There is enough pointed meaning in the word lovely that I rub a hand over my mouth.
“Mum.”
“What? I’m being polite.”
Philip glances sideways at me.
There is accusation in it.
Also reluctant amusement.
I squeeze his thigh once more, briefly.
He nearly chokes on his coffee.
Worth it.
“How long have you been in Whitstable, Philip?” Mum asks.
Philip clears his throat.
“Since yesterday.”
Mum’s eyebrows climb.
She turns slightly and mouths something to Dad that I do not need to hear to know exactly what it is.
I look out towards the patio and pretend not to notice.
This is going excellently.
“And what do you do, Philip?” Mum asks, settling in like she has all the time in the world and a fresh source of entertainment.
Philip glances sideways at me.
I keep my face studiously neutral.
Cowardice is no longer an option.
“I’m an editor.”
Mum blinks.
“Books?”
Philip nods.
“Yes.”
“Well,” she says, visibly delighted by this entirely separate development, “that sounds glamorous.”
Philip gives a small laugh. “It’s mostly deadlines and people panicking in emails, but occasionally there are books.”
Mum waves a hand.
“Do you know anyone famous?”
Philip hesitates.
