Not a joke this time.
Just… acceptance.
He nods once, like that settles it.
“We get Heath,” he says.
“We get Heath.”
Definitely not how I saw my evening go.
Chapter 5
Philip
Whitstable at night isquieter than I expect.
Not silent. There’s still the distant sound of water, the occasional car, something metallic shifting in the wind that I can’t quite place. But compared to London, it resembles a ghost town.
I step out of the car, gravel crunching underfoot, Heath’s carrier balanced carefully in my hand.
“This is you?” I ask as Mark unlocks the door.
“Yeah.”
I take in the house now that I’m standing in front of it. Low, clean lines. Wide windows. The sort of place that looks understated until you realise that understatement is doing quite a lot of heavy lifting.
“You’ve got a very weird definition of cottage,” I say.
“What would you call it?”
“It’s a swanky beach house, Mark.”
He glances at it, then back at me, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Get inside.”
Mark switches on the light, stepping aside as I move past him.
The space opens up immediately. Kitchen and living area in one long stretch, all white wood and clean edges softened with muted sea greens and blues.
There’s a calm to it. Not sterile. Not staged. Just… deliberate.
At the far end, a full glass front stretches across the back of the house. Leading out onto what I assume is a patio. Beyond that, darkness, broken only by the faint line of a lit footpath cutting through it. The sea must be there, somewhere just past it, but at this time of night it’s more suggestion than fact.
To the side, narrow stairs lead up, tucked neatly against the wall, as if someone decided space should be used sensibly but still look good doing it.
I become aware, belatedly, that I’m standing in the middle of it, taking it all in like I’ve arrived for a viewing rather than… whatever this is.
Mark brushes past me, easy, carrying my bag like it weighs nothing. He sets it down beside the stairs.
I watch him for a second longer than necessary.
Then he turns back to me, gaze dropping briefly to the carrier in my hand.
“How’s Heath doing?” he asks.
I set Heath down on the kitchen island and pull the small blanket from the cage, fingers careful, already bracing for whatever state he’s worked himself into.
“Come on, mate,” I murmur, easing the material back.
