Chapter 9 #3
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“Hey, don’t underestimate my Google-stalking skills,” he says, offering me a glimmer of a smile.
I feel my own smile tugging at my lips.
“Do you want my private number?” The words are out of me before I can think. Fuck. What the hell am I doing?
He blinks at me.
“I’m just thinking you might need someone to talk to, someone who’s been through something similar, who you can trust isn’t going to blurt things out to the press,” I continue.
My offer hangs in the air between us. Callum blinks again.
“Thanks. I would actually really appreciate that,” he says finally.
He gets out his phone, and I rapidly reel off my private number, not pausing to second-guess myself.
I mean, I promised Queen Katharine I would support the monarchy through this crisis, and isn’t that what I’m doing right now?
Callum obviously needs someone to talk to, and I definitely understand the fish-out-of-water feeling he’s struggling with right now.
What I don’t understand is why my pulse races as I watch Callum carefully input my number into his phone. He’s an attractive man, but he’s also a member of the royal family. This is not the same as me giving a good-looking guy my number.
My heart doesn’t seem to know that though.
“Thanks,” he says when he finishes.
“No problem.”
We just stand there for a few heartbeats, staring at each other.
“Now, Prime Minister, you must tell us your predictions for the Rugby World Cup.”
It’s Semesa Ratu, Fiji’s prime minister, accompanied by the prime ministers of Tonga and Kiribati.
I turn away from Callum to face them, not sure if I’m grateful for the interruption or not.
It’s after eleven o’clock by the time I make it home.
As I stand in my walk-in wardrobe, loosening my tie, I catch a glimpse of my reflection.
Callum’s words from earlier, of the randomness of life that has led him to be the heir to the British throne, suddenly slide into my mind.
I’ve always believed I made my own way in the world, resenting people who have had it easy due to the circumstances they were born into.
But how much of my success is due to my own genetic inheritance? It seems ridiculous to compare inheriting the crown to inheriting good looks, but the randomness is similar.
If I’d just looked like an average guy, would I have been as appealing to the British public? A gay kid with no background or social connections. I’ve always credited my success to my intelligence and hard work, but have I also been riding on the coattails of my own genetic luck?
I hang up my tie and unbutton my shirt, stepping out of my trousers. My hand immediately drifts up to the dog tags that hang on a chain around my neck. They were a gift from my grandad, something given to him by his own father, that I wear against my skin every day.
Another important reminder of where I come from.
I’m just walking back into my bedroom when my phone beeps.
My heart starts to race when I see it’s from an unfamiliar number.
Hey, this is Callum.
Another message arrives seconds later.
The Prince of Wales, in case you’re not sure of what Callum that is.
I save his number into my contacts, then quickly type my reply.
You might be overestimating how many Callums message me.
His reply pings back almost instantly.
If you have a lack of Callums in your life, then that’s just sad.
I smile.
I’ve been told a lot of aspects of my life are sad, but never that.
And then, because it’s a theme from our conversation tonight, I do a quick Google search and find a popular Reddit forum entitled Ways Oliver Hartwell’s Life is Beyond Sad, and I send Callum the link.
It’s only after I’ve sent it that I scan down the list and read the first few points.
His hair looks like a cross between a dead squirrel and a mole suffering from mange.
His husband dumped him for a twenty-two-year-old Italian model.
His own dad never wanted to know him.
His mother got to know him and then ditched him.
Ouch. No matter how thick a skin you think you have, seeing some of this stuff written out causes me to flinch.
My phone beeps with a message from Callum.
You think that’s bad? Check out this new TikTok account.
Attached is a link to an account called GoldenRetrieverorCallumPrescott? Someone has been creative with matching up different facial expressions of golden retrievers with photos taken of Callum.
Golden retrievers are great dogs. You should take it as a compliment. One of the opposition MPs referred to me as a pitbull the other day, which is not as flattering.
I’d prefer not to have my facial expressions matched to any canine.
Sorry, not going to happen now you’re in the limelight.
There’s no immediate message back from Callum. I go into my bathroom to brush my teeth. When I come back out, I find Callum has sent me a reply.
How have you coped with it all?
I stare at his message. I sense the desperation in his words, and I want to give him some good advice, but I know general platitudes aren’t going to cut it.
It’s a constant process. You have to learn to detach yourself from what is being said. Try not to look at any of it.
That’s far easier to say than actually do.
Callum’s words take me back to when I was a first-term MP from Essex, how I relentlessly followed all press and social media coverage of myself, how frustrated I’d gotten any time I was misrepresented.
It’s been a slow, evolving process to accept that I’m going to have a significant portion of the country hate me just for what I represent, who will find fault no matter what I do.
Being married to Garett helped me in the beginning because he had an upper-class who cares what the plebs think mentality. And while it came from the wrong place of snobbery and entitlement, at least his approach helped me cope with the overwhelming negativity that went with my job.
I send an honest reply to Callum now.
I know it’s not easy.
I put my phone on my bedside table and rub my face.
Maybe this is the best I can do for Callum. Maybe he doesn’t need someone with all the answers. He just needs someone who’ll be honest about how difficult it can be, someone he can vent to when it becomes too much.
I can be that person if that’s what he needs me to be.