“Think of it more like Pete being a participation trophy. One for both of you.”
I laugh despite myself. “Fine. But if he turns out to be some devastatingly handsome lawyer with a six-pack, I reserve the right to panic.”
“Mate, if he’s a devastatingly handsome lawyer with a six-pack, you’ll be too busy imagining throuple Pilates to panic.”
“You know what I mean,”
Craig sighs. “Okay. Just… be yourself. James will most likely be lovely. He’ll want to welcome you, to support Pete. So, relax. Enjoy it.”
Easy for him to say.
I’m less about relaxing and enjoying, more catastrophising and overthinking.
We say our goodbyes and I hang up.
I ask ChatGPT for tips on how to look casual when meeting your new boyfriend’s husband, which gives some questionable advice, although it does suggest I consider my exit strategy beforehand.
Damn, one more thing to think about.
The taxi drives me out past the Downs to Pete and James’s place. From the address, I can somewhat imagine where I am going, but my stomach along with my brain is spiralling as we approach our final destination.
The house looms like something out of a period drama where everyone has terrible secrets and matching candleholders. A massive,gated property, stone pillars, lights glowing warmly against the night. The kind of place where you half-expect Judi Dench to open the door and say “we’ve been expecting you.”
Instead, it’s Pete.
“Tom!” he says, smile as bright as ever. Relief hits me like caffeine. He looks so normal here, even against the backdrop of grandeur. Blue jumper, jeans, that grin that makes my chest fizz. For a moment, it’s easy.
Then he steps aside, and there’s James.
Handsome, of course. Tall, dark hair swept back like he’s in a whisky advert. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to look effortless. But the air shifts the second his eyes land on me. Cold. Measuring. Like I’m a candidate he didn’t want to interview.
“Tom,” Pete says, voice light, “this is James.”
James’s handshake is firm, too firm, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hello,” he says.
Very formal.
Cold as ice.
Immediately, my heart sinks. My rational brain had agreed with Craig’s opinion, that James would be warm and welcoming, to support his partner.
But this was anything but.
I audibly gulp.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I then say.
I feel like I should bow?
James offers a hand to shake.
Shake his hand normally. Not too limp. Not too hard. God, why are you thinking about limpness right now?
We shake hands, eyes locked. It’s uncomfortably intimate.
Behind them, another voice cuts in. “Ooh, so this is Tom.”
A young handsome chap darts across the room. Thirties, messy hair, energy like a golden retriever that’s discovered tequila and decided to start a podcast about it. He bounds over, grinning. “I’m Sam. I’ve heard so much. Welcome to the lion’s den.”
