Because “your hamster is internet famous” is a thin disguise for I miss you enough to invent reasons.
Heath lifts his head from the bowl.
Looks at me.
Chews.
I point the fork at him.
“This is your fault.”
He resumes eating with all the concern of a freeloader.
I shove another mouthful of pasta into my face and try very hard not to think about what time it is in Toronto.
Which, naturally, makes me think about exactly that.
Early afternoon there now.
Philip in some rented apartment.
Probably unpacking.
Probably working.
Probably not thinking about Whitstable, me, or one emotionally unstable hamster in North London.
I tighten my grip on the fork.
The irritating thing is not that I miss him.
That part is obvious.
The irritating thing is that I have absolutely no right to.
Chapter 16
Philip
By the end ofmy second week in Toronto, I know three important things.
The coffee in the office is drinkable if desperate.
The lift on the left makes a noise between floors eleven and twelve that suggests a minor mechanical death.
And if someone says they are “just circling back”, they are about to ruin your afternoon.
In other words, publishing remains publishing.
New country, same office diplomacy.
I am settling in.
That is what I tell people when they ask, and for once it is not entirely a polite lie.
My flat is starting to look less like somewhere a businessman was murdered in the nineties. I have unpacked my books, bought proper mugs, and found a supermarket where basic groceries do not require a payment plan. I know which route to the office gets me decent coffee and which route traps me behind tourists who walk four abreast like they are recreating a historical march.
The job is good.
