“Either.”
I consider lying. It would be very easy. I am excellent at reassuring other people with half the truth.
Instead I shrug. “A bit.”
“That’s normal.”
“Mm.”
“You’ll be amazing.”
“There goes my entire editorial routine,” Luke mutters. “Two years of training you to anticipate my moods and now you’re emigrating.”
Becca throws a beer mat at him, which he catches one-handed without looking. I can’t help but laugh.
For all his cultivated misery, Luke is irritatingly loyal. He has not come tonight because he enjoys group social events. He would rather lick a bus window. He is here because this is one of the last chances we get to do this.
“Nothing changes for you,” I tell him. “You just get your commas corrected remotely. Do try to remember time zones before emailing me one of your literary emergencies.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I already have Toronto on my phone.”
“I’m touched.”
“Don’t be. It’s entirely selfish. If you have a breakdown due to lack of sleep, I’ll have to find a new editor and I’m too old to build trust with strangers.”
“You’re forty.”
“Exactly.”
Across the table, Ollie raises his glass again. “Seriously, though. We are all very proud of you, Philip.”
That lands more softly than the earlier teasing, and for a moment the table quiets around the edges.
I hate sincerity when I’m in the centre of it.
“Thank you,” I say, because I’m not a monster.
“And devastated for ourselves,” says Becca. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I agree.
“You’ve set the bar unreasonably high,” says Julia from production. “The next person better be charming, terrifying, and able to spot a continuity error from across a room.”
“That’s no one,” says Ollie.
Luke takes a sip of wine. “Most people have at least one terrible flaw.”
That gets a laugh.
“Do you know, for somebody whose career depends on language, you’re really very lazy with it,” I tease him.
He shrugs. “Efficiency.”
I let the laughter carry me for a few seconds. It is easier that way, being the version of myself everyone understands. Funny. Competent. Easy to have around.
I have spent a long time being the least difficult person in the room.
My phone buzzes against the table. I glance down and see a photo notification from my sister. For one mad second, I think Sophie might have sent me something sentimental and brace accordingly. Instead it is a picture of Jamie wearing a saucepan on his head and what appears to be a school jumper on one leg.
