Chapter 9 #2
He gives a small grin, and something flutters inside me.
I hold his gaze, trying to understand why I have this reaction to him.
Sure, he’s incredibly good-looking, but I’m used to attractive men.
I was married to a stunningly handsome man for five years.
I’ve definitely learned my lesson that looks aren’t everything.
No, Callum’s attractiveness isn’t responsible for this weird feeling inside me.
Callum blinks and glances away, which makes me realize I’m still staring at him. Heat threatens to invade my cheeks, but I battle it back. I don’t do embarrassment. It’s not a healthy emotion for a politician to engage in.
After more strained small talk, the meal finishes, and we are free to leave the purgatory of Lionel’s company.
Everyone adjourns to the Waterloo Chamber for post-dinner drinks.
I try to focus on my job, doing my best to circulate the room and network with the other leaders.
We’re aiming to lock down a new trade deal with India, so I make a beeline for the Indian prime minister.
Arvind and I know each other well, and he’s a straight shooter.
We discuss the latest test match cricket series between our two countries for a while, then move on to our upcoming trade talks before he throws me a curve ball.
“Perhaps as part of the trade deal, we can talk about the return of the Koh-i-Noor?” he suggests with an arched brow.
I’ve known there’s a rising movement in India for the return of the biggest diamond in the world, which Queen Victoria demanded in 1849 as part of a peace treaty with a ten-year-old in Punjab.
“It’s not mine to give you, unfortunately. Besides, it’s cursed, remember? Do you really want it back?” I’m trying for a joke, but Arvind gives me a dark look to show my humor isn’t appreciated.
“I think the people of India are prepared to take their chances,” he says in a dry voice.
I drop my pretenses and go for honesty. “Look, I understand your position. And while, personally, I wish the ownership of a lot of things could be reconsidered in light of historical injustices, including the land my Scottish ancestors were forced off during the Highland clearances, it’s not going to be a point of negotiation in any trade deal at this stage. ”
Arvind stares at me. “You play the part of the oppressed minority well, Mr. Hartwell, for an Englishman.”
His words cut me, and I try not to flinch.
I suck in a breath. “While we’re discussing oppressed minorities, shall we talk about whether my marriage would have been legal in your country?”
He raises his eyebrows and a bemused expression comes across his face. “By the time of your next marriage, it will be.”
I’m not sure if he’s commenting on the speed of progress for LGBTQ+ rights in India or the amount of time it will take to find someone who’s prepared to marry me again. I decide to assume the former.
“I truly hope that is correct,” I say. “And I hope other countries in the Commonwealth follow your lead.”
I’m not even going to call it the elephant in the room because I’m fairly sure it’s the size of a blue whale by now.
Of the fifty-three nations represented at this summit, homosexuality remains a criminal offense in twenty-nine of them.
It’s another sad legacy of Britain’s colonial past, the prohibition of consensual sex acts between people of the same sex.
“I hope so too,” Arvind says. “I’m sure we will come to a trade agreement that will mutually benefit both our countries. But I should warn you that India will continue to ask for the Koh-i-Noor, and the calls will only get louder.”
“I would do the same in India’s position,” I reply honestly.
He nods at me in acknowledgment as he walks away to intercept New Zealand’s prime minister.
As I amble in the opposite direction, I’m suddenly looking at the elaborate decorations of the Waterloo Chamber with fresh eyes. How many of the treasures in this castle are ill-gotten gains?
I spot Callum Prescott standing by himself at the far end of the room, inspecting a giant portrait above an ornate fireplace. His hand reaches out to touch the painting before he pulls himself back. I can’t help heading over to him.
“I was impressed with your knowledge of the collapse of civilization earlier,” I say as I draw near.
Callum whirls around to face me.
“Never underestimate the general knowledge base of someone who chopped and changed majors in college as many times as I did.” He gives a self-deprecating smile, once again stirring an unusual feeling inside me.
“Although I think you missed something important. If you ask the right-wing columnists in this country, I’m the factor that’s leading to the downfall of civilization,” I say ruefully.
Callum laughs, and it’s a surprised one, like he didn’t expect me to amuse him.
“Give me a few more weeks, and I’m sure I’ll manage to screw up so much I’ll share that title with you,” he says.
It’s my turn to chuckle.
Callum’s eyes drift back to the portrait.
“Did you know all these portraits are men who were part of the alliance that defeated Napoleon at Waterloo? Princes, kings, emperors, and noblemen of Prussia, Austria, Russia, England, Belgium, the Netherlands. Even the Pope.”
“It was an incredible alliance,” I say.
“Waterloo was quite a watershed moment. I mean, there must be a reason ABBA sang about it, right?” Callum gives me a cheeky grin, and my heart rate speeds up.
Then he looks back up at the portraits.
“I can’t help wondering what they would think if they saw the world today.”
I draw in a breath. How many times have I had the same thought?
“I think the same thing when I walk past the prime minister portraits at Downing Street,” I say softly.
“We’ve made so much progress in some areas and so little in others,” Callum says.
I don’t have a chance to scramble for a reply before Callum looks back up at the portraits, a frown settling on his handsome face.
“So many of these are monarchs, who believed they had a divine right to rule ordained by God. No wonder they aligned against Napoleon, the upstart third son descended from a minor noble family.”
“Do you believe royalty is ordained by God?” I ask curiously. I can’t remember from the background research Rosalia did on Callum whether he was raised religious or not. Of course, when he becomes king, he will become the head of the Church of England by default.
Callum gives a rueful smile. “If royalty is ordained by God, recent events show that God’s definitely got a warped sense of humor.”
I can’t help laughing. Callum joins in, and something about the way our laughter blends has people turning from the conversations around us to track the noise.
“I don’t know how to get my head around the randomness of the whole thing,” Callum says after his laughter trails off. “That I, just by the mere coincidence of my birth, am suddenly held up as worthy of all this attention.”
“I guess believing a higher power is in control makes the concept easier to cope with, right?”
“I guess. Maybe that’s why all the past royals seized on that idea.”
Callum tilts his head back to take in some of the higher paintings. “Do you think this is really just a giant competition of ‘Who Wore it Best’ military uniform edition?” he asks.
I find myself barking out another unexpected laugh, and Callum smiles at me.
This is why I find Callum so disconcerting.
Most people I can categorize easily, mentally slotting them into the correct box.
I’m still not quite sure how to classify Callum Prescott.
How he can veer from heavy historical reflection to these moments of lightness.
I get lots of heavy discussions in my life.
I don’t get much lightness. The mix is…intoxicating.
Just as my laugh trails off, Callum’s phone beeps.
He rummages in his jacket pocket to retrieve it.
Whatever he sees in the message causes his laughter to fade instantly. He stares down at the message, his face going pale.
I frown. “Are you okay?”
Callum lets out a shuddering breath, stashing his phone back in his pocket. “Just another childhood friend betraying my trust and blabbing my secrets all over the world’s media. You know, what’s starting to turn into a normal day for me.”
He pinches between his eyebrows, but not before I see the tears shimmering in his eyes.
My stomach clenches at the expression on his face. The hollowed-out look, with something else lurking there as well. It looks a lot like loneliness.
A loneliness no amount of funny quips can mask.
Fuck. How have I not realized how alone Callum Prescott is right now?
Both of his parents are dead. His friends back in America are racing to sell him out to the highest bidder.
He’s got two half-siblings he hardly knows, and from what I know of Prince Nicholas, he’s probably not hiding his enthusiasm for Callum to stumble so he can swoop in as heir.
Callum might have his grandmother’s support, but she’s busy with all her duties as the sovereign and trying to hold the monarchy together. And as much as I like and admire the Queen, she’s not exactly the embodiment of a warm and cuddly grandmother.
Sympathy for the guy swells inside me.
“Hey, I get it,” I say, my voice soft. “When I first got into politics, you wouldn’t believe all the maggots that crawled out of the closet to claim their five minutes of fame.”
Including my own mother. But I don’t want to think about that now.
Callum raises his gaze to mine. His eyelashes have clumped together in stars.
“There is definitely some creepy-crawly behavior going on,” he says. “And it’s…hard when the whole world suddenly decides to have an opinion of you.”
I take a small step towards him. “Listen, Callum, I can’t pretend to understand completely, but I do have some idea of what you’re going through. I came from a very different background too.”
He draws a shaky breath. “I’m guessing the distance from a council estate in Essex to Westminster is metaphorically similar to the distance from California to Buckingham Palace.”