“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.
