Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Toby
London is loud.
I can’t get over that fact. I guess my ears became acclimatized to the Nordic wilderness, where the loudest sounds were the rushing of the river, the whisper of the wind through the trees, and the occasional bird cry.
But now, everything seems too loud.
The sound of traffic, the whir of appliances, and the din of televisions in neighboring flats.
And currently, the voices of the party strategists at the meeting I’m attending at the Labour Party Headquarters are far too loud.
“The Conservatives are winning the PR battle on this one.” Easton Grieves, one of the Labour Party’s top strategists, is scowling.
“Well, it’s easier for them. Their survivor is the party leader. It would have been better if this happened when Toby was still Oliver Hartwell’s chief of staff,” Madeline Miller, another strategist, says.
“I apologize if the timing of when I was randomly kidnapped doesn’t play into the narrative you want to spin,” I interject because, fuck it, it’s only nine-thirty in the morning and I already have a throbbing headache.
I’m sure it’s partly caused by people talking about me like I’m not even in the room.
An aide brings in water, tea, and coffee, along with a plate of freshly baked pastries. People around me don’t even glance at them while I stare like they are a miracle requiring biblical rewriting.
It’s part of a larger pattern of being unnerved by small, everyday things.
I catch myself marveling over the strangeness of simple things like the convenience of a microwave, the comfort of central heating.
The simple act of turning on a light switch or running water from a tap feels like a luxury I’m not quite sure I deserve.
Every time I open my pantry or fridge, the sheer overwhelming number of items dazzles my brain.
And I stare at my new phone, overwhelmed by the constant notifications and the pressure to reconnect with a world I now feel strangely detached from.
But the thing I’m finding the most unnerving is I can’t stop thinking about Harry, nestled in the countryside of Ashbury with his wife. What is he saying? What is he doing?
I’m spending all of my time alone, replaying our time together. The way we could bicker but then have deeper, meaningful conversations. The way he touched me. Kissed me. Held me.
We needed each other in the wilderness. We don’t need each other now.
So why do I feel like something essential is missing?
It’s natural to feel this way, right? For forty-two days, my whole life revolved around Harry. Of course I’m going to have some withdrawal symptoms.
But heroin addicts also have withdrawal symptoms. It doesn’t mean what they crave is good for them.
It doesn’t mean anything.
“Did you see the recently ‘leaked’ photos of Matheson,” Easton is saying now. “So clearly staged.”
I snap to attention. “There are photos of Harry?”
“Yes. The Corporate Times just ran some photos taken through a long-range lens, showing him at his country estate.”
I’m already on my phone looking up the website.
The photos of Harry are the lead item, showing him and Prunella walking arm-in-arm.
His arm is wrapped around her shoulders, and Prunella is smiling up at him while Harry gives her a look of deep affection.
The perfect image of a loving couple reunited after a harrowing ordeal. It’s a masterful PR move.
The photos are clearly designed to tug at the heartstrings. Harry, the devoted husband, back in the arms of his loving wife.
And it works. Because they definitely pluck at my heartstrings. With a sharp, painful twang.
I can’t tear my eyes from the photos. The rational part of my brain knows Harry and Prunella’s relationship is not an intimate one. But it appears the rational part of my brain doesn’t control my stomach, which has decided to invest in a good dose of nausea.
“The Conservatives are starting to decimate us in the polls. They got a considerable bounce from Matheson’s reemergence. Did Matheson divulge anything that we can use?” Easton asks, and I drag my eyes from the screen to answer him.
“Well, he wasn’t exactly having daily meetings with the Tory strategists that I could easily overhear.”
“Did anything happen out there that we could twist or use to discredit him?”
Anger surges inside me. “Are you fucking kidding me? Have we really stooped this low?”
Easton doesn’t back down in the face of my anger. “You’re telling me you didn’t see another side to him in the days you were together?”
“I was with the man for forty-two days in a survival situation. Of course I saw another side to him.” I fold my arms across my chest. “But we’re not going to use anything that happened out there against him.”
“Don’t you think the Conservatives are priming him for anything they can use against you, against us? Don’t be na?ve, Toby.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
Both Easton’s and Madeline’s eyebrows shoot up.
But it’s nothing to the surprise inside me about the absolute certainty with which I said those words.
I trust Harry Matheson. Even now, I still trust him.
The thought shakes me.
Am I being na?ve? The stakes are so high right now.