Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Oliver
“Bloody hell, what a day,” Toby says as the streets of Brussels rush past outside the car.
I rub my forehead. “I’ve definitely had better ones.”
Britain’s relationship with the EU has been tense since Brexit.
No EU leader wants to be accused of signing any deal advantageous to the UK.
I understand that. But it makes for a tough negotiation atmosphere.
We’re supposed to hammer out a new agriculture trade deal this week, but instead, we’re stuck in a standoff with neither side willing to relent.
“Do you think we’ll get them to budge?” he asks.
“I think the environmental considerations are our best angle now,” I say. “The proximity of our markets and the lower carbon footprint have to be major considerations.”
Toby sends me a smirk. “Knowing you, you’ll be up all night reading reports on agricultural greenhouse emissions of every country so you can have all the facts and figures to reel off tomorrow,” he says.
I blink at him. Actually, I only have one plan once I reach my hotel room: track down the minibar, pour myself a large scotch, and call Callum.
Because that’s what Callum and I have been doing for the past few weeks. Video calling nearly every night.
I didn’t get to talk to him last night because I was at a function until midnight, and the night before that, Callum was attending a performance of the London Symphony Orchestra, so after two days of not speaking to him, I have an irrational urge to hear his voice, see his face.
I know it isn’t healthy to spend so much time talking to Callum. Especially when I’ve identified some nonplatonic feelings towards him.
But it’s like an addiction. Something you know will cause you pain in the long-term, but you can’t summon the willpower to quit.
The car pulls up at our hotel, and Toby, I, and our security detail disembark.
Toby scowls at his phone as we walk through the lobby. “Bloody Harry Matheson.”
“What’s he done now?”
“Just more of his usual nonsense about how we’re out of touch with what the public wants. I love how the man born with a silver spoon up his arse pretends to be so in tune with the average voter.”
“Pretty sure you’re mixing up your metaphors there,” I say.
“I think it works for Harry Matheson.”
We reach the lifts, stepping in. “You don’t want to meet up for a drink later?” Toby asks as he punches the button to our floor.
“No thanks. I’m just going to unwind in my room.” I’ve got an itchy feeling under my skin as the lift ascends. Classic addiction symptoms. My private phone is so close, and I might already have a message waiting for me from Callum.
I’m trying not to think about what it means that my day doesn’t feel complete if I haven’t talked to the Prince of Wales.
The lift dings and the door opens.
“Goodnight,” I say, trying not to look like I’m fleeing to the privacy of my room.
I get inside, pull off my tie and undo the top button of my shirt. Just then, my phone on the desk starts to vibrate.
I can’t help my smile when I see Callum’s incoming video call.
I press Accept.
“Hey,” I say.
“Oh, hey, you’re free. How did your day go?”
I pull a face, and Callum laughs.
“That bad?”
“Let’s just say the stench of the agricultural emissions we’re debating stinks a whole lot less than the politics around them.”
I kick off my shoes and lie back on my bed, propping myself up on my pillows as I talk through my day with Callum, answering his questions about the negotiations and the environmental angle we plan to play.
“Do you know one of the theories about how agriculture evolved is that climate change drove hunter-gatherers and animals into smaller areas, and the closer association meant humans started domesticating them?”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
So Callum explains the theory, his words washing over like a balm. One part of my brain focuses on his words, but the other part listens to the gentle modulation of his American accent.
“Sorry, am I boring you?” It’s only when I hear the concern in his voice that I realize I’ve closed my eyes.
I quickly open them. “I spent the day discussing agricultural effluent. Trust me, this conversation is the intellectual highlight of my day.”
Callum smiles. I can’t help noting how it brings out the dimples in his cheek.
I suddenly realize all we’ve done so far is talk about me.
“So, how did your event in Brighton go?” I ask him.
“Good. It was so inspirational to meet all the sailors. Some of them have overcome such adversity. Oh, and I’m definitely winning the competition for the most negative headline, which I think makes me the winner every day this week.”
I squint at him. “Are you sure about that? I think my inability to hammer out a deal with the EU will be all The Corporate Times can focus on.”
“You spent the day in a conference room. I spent the day around boats and water. Who do you think had the most potential for generating a headline?”
My stomach lurches. “What happened?”
“Oh, nothing major. Side note, do you have any idea how many ropes there are on a boat to trip over?”
“Did you fall in?”
“I might have tested the buoyancy of my life jacket. But on the plus side, I’ve given the newspaper headline writers a chance to come up with some fun puns.
” Callum’s trying for an upbeat tone, but I get the feeling he’s really not feeling it right now.
“And you know, every time something like this happens, I provide more inspiration for the trolls on social media, which some could say is a service to the community.”
I make my voice gentle. “Why, what are people saying on social media?”
Callum’s face is pinched. “I know you’re going to tell me not to look, but there’s this one guy who calls himself BritishPatriot, and he posts twenty Tweets a day, and they are all pretty much on the same theme about how much I suck.” Callum attempts a laugh, but I can see the hurt on his face.
“What did he post about today?”
“He linked to a photo of me falling in and said, ‘Pity he didn’t do the country a favor and drown.’”
It isn’t just the words Callum says. It’s the matter-of-fact way he recites them, like he’s already committed them to memory. Like they’ve become embedded in his brain.
Callum rubs his forehead, his shoulders slumping. “I’m trying so hard, and I really do think I’m connecting to the people I meet in a real way now. Yet no matter what I do, someone always finds fault in it.”
“If you’re looking for universal approval in life, Callum, you’re going to be waiting for a long time.”
He swallows. “I know.”
The look of pain on his face makes me regret my easy-pat answer to this.
Sometimes I forget he’s only twenty-five.
I have fourteen years on him, years where my skin has grown considerably tougher.
I was thirty-two when I entered politics, already battle-hardened from a career as a barrister, and I’m a far more self-assured—read arrogant—person than Callum will ever be.
And even then, I’ve found it difficult to follow the conventional wisdom of ignoring all the negativity.
Callum’s been thrown into the limelight with little preparation, into a situation not his making.
Seeing his beautiful face downcast is more than I can bear. I know telling him to harden his outer shell encourages him to be something he’s not. And I would hate for him to become more jaded and cynical, to lose his special Callum-ness.
I feel helpless.
I can’t protect him from the legions of people waiting to tear him down.
All I can do is support him.
“You can’t control the narrative, Callum, and attempting to do so will drive you mad.
Trust me, I know. You wouldn’t believe all the things that were said about me when Garett and I separated.
It’s not fun being blamed for a divorce in the tabloids and on social media when you caught your husband fucking someone else. ”
Callum’s eyes widen. “Garett cheated on you?”
It’s not something I’ve shared with anyone besides Toby, but I find myself okay with telling Callum.
“Yes. He cheated on me.”
“I’m so sorry, Oliver.”
I let out a large breath. “I guess, in a way, it was my fault. I wasn’t a particularly good husband. I was more focused on my job than on him.”
“You’re the prime minister running the country! I think that’s a decent excuse.”
“According to Garett, I’m incapable of love,” I say the words softly, but it doesn’t reduce their harshness. They still slice at me.
Callum makes a noise in his throat.
“Incapable of love? Oliver, you should hear the way you talk about your grandparents. You’re not incapable of love.”
“I did love him,” I say, and even I can hear the emptiness in my voice. “But maybe not quite enough.”
There’s silence between us.
Callum licks his bottom lip as he stares back at me. I can see the moisture lingering there, and focusing on it causes my heart to stutter in an erratic rhythm.
“Anyway, did you find some of your hidden magic anywhere today?” I ask, in a desperate attempt to change our conversation topic.
Callum’s taken to sending me photos of whimsical things to prove his theory that small things of beauty and magic are scattered across the world, waiting to be discovered.
It’s surprising how much a random photo of a potato shaped like a duck can make me smile.
“I was given a hot chocolate today after I dried off, and it had a white and pink marshmallow melted together in this gooey, perfect mess,” he says, and my shoulders relax.
“I didn’t take a photo, though, because reporters were right there, and the press seems to be zeroing in on Callum the Klutz as my nickname.
I didn’t want to confuse them by adding Callum the Weird to the contenders’ list.”
“It’s nice of you to be so considerate. You wouldn’t want to blow their tiny little brains. Besides, Callum the Klutz isn’t too bad. At least it has a nice alliteration.”
“Ivaylo, the Tsar of Bulgaria, was known as the Cabbage,” Callum says. “I’m just counting my blessings that I’m not being nicknamed a brassica vegetable.”
I snort. “You’re right. Brussels sprouts is still up for grabs.”
“I’m sure some people find me as unpalatable as Brussels sprouts. But if I was going to choose vegetables, I’d go with turnip.”
“Why turnip?”
“Because it’s just such a fun word to say. Feel the way your mouth moves as you say it.”
I can’t help following his instructions, and he’s right. The nip at the end is particularly satisfying.
And this is the reason I’m so addicted to talking to Callum. In a world where I can usually script what someone will say, Callum constantly surprises me.
Sometimes I want to climb into Callum’s mind so I can see the world the same way he does, as something to investigate in all its technicolor glory rather than just something to conquer.
“Anyway, it’s your turn tomorrow to find something magic,” Callum says.
“There is no magic to be found in the EU agricultural trade negotiations, trust me,” I reply.
“I’m sure you’ll find some,” he says. “You just have to look harder.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s right, I just need my glasses of wonder,” I say.
“You just need your optometrist to find the right prescription,” Callum agrees.
I chuckle, and somehow, we move on to talking about how I first got diagnosed as long-sighted.
It’s not even an interesting story. Yet Callum hangs on every word I say, and we move on from that to talking about our childhood injuries and illnesses, and suddenly, it’s already midnight.
“I guess I should let you go,” he says. “You’ve got to be in top form to discuss that agricultural effluent tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t want to let the country down,” I agree.
“Well, goodnight.” He seems hesitant to end the conversation, matching the same feeling inside me. But I don’t want to dwell on Callum’s hesitancy or try to interpret what it could mean.
“Goodnight, Your Royal Highness.” It’s a gentle tease but also a reminder to myself about exactly who this man is.
I press the End button and take a deep breath before forcing myself to get ready for bed.
The next morning Toby and I are strolling along the pavement towards our meeting when a flash of yellow catches my eye.
I stop and stare.
Here, among the concrete jungle of the EU headquarters, a dandelion has somehow managed to grow in a tiny crack in the footpath. It’s such a contrast to the panoramic of gray around it.
I crouch to take a quick snapshot of it.
“Um…what are you doing?” Toby asks.
I glance up at him.
“Just capturing a tiny bit of beauty.”
Toby looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, which is a fair enough assumption when you’re the prime minister and taking pictures of weeds. But it doesn’t stop me from completing my task.
I straighten, quickly sending the snapshot to my private phone. I’ll share it with Callum tonight. The thought makes me smile.
Toby continues to send me rogue glances as we walk.
“You all right?” he asks eventually.
“Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
“For the past few weeks, you’ve been acting really weird. Not just with the dandelion, although that’s the icing on the weirdness cake.”
I get an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.
“Weird in what way?”
“It’s almost like you’re…happy,” he says the word suspiciously.
Happy? The idea startles me.
I’ve never stopped to consider whether or not I’m happy. I focus on getting things done, achieving my agenda. My happiness doesn’t ever enter the equation.
I don’t want to consider whether I’ve been happier recently. And I especially don’t want to think about the source of my happiness.
It’s later that day when Callum enters my head again.
The trade negotiations ended midday, with an agreement satisfactory to all parties.
I fly back to London in time to go straight into a meeting about cyberbullying legislation with representatives from the Home Office and the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport, along with various other relevant agencies.
“Research shows that cyberbullies are likely to be males between twenty-three to thirty, emotionally unstable, highly educated, and often with psychopathic personality traits,” Melita, the head of the National Cyber Security Centre, tells everyone at the table.
I think of what Callum told me about BritishPatriot, the guy who endlessly mocks him.
And I have an idea. It’s a crazy, stupid idea. Reckless, bordering on idiotic. But I can’t get it out of my head.
And at the end of the meeting, I approach Melita just as she’s leaving.
“Melita, do you have a quick moment?”
“Of course, Prime Minister.”
“Any chance your people can do some research for me?”