Chapter 4 #2
Later in the evening, I was embedded in a mundane conversation with Noel, who’d obviously decided to embrace the festive connotations associated with his name and had on one of the most ludicrously printed Christmas sweaters known to humankind.
But even Noel’s garish sweater couldn’t hold my attention, and my eyes continually swept back to the good-looking man with the wide grin standing by the Christmas tree.
I finally couldn’t resist breaking through Noel’s monologue about the intricate differences between various types of Christmas puddings with a question.
“Say, do you happen to know who that fellow over there is?” I tried to make my voice casual.
Noel followed my gaze.
“That’s Toby Webley. I think he was at Oxford with Barney. He’s a consultant at McKinnan’s. Bright bloke.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I can introduce you if you like.” Noel had a slight smirk on his face.
“Oh no, it’s all right…”
But Noel had already set across the room with the determination of Scott heading the Antarctic expedition. I was left with the choice of standing by myself, looking like a twat, or trailing along after him.
I chose to follow.
Noel strode straight up to Toby and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Toby, I’ve got someone for you to meet.”
Toby turned around, and it felt like someone had pressed a pause button on the world.
This close, I could see his eyes were hazel, with flecks of gold. They were creased at the corners in an automatic smile.
For a few seconds, we just stared at each other.
“This is Harry Matheson. He’s in the investment division at Barclay’s,” Noel said.
Toby’s expression cooled instantly, the smile lines around his eyes vanishing. “Hello.”
I’d waited to be the recipient of some of his charm, to be graced with the smile accompanied by the full dimples, but instead, Toby’s expression remained stubbornly unimpressed.
“I hear you attended Oxford. What…um…college were you in?” I uncharacteristically stumbled my way through a sentence. Normally, I prided myself on my unflappability, a family trait inherited from my father, along with my blond hair and blue eyes.
But right now, I was flapping like a flag in a hurricane.
“New College.” Toby’s voice was clipped.
“Oh, and how did you find that experience?” Bloody hell, I sounded like someone’s great-aunt at Christmas lunch.
“Well, I don’t have any other experience to compare it to, but it was tolerable.”
Unlike this conversation. The subtext in Toby’s eyes seemed clear.
“I went to Cambridge myself. I was in Trinity,” I said.
Toby’s unimpressed gaze didn’t waver. “Right.”
He glanced over his shoulder, clearly searching for an escape route from this conversation. “You’ll have to excuse me. I was having an interesting discussion about the finer points of Swiss fondue etiquette before you interrupted. I should get back to it.”
He abruptly turned, his back forming a barrier that shut down further conversation between us.
I was left staring at Toby’s back, feeling like a student who’d just been dismissed by a particularly disdainful professor.
“What was that all about?” I asked Noel in bewilderment as we retreated a few steps.
“He’s a member of the Young Labour Party. Very political,” Noel said in an undertone.
Now, I had an explanation for his hostility. My father was a prominent member of the Conservative Party, as was his father before him. He’d obviously recognized my name.
“You didn’t think to inform me of his affiliation with Young Labour before making the introduction?” I said.
Noel shrugged. “Toby is normally friendly to everyone.”
“Evidently, he made an exception in my case.” I attempted to conceal my disappointment with a cool tone.
Following our initial encounter, Toby Webley seemed to make a concerted effort to avoid my presence for the remainder of the holiday.
I couldn’t help but observe that he made a hasty exit whenever we found ourselves in the same vicinity.
I found myself growing increasingly annoyed by this behavior.
The man with the effusive grin and boisterous laugh appeared more than willing to bestow his conviviality upon everyone but myself.
On the last day of the trip, as we all endeavored to complete our final runs down the slopes, I found myself next to Toby while queuing for the ski lift.
He pushed his ski goggles onto his head, and his cheeks were flushed pink from the crisp mountain air. He looked like he should be in a brochure advertising the benefits of good health.
He met my gaze, his expression immediately cooling.
“Harry.”
“Toby.”
He turned back to ignore me like he’d done the rest of the trip, and suddenly, resentment welled inside me.
“I heard you are a member of Young Labour,” I said in a loud voice.
Toby swirled back around. “Yes, I am.”
“I’m curious how someone of such obvious intelligence manages to reconcile the complete lack of common sense required to be a member of Young Labour.”
Toby had blinked for a few moments before he’d responded. “Well, I think it’s because of this concept that you, as a Conservative, are probably unfamiliar with. It’s called compassion. Ring any bells? No? I didn’t think so.”
Toby had then deliberately moved forward to ride with the group ahead and avoid sharing the lift with me.