Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Toby
Things To Do Today:
Read the report on Green Investment
Reply to constituent email about using giant space mirrors to reflect the sun’s rays to combat global warming—acknowledge the innovative thinking but point out the logistic and financial challenges of this solution
Pack for trip to Oslo
Review speech for climate change conference
Brainstorm ideas for a viral social media challenge to engage younger voters—something more exciting than #AskYourMP???
Visit Clarence House to see Oliver and Callum
Visit Mum for birthday
Of all the places I thought I’d ever go to visit my friend Oliver, a residence of the royal family definitely isn’t one of them.
Oliver shows me around the recent renovations he and his husband have done to Clarence House with a sheepish expression, as if he can predict my thought process.
“Jesus, Oliver, this is definitely an improvement to your gimp room in our Cowley Road flat in Oxford,” I say as I crane my head back to survey the ornate ceilings. “And the smell is significantly better too.”
“Thank you. I do have the British press constantly reminding me how much I’ve come up in the world, but it’s always good to have it reinforced by my friends.”
“You know I’m always good for an honest analysis of the situation,” I remind him, and he throws me a grin.
When I first met Oliver, he was standing at a debate club in Oxford in a misfitting suit— a suit I later discovered he bought for two pounds at a charity shop—arguing passionately against hereditary peers in the House of Lords.
The fact he’s now the Prince Consort, a member of the royal family, never ceases to blow my mind.
“Callum and I insisted the renovations be privately funded rather than by the taxpayers,” Oliver says.
“I doubt no member of the royal family has ever been more conscious of the taxpayer’s money,” I reply, and Oliver gives a wry grin.
As an ex-prime minister, Oliver is used to financial scrutiny and is acutely aware of how much the royal family costs the British taxpayer.
And having only recently survived a referendum on whether the United Kingdom still wants a monarchy, I’m sure the royal family is very conscious of being on their best behavior in every regard.
Oliver’s husband, Callum, also known as the future king of England, walks into the room, tripping over the edge of an oriental rug but managing to catch himself before he falls.
“Your Royal Highness.” I give a small bow.
“Hey, Toby, great to see you,” Callum says in his American accent, flashing me a wide smile. He breaks all royal protocol by giving me a hug.
He releases me just as one of the staff comes bustling into the room carrying a silver tray laden with delicate sandwiches, scones, and an array of pastries that would make even the most stoic of individuals drool.
It’s a far cry from the pot noodles and cheap beer that sustained Oliver and me during our university days.
“So, how was your visit to America?” I ask as I settle into a Louis XVI chair. Given where I am, it is probably an actual gift from the French monarch.
“It was good,” Oliver answers. “We had a few days in California at the end. It was nice to meet some of Callum’s friends.”
“It’s a shorter list than when I left, but hey, you know anyone who’s turned down a million bucks to spill your secrets to the tabloids is definitely a friend for life, right?” Callum says.
“I don’t know if all friendships are required to pass that kind of test,” I reply as I help myself to one of the cucumber sandwiches.
Callum acknowledges my comment with a smile before he continues, “It was an interesting time to be in America. The politics are so divisive at the moment.”
“They’re divisive here too,” I point out. “We just have fewer guns and more tea.”
“But our conservative movement isn’t the same as in the US,” Callum says, blowing on his tea to cool it. “Most of the policies of the UK Conservative Party would actually fit into the American Democratic views.”
Oliver rolls his eyes. “The Conservatives here love to remind us they’re the ones who legalized same-sex marriage.”
“The Conservatives also passed Turing’s Law and the Armed Forces Bill, which pardoned men with historic convictions for homosexual acts.
Plus, they made it mandatory for schools to teach students about sexual orientation and gender identity.
I can’t see that happening with the Republican Party in the US,” Callum says.
I blink at him for a few moments before I turn to Oliver. “How does he, an American who has only been here for a few years, know so much about the history of LGBTQ+ politics in our country?”
Oliver gives his husband an affectionate smile. “He’s one of a kind.”
Seeing Callum giving him a smile in return creates an unexpected pang of longing.
It’s an unwelcome pang. One I quickly suppress.
I don’t need pangs. They’re counterproductive. Pangs produce sentimental feelings I don’t want to indulge in.
“Besides, you can’t give the Conservative Party too much credit.” Oliver returns to our conversation. “They also had the most MPs oppose the passing of the Marriage Equality Act. There’s still a socially conservative element of the Tories that runs deep.”
“I thought you were supposed to remain politically neutral,” I tease because the fact that Oliver, a strongly opinionated politician, suddenly has to stay out of politics is one of the most entertaining things about him becoming part of the royal family.
I believed asking him to become politically neutral was like asking a lion to become a vegetarian, but to his full credit, he seems to be succeeding.
“I’m just sharing facts, not passing judgment,” he replies with a smirk.
“Anyway, enough talk about the Conservatives. I’m about to spend five days with Harry Matheson, remember?” I slump into my plush chair
“Oh yes, the Oslo conference, right?”
“I’m still trying to work out what I did in a past life to warrant such a punishment. I’m thinking I was potentially the barber who invented the mullet.”
Oliver looks at me appraisingly. “I can definitely see you as a bad-taste hairdresser.”
I put my teacup down with a clatter. “Like, I get the reason for a cross-party delegation this close to an election. There’s no point for one party to agree to something if the incoming government is going to completely overturn it. But God, why does it have to be Harry Matheson?”
“He used to be the shadow environment secretary before he became leader,” Oliver points out.
“He does seem very focused on environmental issues,” Callum says. “I had an interesting conversation with him about the potential of green hydrogen as a sustainable fuel source at the Royal Horticultural Society’s annual gala. He made some valid points.”
Both Oliver and I turn to stare at him incredulously.
“You had a conversation with Harry Matheson?” I say. “Like, voluntarily?”
“Yes. He was very articulate and well-informed.”
“He’s a cold-hearted, entitled Tory bastard who would steal from his own grandmother if it meant he could get ahead,” I say viciously. “And probably sell her dentures for a profit.”
Callum blinks at me. All right, I guess there’s more than the usual amount of venom in my voice. But Harry Matheson deserves more venom than is produced by all of the most venomous snakes and spiders in the world combined.
“Anyway, Toby, tell us how your date with Debra went.” Oliver nimbly changes the subject.
God. I’d almost prefer to keep talking about Harry Matheson.
“It was a date,” I reply cautiously. “Food was eaten. Small talk was exchanged.”
“Sparks were flying?” Callum asks with hope in his voice.
“No. The candle on the table was one of those fake LED ones, so there was no flame at all,” I say.
Oliver rolls his eyes. “You know what he means.”
“No sparks, metaphorical or otherwise, flew. As an aside, I do wish you’d stop trying to set me up. You just need to accept I’m a lone wolf.”
Oliver smirks. “Did you just say you’re a lame wolf?”
“Lone,” I clarify. “As in singular.”
“I saw an interesting documentary on wolves. Did you know wolves outside the pack are vulnerable to food scarcity and attacks by other wolves?” Callum asks.
“I don’t think food scarcity and being attacked by wolves are major concerns of mine at the moment,” I reply.
“I think what he’s saying is that you shouldn’t go through life alone, Toby,” Oliver says. “You just need to find the right person.”
Some people assume that because I’m pansexual, it’s easier to find a significant other since I’m open to a relationship with people of any gender.
They assume wrong.
“Unfortunately, you two seem to be suffering from the disease that infects most couples eventually, in that you try to spread your coupledom to other people,” I say, gesturing between Oliver and Callum with a half-eaten scone. “Well, I don’t want it. Keep your couple germs to yourself, please.”
Oliver rolls his eyes again at my melodrama.
“Some people are just better off alone,” I add.
“Some people are,” Oliver agrees. I have a momentarily flash of triumph before he fixes his dark gaze on me.
“But I don’t think you are one of those people.”
I leave Clarence House later than I intended. After the dissection of my love life, our conversation moved on to discussing Oliver and Callum’s surrogacy journey.
Watching Oliver interact with Callum always fascinates me. I’m still getting used to this version of Oliver, where happiness seems to be his default setting.
But thinking about that brings me back to Oliver’s comment about how I’m not destined to be alone.
I’ve tried relationships. I really have. I spent my twenties and thirties in a series of perfectly functional, pleasant relationships with perfectly functional, pleasant people.
But nothing ever stuck. And now, at the age of thirty-nine, I can’t help feeling cynical about the idea that I’m capable of that type of passionate, all-consuming love that other people seem to achieve.
The navigation screen in my car warns me that the traffic is getting snarled ahead, and I glance at the clock. I’m cutting it fine to visit my mother before I head to my flight.
But I can’t not go. Especially not today.
And so I make the familiar turn towards the cemetery.
The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I walk through the rows of headstones.
I place the bouquet of yellow tulips at the base of her headstone, then take my usual position at the end of her grave.
“I hope you appreciate the effort it took me to get tulips at this time of year,” I say.
I can almost hear her laughter.
When I was a child, my mother would swing me into her arms and press her cheek against mine so her laughter would vibrate through me.
It’s been nearly twenty years since she died, and some memories of her have started to slip away, like the shade of her lipstick or the exact taste of the milky Ovaltine she’d whip up for me after a cold football match.
But I will never forget my mother’s laugh. It was the soundtrack of my childhood.
“So, I just saw Oliver and Callum. You wouldn’t believe the change in Oliver if you saw him. I mean, you never met him, but I’ve told you about him, right? And honestly, he’s so different with Callum compared to how he was with Garrett. He’s just so…happy.”
“And we’ve passed the infrastructure legislation and are now working on legislation to incentivize landlords to better insulate their rental properties. Imagine if we’d had insulation in our flat.”
I still remember her standing on a chair, a roll of bubble wrap in her hands. She’d come home from work that day with a determined look. “I sweet-talked the shipping manager into giving me this. We’ll tape it over the windows, and it’ll act like a makeshift double glazing.”
When she’d finished bubble-wrapping the windows, she’d given me a triumphant grin. “When the going gets tough, the tough start improvising.”
It was part of an ongoing joke between my mother and me, how we’d twist profound sayings to amuse each other.
On my sixteenth birthday, when she caught me sneaking back into the house after a late-night party, she just shook her head and said, “Toby, my dear, you may be growing up, but you’ve still got a lot to learn. The early bird catches the worm, and the night owl catches the hangover.”
When I was packing my things to move to university, she got misty-eyed. “I’m trying not to think of it as goodbye, just a long ‘be right back.’”
I put my arm around her shoulders and replied, “Don’t worry, Mum. I may be flying the coop, but I’ll always know where home is.”
Little did I know that she'd be gone in less than a year, and I’d be left with no nest to come home to.
Now, as I continue to tell her about what’s happening in Parliament, my gaze fixes on the picture on her headstone. It was taken a year before she died.
I always try to keep that image of my mother in my mind. The smiling, laughing one. Not the mother with red-rimmed eyes and tear-soaked cheeks. Not the mother who withered away so quickly as pancreatic cancer consumed her from the inside.
I first stood at this spot by her grave as a nineteen-year-old wracked with grief, feeling lost at the thought of navigating the world without my mother as my anchor.
If I’m being honest, the lost feeling inside me has never completely faded.
I know I need to leave now, or I will be late for my flight. But I find myself lingering as I remove the old decaying flowers from the water jar, giving it a good rinse before putting the new tulips in.
I place them in the center of the grave, a bright splash of color amongst the muted colors of the graveyard.
“Happy birthday, Mum,” I say quietly.
And then I turn and walk away so I can catch my flight.