Chapter 27
Twenty Seven
Christian
There’s barely time to consider how risky inviting Asher to the ambassador dinner still is because I have not bloody stopped since I walked into the office on Wednesday morning.
Leo had not been at home when I arrived on Tuesday evening, and when I’d texted him to ask when he’d be home, he’d responded with a brief: ‘Saturday’.
He had to know I knew about his quitting the job in London; he had to have left the city because he knew that I did.
Since I can’t do much about it until Saturday I focus my mind back on the matters in front of me.
Work has been more intense than it had been prior to the heart attack: there’d been a roundtable regarding Ukraine with congressional aides first thing, then a working lunch with the Canadian Ambassador, and then a call with the foreign office in the afternoon.
When I check my personal phone around 2pm, I see a message from Asher: ‘hope today isn’t too crazy.
Take it easy.’ I type back when we stop for comfort breaks, nips to the toilet: ‘It’s beyond crazy.
I miss you. I have your passport.’ He’d responded back with ‘Paris here I come’ and then ‘thank you again’ with a little blue heart.
I wasn’t sure what a blue heart meant, or if it meant anything at all, but I’d sent a single red one back because I knew what that meant.
Thursday is a series of Hill meetings, long and endless, about tariffs, climate cooperation, security guarantees.
It’s diplomacy in its most grinding, relentless form.
It’s the sort of politics that makes me wish I’d stayed in law.
The weekend can’t come quickly enough. As though she can sense it, Bridget calls not long after I get back to the residence to ask if I’ve an answer for her yet, which I tell her I don’t.
I’ve no clue why I haven’t been able to give her one—Chancellor of the Exchequer is one of the Great Offices of State, second only to the PM.
But leaving Washington meant leaving him, and while three months ago I’d have bitten Bridget’s hand off for this, now I feel only indecision and unease.
When I call my mother that night, she tells me she misses me.
She tells me that she and Dad hate how far away I am, that they’re getting too old to travel, and that they can’t remember the last time she saw me.
I apologise, feeling guilty knowing that going back to London should be an easy decision, the least selfish decision, but I still can’t make it.
Standing by the window, looking out over the Capitol dome lit against the night, all I can think is: How can I even consider going back if it means losing Asher? His life is here. His friends are here. And the life I’d take up there couldn’t accommodate him even if it wasn’t.
On Friday, I fly to New York. I should be thinking about financial policy, energy investments, the speeches I have to make, but I’m imagining what my life would look like in No.
11, behind the heavy Georgian windows and endless scrutiny.
There would be no sneaking out to see him, no sneaking him into Downing Street; there would, perhaps, be a few stolen hours a month in some nameless hotel in some random city. The thought is unbearable.
That evening, on the way home from the airport, I direct my driver to his place instead of my own, where we eat tacos on the floor next to the painting he’d been working on that day: oranges and blues and silvers that remind me of the day we’d made love for the first time.
He tells me about his friends, Amata—who I’ll meet at the ambassador’s dinner—and Theo—who I absolutely won’t—and stories about both, which make me laugh harder than I have in years.
I was certain I couldn’t laugh this way anymore.
For years, I thought grief had finished me.
Now I see, now I know, it hasn’t. I’m alive.
More alive than I’ve been for a long time.
It feels very much like something fragile and precious has taken root again inside me, and he’s been the one tending it.
On Saturday afternoon, I’m in my study looking at Asher’s passport, which I’d forgotten to take with me last night, when I hear a commotion in the hallway outside. “Leo? Is that you?” Something clatters to the floor, and there’s a muttered curse.
“Yes.”
“In here, please.” I keep my voice relaxed.
“Dad, I’m exhausted, can we do this later? I really need to shower and—”
“Now, Leo.”
There’s a loud thump, like a dead body hitting the floor, and then the door is pushed open and my son ambles in. My mouth drops open at the sight of him.
“What on earth…”
“Don’t like it then?” He ruffles his hand over his hair. Which is a shocking, bright pink.
“Oh, on the contrary.”
He rolls his eyes. “Is this gonna be a long one? Should I sit down, or what?”
I point at the chair across from my desk.
He ignores it and goes toward the leather sofa by the window and throws himself into it, sullen as a teenager.
From this angle, his hair looks more like candy floss, sunlight bleaching through it.
I take in the rest of his outfit: a tight white T-shirt, which looks to be cut shorter than its original length, shorts, and black Converse, socks pulled up his calves.
The scar running across his right thigh and knee is visible against his skin.
He looks a little tanned, freckles bursting out over his face and body as though he’s spent a few days in the sun somewhere.
Had it been that warm in South Carolina?
He has his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his head resting on that as he stares at me.
He reminds me so much of his mother when he does that—I’d often find Stella at her desk sitting just like this.
It forces me to look away from him for a moment.
“Where have you been? The 1980s?”
“Florida.”
“Well that explains it.”
“Fancied some sun.” He shrugs like that explains anything.
“I thought you were going to South Carolina?”
He looks irritated with me for asking. “I did go to South Carolina, then I went to Florida.”
“I see. Well, since I’m back on my feet and at work, I wondered if you had a date yet for when you’d be going back to work yourself?”
He keeps his expression completely neutral. “I don’t have a date yet, no.”
I nod and wait. After a moment of painful silence, I say, “Anything you want to tell me?”
“I really like that shirt you’re wearing,” he deadpans. “Makes you look ten years younger.”
“Leo,” I warn.
He lets out a noise of exasperation. “What?? What is it you want me to say, fucking hell.”
“I want you to watch your mouth.”
“Fine. What is it you would like me to say, Dad?”
I take a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d left the culture department?”
“Why do you think?”
“I’ve no bloody idea!” I yell, regretting it immediately. “Tell me what’s going on, Leo.”
“Oh, you’re gonna have to be a bit more specific, Dad,” he laughs hollowly. “Dead mum, fucked leg, no job, my dad almost died—my dad who thinks I’m a waste of fucking space—”
“What? No, I do—”
“Guess we can add my hair to the list now, too,” he says right over me.
“Girlfriend left me, too, did you know that? No, probably not. Well, yeah, she did—said I had no ‘life plan’. And that barely covers half of it, so, like, yeah, lot going on at the moment, pops.” Stunned, I take a moment to look at him.
How had I missed this? When had he turned from happy, kind, loyal Leo to this bitter, resentful young man?
“I don’t think you’re a waste of space, Leo, bloody hell, where has that come from?” He shakes his head and refuses to look at me. “Why did you leave the job? Lying to them about a role with me that didn’t exist, do you realise how that looks?”
“Of course that’s what you’re worried about—how it looks.”
“I’m worried about a lot of things right now, son, you mainly.”
He’s already standing from the couch. “Look, Dad. I’m fine, okay. I’m living off savings right now so I’m good for money, you don’t need to worry about me. Are we done?”
I blink, shaking my head. “What? No. We’ve barely bloody started.” I can feel my temper flaring, which is something I rarely let happen with Leo. With anyone. “What have you been doing for the last six months? For work? With your time?”
He gives me a look, like he’s debating something. “Nothing,” he says.
“Nothing?”
“Yeah. Not a thing.”
I suck in a deep breath, trying desperately for patience. As I’m about to open my mouth, my mobile rings, the name flashing across the screen is Jasmine Thewlis. The same Jasmine Thewlis who happens to be Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
“Don’t worry about it, Dad. I’ll see myself out.”
“This conversation isn’t finished, Leo.”
“Sure, Dad. Stick something in the diary and we’ll circle back,” he says as he pulls the office door closed behind him. With another deep breath, I answer the call.
“Prime Minister,” I greet. “Nice to hear from you.”
“You’ve called me worse, Chris,” Jasmine says with a familiar, throaty laugh. “How the devil are you?”
“Fair to middling. You?”
“Ha. Fucking awful. Whoever said this job was the pinnacle of politics was a bald-faced liar. Worst job on the planet, I tell you.”
“Well, you were given a bit of a poisoned chalice, Jaz; it’s not all down to you.”
“Oh, I know, I know, and I’ve my eye on the door now, so it’s already better than it was yesterday.”
“So, what can I do for you?” I can pretty much guess.
“I know you’ve spoken with Bridge. I also know you’ve not given her an answer yet.
So I thought I’d call and extend the offer in person.
Also, Lyle took a bit of a turn for the worse, so there’s a statement going out tomorrow, but he’s effectively gone.
Your coming into 11 now would be a godsend, Christian. ”
“Right.”
“I also wanted to call to give you the good news. Adrian is out.”
“Out?”