Philip closes his eyes briefly.
Mum goes very still.
Dad lowers his newspaper.
“Oh?” Mum says.
I set my coffee down.
Then get up and walk round the breakfast bar.
Philip watches me approach with the wary expression of a man who knows he is about to be betrayed.
I sit on the stool beside him instead, close enough that our knees knock lightly.
His eyebrows pull together.
I angle the phone so we are both in frame.
Then, under the counter, I give his thigh a gentle squeeze.
It says: relax. I’m not throwing you to wolves.
Some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
Only some.
“Philip,” I say.
He turns slowly to the screen.
There is resignation in the look he gives me.
But no panic now.
“Hello.”
Mum’s face lights up.
“Oh, hello, Philip.”
Dad lowers the paper enough to wave from behind her.
Philip lifts one hand awkwardly.
“Hello, Mr and Mrs Harris.”
“Oh none of that,” Mum says immediately. “You’ll make us sound ancient.”
“We are ancient,” Dad calls.
Philip lets out a small laugh.
I feel it more than hear it, because he is close enough now that our arms are almost touching.
Mum notices everything, naturally.
“Well,” she says brightly, “it’s lovely to meet you.”
