I smile before I can stop myself.
Beneath it, she has written:
Jamie says this is airport fashion. Thought you’d want inspiration.
Me
Tell Jamie his vision is ahead of its time.
Sophie
Noah says don’t forget he still expects Canadian sweets.
I put the phone down and feel the familiar tug in my chest. The move has felt practical right up until this moment, which is irritating given that this moment involves a saucepan.
I take another sip of my beer.
“Family?” Becca asks.
“My nephew appears to be dressing for Heathrow like a tiny eccentric with no adult supervision.”
“Good for him.”
“He’s six. He can carry it off.”
Luke glances at me. “You’ll miss them.”
It is not really a question.
I shift one shoulder. “There are planes. Video calls. Excessive bribery through imported gifts. We’ll manage.”
He says nothing to that, but there is a whole paragraph in his silence.
I ignore it.
Someone gets up to order another round, and the conversation fractures into smaller ones. Publishing gossip. Office politics. A truly vicious discussion about deckled edges. I lean back a little and let it wash over me. There is comfort in listening without contributing, in being just present.
I had not planned on taking the Toronto job when I first interviewed for it. That sounds ridiculous now, given that I accepted it less than forty-eight hours later, but at the time it had felt theoretical. Flattering, but theoretical. A possibility in a different lane of my life.
Then it became real all at once.
A job offer. A relocation package. A start date.
A sequence of practical decisions made quickly enough that none of the emotional ones had time to put their shoes on.
I tell people it feels like the right moment for a change.
I do not tell them that sometimes I walk around my house in Hampstead and feel like I am haunting it.
It is a nice house. Small, but beautiful in a London way. I have worked hard for it. I have designer shelves, decent art, and a kitchen that suggests someone in it has strong opinions about olive oil.
Most evenings, though, it is just me and Heath.
Heath, who is adorable, unreasonable, and emotionally unstable enough that I have had to explain to more than one vet that yes, my Chinese hamster really does seem to panic-shit when left alone too long.
And there is no denying it: buying a hamster at forty-two is not the act of a man in the middle of a rich and bustling personal life.
It is the act of a man who tells himself he enjoys his own company and then names a rodent Hamster Heath from Hampstead Heath because there is nobody there to stop him.
