My phone vibrates. Craig. Finally. I stare at his name and let it go to voicemail because obviously the worst time to be sensible is the exact moment sense calls you.
The landscape opens out into wind, space and drama. The Clifton Suspension Bridge stretches ahead, all graceful arches and bad decisions. Below, the Avon Gorge glints dully.
James doesn’t even pause to admire it, which somehow makes it worse. He walks right to the edge near St Vincent Rocks, where the ground slopes down in patches of scrub and limestone. It’s quieter here. The joggers have thinned out, replaced by couples taking photos and teenagers pretending not to vape.
The wind picks up, sharp and metallic. It tugs at my coat, my nerves, my common sense.
James stops, checks his watch, then looks down the path leading to the viewpoint.
Someone’s already there — waiting.
A face I recognise.
Phil.
Craig’s husband, Phil.
Chapter 41
TOM
Phil.
For a second my brain refuses the data, like a computer that’s decided “no thank you” to the update.
Phil, cardiganed, kind-eyed, king of Bakewell tarts—standing at the railing by St Vincent Rocks as if he’s meeting a man to talk about bin collections and not James Bloody Whitlow. He doesn’t look shocked to see James. He looks… ready. Braced. Arms folded, jaw set, like someone who has rehearsed a speech on the drive over and intends to deliver every word without blinking.
How do they know each other?
Does Craig know? Of course, Craig knows. Craig knows everything. But also: surely not? If he knew, he would’ve said. Wouldn’t he?
I duck behind a clump of gorse that is doing nothing for my outfit or dignity and pretend I am simply a shrub with trust issues. From here I can see them in profile. James says something first — short, clipped. Phil shakes his head. James’s shoulders go up. Phil steps closer. Whatever Phil says next makes James flinch like he’s been tapped on the sternum.
I’m too far to hear, which of course means my mind obligingly supplies dialogue.
PHIL: “Stop hurting Pete.”
JAMES: “Mind your own business.”
PHIL: “This is my business.”
JAMES: “I have exquisite cheekbones.”
PHIL: “Irrelevant, but yes you do.”
It isn’t that, obviously.
Phil doesn’t gesticulate. He’s very still, which is somehow worse. James’s hands come out of his pockets and then go back in. A cyclist rattles by with the bell of an ice cream van and both men ignore it, which tells you everything about the mood.
Then it happens — the shift. The argument curdles. Phil says something that makes James — James — step back. His mouth is a hard line now. He looks over Phil’s shoulder at the view as if reminding himself he could throw a person off a cliff with one arm (I don’t think he would; I absolutely think he thinks he could). Then he turns on his heel and storms away along the path, down towards the trees.
My legs move before my ethics can vote. I follow, keeping enough distance to look like coincidence if anyone ever asks.
Phil just turns and looks out to the view, oblivious to me.
My pocket buzzes. Craig.
Of course.
