Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Harry
I’m running late.
Dolores’s litany of complaints turned into a half-hour monologue about her recent triumph in the strawberry jam category at the village fete.
She insisted on recounting every detail, from the meticulous selection of the perfect berries to the precise sugar-to-fruit ratio that secured her victory. I hadn’t the heart to interrupt her.
So now I’m behind schedule, and to add insult to injury, I’ve been caught in a traffic jam that currently has all the traffic on the M25 reduced to a mere crawl. A geriatric snail could probably outpace us.
My driver, Nettie, frowns at her dashboard’s screen, which looks like a convention for equilateral triangles.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think we’re going to make it to the airport in time for your flight,” Nettie says apologetically.
My pulse quickens. I’m a planner by nature. I don’t like it when my day veers off course.
I take a deep breath to calm myself. Anger never helps anything.
“It’s all right. It’s my fault we were late leaving.” I glance over at Paul. “I’ll need to arrange an alternative flight.”
He nods, and I get out my phone.
My parliamentary assistant, Charlie, answers his phone on the first ring. I wouldn’t expect anything less. Charlie has only been my aide for six months, but he’s the most enthusiastic worker I’ve ever had.
“Charlie, it’s Harry. I’m sorry to be a bother, but I’m afraid I’m running late, and it appears I shall miss my flight. Can you please reschedule another one for me?”
“I’m on it, boss,” Charlie says.
“Thanks, Charlie.”
I end the call and sit back.
I barely have enough time to peruse the latest headlines on the political websites before Charlie calls me with a solution.
“All other flights to Oslo today are already full. However, there’s another delegate who has missed his flight. Parliamentary staff found a private jet that can fly both of you from Stansted. It should get you to Oslo before the opening address.”
“Thank you, Charlie.”
“We’re aware of the optics of flying a private jet to a climate change conference, so we’re arranging for the carbon emissions to be offset by planting lots of trees in your name. It’s like giving Mother Nature a big, leafy apology bouquet.”
“Very well,” I say.
“Unfortunately, the other delegate is a Labour MP, but I’m pretty sure they won’t contaminate you with their ideology on a short flight.” Charlie laughs his braying laugh.
My stomach clenches.
Five Labour MPs are attending the climate change conference. The panic currently swarming my stomach is unnecessary. The odds that the MP I’ll have to share a plane with is Toby Webley are only twenty percent. There’s an eighty percent chance I won’t have to interact with him at all.
“Which MP is it?” I ask, trying for a casual tone like it’s only a passing concern.
“Toby Webley,” Charlie says in his overenthusiastic voice.
Blast. The mathematics have betrayed me.
I hesitate. I cannot, in good conscience, request that Charlie find me another option simply because of the never-ending animosity between Toby and me. That would be elevating pettiness to an entirely new level.
“Is that all right, boss?” Charlie seems to have picked up on my hesitation.
“Of course it’s perfectly fine,” I say.
“The jet is only capable of comfortably carrying two passengers, so Paul won’t be able to accompany you. I’ve already contacted RaSP to ensure there will be sufficient security detail once you land in Oslo.”
Marvelous. That means it’ll be just Toby and me alone in a small plane cabin for a few hours.
I glance over at Paul, who is messaging on his phone.
I’m sure he’s being informed right now about the change.
RaSP, which stands for Royalty and Specialist Protection, is the highly specialized branch within the Metropolitan Police Service.
It’s responsible for protecting the royal family, government ministers, and other public figures.
In every encounter I’ve had with them, I’ve found them to be models of efficiency and professionalism.
“It means you won’t have security support while you’re in the air, but I’m sure you won’t need it,” Charlie continues with a chuckle.
Charlie’s optimism shows he clearly doesn’t know the history between Toby and me.
Although encounters between Toby and me have never come to blows. Yet.
I manage to keep my voice controlled. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
After ending the call, I tip my head back on the seat of the car.
I can’t keep thoughts of Toby Webley from floating through my mind.
His loud, deep voice that somehow manages to render every other sound in the room inaudible.
His grin he shares with everyone besides me, where I only receive a condescending smirk.
The way his eyes meet mine in a cool and appraising stare.
I’ve survived a lot of unpleasant situations in my life. Surely, I can endure a plane trip with Toby Webley. After all, it’s only for a short time.
My declaration that I can handle a plane trip with Toby Webley falters slightly when I find myself at the terminal gate, observing Toby hurrying through the fixed-base operator terminal, engaged in a loud conversation on his phone.
“And if the Conservatives think they can win this election by simply promising tax cuts and waving the Union Jack, they’re underestimating the intelligence of the electorate. The British people want more than just catchy slogans and flag-waving.”
I make a wild guess that Toby hasn’t noticed my presence yet.
“We’ve got seven months to prove we’re the party with the real solutions, not just the party with the best three-word chants,” he says as he sidesteps another group of travelers, hitching the strap of his laptop case further up his shoulder.
He glances up at the terminal gate number. When his gaze drifts down, he freezes mid-step, his eyes locking with mine, his expression morphing from surprise to disdain in seconds.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
He ends his call and stuffs his phone back in his pocket without taking his eyes off me.
For a few seconds, we just stare at each other.
“Harry,” he says finally, his voice laden with icicles.
“Toby.” I inject the exact same temperature into my own voice.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is clipped and abrupt.
“It appears we’re sharing a flight to Oslo.” I get a certain satisfaction when his eyebrows fly up at that statement.
“You missed your flight as well? I thought punctuality was your hallmark.”
“I encountered an unexpected delay this morning,” I say curtly.
Toby smirks, but I’m spared from whatever witty gem he’s brewing by the arrival of a young, dashing fellow with a pilot’s hat jauntily perched on his head.
“Hi, guys. My name is Kade. I’ll be your pilot today,” he drawls in an Australian accent.
“So you’ve drawn the short straw and have to fly us, eh,” Toby says, sticking out his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Kade. I’m Toby.”
Why must he always be like this? So affable and personable to everyone?
Everyone but me.
“Harry,” I say stiffly, offering my hand.
Kade gives it a perfunctory shake, looks between us, and then seems to decide to direct most of his charming smile at Toby.
“It’s a simple hop over to Oslo. There’s a bit of weather we may have to skirt around, but it should be a relatively smooth trip.
I’ll give you a safety briefing once we’re on board. You guys ready to roll?”
“I’m not sure about rolling, but I’m definitely ready to fly,” Toby says with a grin at Kade.
After the last formalities, we walk across the tarmac to the waiting jet.
I don’t know much about airplanes, but I’ve flown in a few jets like this, where their small size belies the extreme comfort.
Sure enough, inside the jet there is a level of luxury only matched by limousines on the ground.
As Kade talks us through the safety briefing, I’m only half listening.
Instead, I’m hyperaware of Toby’s presence in the opposite seat.
His legs are sprawled out, looking completely relaxed, as he chuckles at Kade’s final safety tip. “In the unlikely event of a water landing, you can use your seat cushion as a flotation device. But let’s be honest, if this thing turns into a boat, I’ve done something terribly wrong.”
“I’m sure we’re in safe hands with you,” he says, giving Kade one of his usual Toby grins.
I have to look away.
Toby Webley’s smile was the first thing I ever noticed about him.
I was in my mid-twenties on a ski trip to Verbier, Switzerland, organized by my work colleague Barney. We were all young professionals from London with a propensity for working hard and playing harder.
Barney had a wide set of friends, and we all arrived at the ski lodge in dribs and drabs from the airport, but the first night, everyone gathered in the main living area.
It was the week before Christmas, so everything was Yuletide-themed, including mistletoe spread at consistent intervals around the room like planned debauchery.
As I helped myself to some eggnog, I heard a boisterous laugh that sounded like joy personified.
I glanced over and found the laugh belonged to a man standing by the Christmas tree.
He had a mass of curly hair and large, wideset eyes on an open face.
He clutched a glass of mulled wine with one hand while his other gestured to enhance a hilarious story…
if the raucous laughter of everyone around him was anything to go by.
I realized I was staring and wrenched my gaze away.
But as the night progressed, I found myself unable to shake my awareness of the man. No matter where he was, he seemed surrounded by a circle of laughing people.