Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Oliver
“You all right, Prime Minister?” Toby asks me. We’re in my office at Downing Street, a space steeped in centuries of history with its dark wood paneling and towering bookshelves filled with volumes of laws and the supposed wisdom of governance.
I blink at him, surprised. “Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
“You look knackered. Were you up late working again?” There’s a scolding tone to Toby’s voice, which is justified.
After Garett left, I worked ridiculous hours in this very room, planning ways to push through our legislative agenda under the soft glow of the antique desk lamp that had belonged to Clement Attlee.
But my late afternoon tiredness today isn’t due to working around the clock to distract myself from my marriage failure.
It’s because I’ve been up late every night this week messaging Callum. The hours disappear without me realizing, leaching away in a haze of quips and facts as Callum and I amuse each other.
I slide a look at Toby. If I tell him I spent three hours last night messaging a guy, he’ll be excited I’m moving on. However, if I tell him I spent three hours messaging the Prince of Wales, his scolding tone will return in force.
But I refuse to believe I’m doing anything wrong.
The messages between Callum and me are completely innocent. Last night it started as our normal exchange about the comments in the tabloids and social media, and then our conversation somehow moved on to the history of tea, which Callum had been reading about.
I learned how, according to legend, tea was discovered by Emperor Shen Nung of China when the wind blew the leaves from a wild tree into a pot of boiling water and how the Portuguese princess Catherine of Braganza introduced it to Britain after she married King Charles II.
Callum also shared with me how iced tea was invented at the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis, where an enterprising merchant realized the heat wave would mean no one would be interested in the free samples of hot tea he’d planned to give out, so he dumped a whole lot of ice into the tea instead.
And somehow, we moved on from discussing the history to a competition for who could find the worst tea jokes on the internet.
How do you ask a dinosaur to dinner?
Tea, Rex?
What drink brings you down to earth?
Gravi-Tea.
If someone hacked into Callum and my message chain, they would find plenty of things to make them roll their eyes, but nothing remotely scandalous.
But despite how innocent our conversations are, I can’t deny they are becoming more and more frequent.
I rub a hand over the stubble on my chin. If I’m so convinced I’m not doing anything wrong, why don’t I just tell Toby why I’ve been up so late?
I take a deep breath.
“You ready to head to the cabinet meeting?” Bernard pokes his head in my office’s door.
I let out my breath. “Ready.”
It’s one thing to talk to Toby about my friendship with Callum. It’s completely different to talk about him with my other colleagues. Callum is already being picked apart by the British media and public. I don’t want to add scrutiny from the highest level of government as well.
It’s a typical cabinet meeting, with reports from each department, a rundown of current events, and the inevitable debates that follow.
Yasha Ingles, my Chancellor of the Exchequer, lays out their draft tax reform proposal, triggering an intense debate.
“We risk stifling innovation and growth for small businesses,” Rosalia argues.
“We need to ensure corporations pay their fair share to support the infrastructure and social services. It’s ridiculous that they profit from the system without contributing their fair share,” Yasha replies.
The debate goes round and round, with half of the cabinet piping in with their own opinions.
In the end, Yasha grudgingly concedes to take the proposal back to the tax working group to look at inserting provisions to protect small businesses.
“Right, on to the next item on the agenda, the fallout from the scandal with the monarchy,” Toby says.
“What’s the latest polling showing?” Rosalia asks.
“Seventy percent approval of the Queen. The public likes the decisive way she’s dealt with her family. How she’s put service to the country ahead of everything,” Toby answers.
I can’t imagine what it has cost the Queen to cut off a large portion of her family. She’s been distracted and tired at our weekly meetings, and I’ve tried to keep things short and not weigh her down with anything extra.
“What’s the public sentiment on Prince Callum?” Cornelia asks.
I stiffen.
“Currently, forty-three percent have a favorable view, thirty-four percent have an unfavorable view, and twenty-seven percent are unsure.
“It’s pretty obvious he’s not ready for the spotlight yet,” Alfred says.
My skin prickles, and I want to snap that Callum’s doing the best he can. That anyone would struggle if they’d been put in his situation.
“But they need to keep him in the headlines. They need the focus to be on him rather than the behavior of his relatives,” Rosalia says.
“True. But the problem is, once the press starts a narrative on someone, it’s difficult to change it. The palace is walking a fine line between keeping Callum in the headlines and turning him into the butt of everyone’s jokes.”
“He is proving to be naturally comedic,” Rosalia says, and once again, I have an irrational urge to defend Callum.
“Conservatives are still muttering about a referendum on the monarchy,” Toby says, looking directly at me.
“What are the numbers showing?”
“Only forty percent support a referendum, but the numbers are rising. Up from thirty-eight last week.”
“We’ll keep monitoring it,” I say. “Right now, I think it’s more important to move on to our next item.” I look at my health secretary. “Can you give us an update on NHS staffing?”
And so we start to debate increasing funding to allow more training spaces to boost domestic workforce numbers versus international recruitment initiatives.
It’s only later that evening, as I head into my study, that my reaction to the discussion about Callum slides back into my head.
Is that the problem with our friendship? It makes it difficult for me to see the situation with the monarchy objectively when I know the people involved.
But I know Queen Katharine as well. Part of my role as prime minister is to develop a relationship with the royal family.
That decided, I pick up my personal phone, my pulse speeding up in anticipation of communicating with Callum.
If I’m being completely honest, this is my favorite part of my day.
It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to at the end of a long day, even if it is just by messaging. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.
Messaging Callum is fun. He brings so much lightness to my day. Not just by him sharing all his amusing anecdotes about the trials and tribulations of royal engagements, but just his way of looking at the world.
I’ve always been so focused on achieving, never thinking about pursuing knowledge simply for knowledge’s sake. I’ve always filtered everything I could learn through the lens of how is knowing this going to help me?
But Callum’s making me fall in love with learning. He looks at the world with such bright, open eyes, wanting to know the meaning behind everything.
There’s already a message from Callum waiting for me, and I ignore the way my heart leaps at that discovery.
You would not believe what I did today.
I do a quick check of Google, but there doesn’t seem to be any new headlines about him.
Not seeing anything in the news, so it can’t have been that bad.
Oh, trust me, it’s bad.
What happened?
I asked someone what material their pants were made out of.
You did what???
I was at the wearable art awards, and this person had pants made out of what looked like recycled rubber from tires. So, I asked them what their pants were made of.
Pants means underwear here.
Yes, I’m aware of that NOW. And I did actually know that, I just forgot briefly.
I can’t wait for the tabloids to get hold of that story.
The press office has already prepared a statement in case they decide to take the “Is Prince Callum a Sexual Predator” angle.
Raymond says he’s going to quiz me on all the differences between the languages so I don’t make another mistake.
Language gaffes are common with politicians. If you need to feel better, check this out.
I send him a link to when Jimmy Carter gave a speech in Poland and expressed that he wanted to learn the Poles’ “desires for the future,” but his interpreter somehow translated it to be “I desire the Poles carnally.”
Okay, reading that makes me feel slightly better. But you’ve got to admit some of your English words are just plain weird.
Um…we invented the English language, remember? It’s the Americans that invented weird words that don’t make any sense.
Uh…I don’t think so. So many of your words don’t make sense. Like wellies.
Named after the first Duke of Wellington, who popularized the concept of the rubber boot.
You just Googled that, didn’t you?
Maybe.
Anyway, back to my point about how American words make more sense than British words. Like sidewalk. It’s a side of the road where you walk.
Footpath is a path where feet go.
Hmmm. Okay. We may have to call that one a tie.
I settle back in my leather chair, grinning. A debate about the vernacular differences between British and American English was not how I expected my evening to go, but that’s the great thing about chatting with Callum. Our conversation can go in so many different weird and wonderful directions.
What about car park vs. parking lot?
Parking lot is obviously superior.
Why? It doesn’t say what you’re parking, does it? Car park is more instructional.
But you can also park motorbikes in a car park, can’t you? It’s not a completely inclusive term.
Okay, I’ll give you that, but you’ve got to give me petrol vs. gas. It’s not even a gas. It’s scientifically incorrect.
Okay, I’ll concede that one. But you better concede that eraser is much better than rubber. You erase your mistakes. It’s a much better term than rubber.
Only because you Americans managed to turn the term rubber into something dodgy.
What are your thoughts on lift vs. elevator?
Total British win. What do lifts do? They lift you up.
You’re ignoring one fundamental fact.
What’s that?
Lifts also go down. So, for half the time, their name is very, very wrong.
I snort a laugh at that.
Elevator comes from ‘elevate,’ so it’s equally incorrect, using exactly the same principle.
Callum doesn’t reply straight away. And I find myself watching my phone in anticipation. And when the dots come up, indicating he’s typing, a strange thrill shoots through me.
Haha, I was just googling for the origin of why we call lift and elevator different names, and I came across a terrible joke. Want to hear it?
Okay…(typed with fingers shaking in apprehension)
Here goes: Why do they call them lifts in the UK and elevators in the US?
Why?
Because we’re raised differently.
That is a truly terrible elevator joke.
I imagine elevator jokes always have their ups and downs.
Oh my god. Can there ever be a good elevator joke?
I might make it my life mission to find out.
We’re going to spend the rest of the evening trading bad elevator jokes, aren’t we?
I suspect that might be a glimpse into our future, yes.
I feel a smile spreading across my face.
There’s a brief pause, then I get another message from him.
What is red and goes up and down?
What?
A tomato in an elevator.
I laugh out loud. As I lean towards my laptop and prepare to do some googling, I’m suddenly aware that an unfamiliar feeling, almost a strange sense of buoyancy, is growing inside me.
I can’t quite identify the exact name for this feeling. But I definitely don’t want it to end.