honestly, I still maintain this account is catnip for middle-aged women.”
“He is gay,” I remind her.
“Yes, and I am married. We have established that no one is getting lucky here.”
I snort.
Then Sophie says, “Actually, hold on.”
Her tone changes.
Less teasing.
More analytical.
I recognise that tone too. It is the one she uses when Jamie has hidden a crayon in a radiator and she’s triangulating damage.
“What?”
“Check out the location tags.”
I frown.
“What location tags?”
“The Whitstable ones.”
I scroll back to the latest post.
Whitstable.
I had noticed that already, vaguely, but not enough to think about it.
Sophie says, “Now keep going.”
I scroll.
Two weeks back. London.
A week before that. London.
Then:
Month two of my new lifestyle. Still not a fan of seagulls.
Photo of Heath asleep in the blue beanie on the patio table.
Whitstable.
My thumb pauses.
I scroll further.
Heath on the windowsill with sea behind him.
Whitstable.
I sit up straighter.
Sophie is very quiet now.
Which I distrust more than her talking.
“You seeing it?” she asks.
I clear my throat.
“Seeing what?”
“Philip.”
“I see that he likes Whitstable.”
“Mmhm.”
“It is a nice place.”
“Keep scrolling.”
I do.
The dates sit under each post.
01 May.
01 June.
Today. 06 July.
My stomach drops.
No.
That cannot be deliberate.
Can it?
I scroll back up.
Then down again.
Then up.
Like the dates might rearrange themselves if I stare hard enough.
Sophie says, “One month after you left.”
I say nothing.
“Then two months.”
Still nothing.
“And now three.”
I lean back in my chair.
“He owns a coastal house. He goes to the coastal house.”
“On the exact monthly anniversary?”
“He could have a schedule.”
Sophie laughs.
“A schedule?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
I open my mouth.
Close it again.
I have absolutely nothing.
She pounces immediately.
“Thought so.”
“You are stalking a hamster account with CSI levels of commitment.”
“And thank God I am, because apparently one of us needs to.”
I stare at the newest photo again.
Heath and the stupid little cake.
Three months.
Three months of surviving this tenancy arrangement.
My chest feels odd.
Not bad.
Just… unsettled.
Because now I am looking not just at a hamster birthday post but at a timestamp.
A marker.
A monthly return.
And suddenly the early morning accidental phone call from Whitstable last month does not feel like a random trip.
It feels like part of a pattern.
A pattern I somehow missed while being in it.
Sophie says, softer now, “That’s not normal casual hamster management, you know.”
I let out a breath.
“No,” I admit. “No.”
There is a beat.
Then Sophie inhales sharply.
“Oh my God.”
I frown.
“What now?”
“Zoom in.”
“On what?”
“The latest picture. Right-hand side. Behind the cake.”
I squint at the screen.
“Behind the cake is a fruit bowl.”
“No, behind that. There’s something on the sideboard.”
I zoom.
At first it is just blur. Kitchen counter. Tea towel. A dark rectangle half hidden behind a jar.
Then the image sharpens.
And everything in me goes still.
My chair gives a faint creak as I lean closer.
No.
That is—
“Philip?” Sophie says.
I don’t answer.
Because there, tucked against the wall on Mark’s sideboard, is a black photo frame.
And inside it is me and Mark.
Whitstable seafront.
Mark holding the phone out with one arm, grinning into the wind.
Me beside him, half laughing, half swearing because he took the photo without warning and a gust had nearly sent Heath’s carrier sliding off the wall.
I remember the exact second.
I remember telling him we looked ridiculous.
I remember him saying that was the point.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“He framed it,” I say.
“Yes.”
I keep staring.
At the frame.
At us.
Not Heath.
Not a scenic picture of the sea.
Us.
Sitting there in Mark’s kitchen as if that photograph has become part of the furniture.
Part of the house.
Part of his life.
I hear myself say, because some part of my brain is still committed to denial, “Maybe he just liked the picture.”
Sophie is silent for one beat.
Then, very gently, “Do you believe that?”
No.
Not even slightly.
And that is suddenly a much bigger problem than the photograph itself.
I stare at the framed photograph for another ten minutes after Sophie hangs up.
Possibly longer.
Long enough that Instagram dims twice, which feels unnecessarily judgemental from an app built entirely on thirst traps and sponsored teeth whitening.
The picture remains exactly where it was.
Annoyingly.
Because some irrational part of me keeps expecting it to vanish if I blink enough.
It does not vanish.
Mark framed it.
Mark drove to Whitstable every month.
Mark called me from that kitchen sounding like I was the first person he wanted to talk to.
I lock my phone.
Unlock it again.
Open our messages.
Stare at the thread.
Close it.
Open it again.
This is pathetic.
I type: Nice cake.
Delete it.
I type: I see Heath remains ungrateful.
Delete that too.
Too normal.
I finally type: Are you busy?
I stare at the words.
Then hit send before common sense can stage an intervention.
The reply comes two minutes later.
Mark
Currently being judged by a hamster for cleaning his cage. Why?
I laugh out loud.
Of course that is what he is doing.
Me
Can you talk?
This time there is no typed response.
Instead my phone rings.
Mark.
My heart starts racing, and I pull in two slow breaths, willing it to settle.
I answer on the second ring.
“Hi.”
Smooth, Philip.
Positively James Bond.
There is a rustle on his end, then Mark’s voice.
“You alright?”
Straight to concern.
No hello.
No joke.
Just that.
I lean back in the desk chair and stare at the ceiling.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then, because he knows me too well now, “That sounded deeply unconvincing.”
I exhale.
“I was talking to Sophie.”
“Ah.”
That one syllable contains an extraordinary amount of sympathy.
“You say that like she’s a natural disaster.”
“She is a natural disaster.”
“Fair.”
I close my eyes.
For a second neither of us says anything.
I can hear faint movement on his end. A cupboard door maybe. Heath rustling. The familiar domestic sounds of a life I am somehow far too tuned into from four thousand miles away.
Mark says, quieter now, “What happened?”
I should have thought of an answer before calling.
Instead I hear myself say, “She was stalking your hamster account.”
He laughs.
A low breath of sound.
“Of course she was.”
“She also maintains your chest has become a public service.”
“Your sister is terrifying.”
“She really is.”
That gets another small laugh.
The tension eases by half an inch.
Not enough.
I grip the phone tighter.
“She noticed the Whitstable posts.”
Silence.
When Mark speaks again, his voice has shifted.
“Right.”
I sit up straighter.
“You knew she’d notice eventually?”
“No.”
“But you knew there was something to notice.”
Another silence.
I hear him move.
Then a cupboard shutting.
Then, “Philip…”
I stand and cross to the window because suddenly sitting feels impossible.
“I didn’t call to interrogate you,” I say.
“Okay?”
I press my forehead briefly to the cool glass.
This was easier in my head.
Everything is easier in my head.
On the phone there are breaths. Timing. The risk of saying the wrong thing and not being able to edit it before it lands.
“She noticed the dates,” I say.
“Mm.”
“One month. Two months. Three months.”
“Yes.”
“You went back every month.”
“Yes.”
I swallow.
“Why?” I ask.
Mark lets out a slow breath.
I hear wind faintly on his end.
Is he outside?
For some reason that matters.
“I like the house,” he says.
I close my eyes.
“That is such complete bullshit.”
He laughs softly.
“Yeah.”
My grip on the phone tightens.
“Then why?”
A seagull cries faintly through his speaker.
Definitely outside.
Whitstable again.
Of course.
Mark is in Whitstable while I am asking him why he keeps going to Whitstable.
My life has become offensively symbolic.
There is a long pause.
Long enough that I think he might not answer.
Then he says, “Because it was good there.”
I lean one hand against the window.
“That’s not very specific.”
“No.”
“Mark.”
He exhales.
When he speaks again, his voice is rougher.
“It was the last place things felt uncomplicated.”
I go very still.
Because that is not what I expected.
Or maybe it is exactly what I expected and that is the issue.
I look down at the city below.
Cars threading through lights.