Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Toby
I sit in the Commons Chamber surrounded by my fellow Labour MPs for the State Opening of Parliament, straightening my tie for the umpteenth time.
I’m not nervous about the State Opening of Parliament, which happens every year and marks the formal start of the parliamentary year.
It’s an event steeped in tradition and symbolism, with the Queen traveling from Buckingham Palace to Westminster in a horse-drawn carriage.
She then delivers a speech outlining the government’s agenda for the coming session.
No, my nerves today come from an entirely different place.
I’ll see Harry again today.
It seems ridiculous to be fussing with my tie in preparation for seeing him for the first time in over a week. Harry has seen me in every state possible. He won’t judge me based on what I look like.
The air around me buzzes with the low hum conversation.
“Toby, old chap!” My colleague, Jeremy, claps me on the shoulder. “I’m guessing you didn’t volunteer to be the hostage MP today.”
Part of the ancient tradition of the State Opening of Parliament is an MP is taken as a symbolic “hostage” at Buckingham Palace until the Queen returns safely.
I force a laugh. “No, I definitely didn’t volunteer for that role.”
“I don’t blame you for that.” Jeremy chuckles. “But really, it’s good to have you back. We need all hands on deck to keep the Tories on their toes.”
As if on cue, a hush falls over the Chamber. I turn to see what’s caused the sudden shift in atmosphere and my breath catches in my throat.
Striding into the Commons Chamber with his usual confident step is Harry. Like me, it’s the first time he’s been back in Parliament since our wilderness ordeal. He looks every inch the leader of the opposition. His tailored suit is impeccable, he’s clean-shaven, and his hair slicked back neatly.
It’s like going back in time.
I have an overwhelming urge to go over to him and mess his hair up. I want to get him back to being my version of Harry. I want him to be the unshaven Harry with an unkempt beard and wild hair, the one who laughed with me and held me close at night.
Not this cold version I used to know and loathe.
But it’s a good reminder that Harry’s the Conservative leader campaigning to be prime minister. He’s married to a woman. There’s absolutely no place for me in Harry’s life.
Just as I’m thinking that, Harry’s gaze finds mine.
For a few seconds, our eyes are locked with such an intensity it sends a shiver down my spine.
“I daresay you did well surviving out there with him. Tell me, is he the pompous git he appears to be?” Jeremy’s voice interrupts my focus on Harry.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I rip my eyes away from him. “He has his moments.”
I’m trying to focus on Jeremy, to answer his further questions, when I see the Serjeant-at-Arms rise to signal the proceedings are about to begin.
The doorkeepers, garbed in white tie and tails, straighten, and a hush falls over the Chamber.
“Close the door,” the Speaker calls.
The door is slammed shut just as the representative of the House of Lords approaches. It’s a symbolic gesture, a nod to the independence of the Commons from the lords and the monarchy.
It’s part of an ancient understanding that made Oliver’s relationship with Prince Callum so untenable when he was prime minister. The need to keep the monarchy separate from the House of Commons.
I sneak a glance at Harry’s face. Does he feel the power of that one motion?
He, who descends from a line of ancestors once part of the House of Lords for generations.
But now his family sign their title away every generation so they can be part of the House of Commons, where the true political power lies.
The noise of three sharp knocks snaps me out of my contemplation. It’s another symbolic gesture. Since 1642, when King Charles I attempted to arrest five Members of Parliament, a monarch has not entered the Commons Chamber.
The Serjeant-at-Arms, the official guardian of the Commons, walks slowly to open it.
There stands the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, dressed in his traditional black-and-gold uniform, holding the black rod. He comes into the Commons Chamber.
“Mr. Speaker, the Queen commands this Honourable House”—he nods to both sides of the Chamber—“to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers.”
The Speaker stands in his ceremonial robes and makes his way to follow the Black Rod, the prime minister falling into place behind them, with Harry, as leader of the opposition, at her side.
There’s the usual jostle from MPs to get a place in the procession because if you’re left at the back, you often don’t even make it inside the House of Lords.
Seemingly out of respect for me and what I’ve recently been through, a path seems to clear for me to be among the cabinet ministers, and I join the procession near the front.
Harry’s blond head is only a few feet ahead of me, and my eyes remain fixed on Harry’s back. The distance between us feels both minuscule and vast.
Watching him, memories of his touch, his lips on mine, the way our bodies fit together come rushing back, threatening to overwhelm me.
And that’s when it happens. He glances back over his shoulder and catches my eye. For a brief second, his eyes crinkle in a secret smile. It’s a glimmer of the Harry I know.
You’re still there. You still exist.
And I still want you so much.
The realization knocks my breath away. I still want Harry. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.
And I don’t know how to stop wanting him.
Fuck. I thought I could leave it all behind. I thought all those confusing and overwhelming feelings for Harry were simply a matter of circumstance, arising out of being stuck together and having to rely on each other.
That theory has well and truly proved to be flawed.
As we make our way through the ornate corridors and halls of the Palace of Westminster, my mind is a whirlwind.
I’ve participated in this ceremony for so many years and never thought deeply about it. But having now experienced an attempted kidnapping, still assumed to be by people intent on disrupting our democracy, it takes on special meaning.
Democracy is a fragile thing. As Harry and I discussed in the wilderness, it is imperfect. But it is still better than the alternatives.
Every nation does it slightly differently. And the fact we’ve managed to blend both a monarchy and a democracy is a curious thing, a paradox that embraces tradition and progress.
Members of the House of Commons arrive at the Bar of the House of Lords, standing shoulder to shoulder as we face the throne.
Queen Katharine sits there, resplendent in the Imperial State Crown and robe of state, with Prince Callum on the throne beside her.
Oliver, as the Prince Consort, stands to the right.
I can’t help flicking my gaze to him. He used to attend the State Opening of Parliament as the prime minister.
Now, he’s here purely as a ceremonial role.
The Lords Chamber is fancier than the Commons Chamber, the stained-glass windows offering a kaleidoscope of colors, their intricate designs telling stories from British history. The room is filled with grandeur, from the elaborately carved wooden screens to the soaring arches.
Harry is two rows in front of me, standing side by side with Prime Minister Rosalia Norsman, his back ramrod straight, his attention focused on the throne.
The Lord Chancellor hands Queen Katharine the speech. As she reads the government’s agenda for the coming year, I try to focus on her words. But my gaze keeps drifting to Harry, the way the light glints off his hair.
I know Harry will be listening intently to the Queen’s speech because it’s his job as leader of the opposition to provide the first critique of the government policies she’s outlining.
It’s a good reminder that Harry and I belong to different teams now.
When the Queen finishes speaking, the Lord Chancellor retrieves the speech using a velvet cushion and the royal procession departs. Then, it’s the MPs’ turn to leave. Harry and the prime minister lead the procession back to the Commons Chamber.
It’s more informal now, everyone chattering as we head back.
I’m surrounded by Labour MPs. Harry is surrounded by Tory MPs. The brief moment of unity that came with the Opening of Parliament has passed. Now we’re all preparing to do battle in the debate that’s about to happen.
When I was in the wilderness, all I wanted was to return to real life.
But what is real life? Is this actually real life? The pomp and ceremony of the ancient rituals, the political scheming, and the constant jockeying for influence and control? Is this more real than Harry and me in a cabin in Finland?
It doesn’t feel like this should be the true reality.
I know Harry has to prepare for the Debate on the Address that comes after a short recess, yet I can’t keep myself from following him as he exits the Commons Chamber and heads up the stairs.
When I reach the top, Harry’s bodyguard is standing outside the lavatory.
I tell myself I’m just going to the lavatory, that I need to splash some cold water on my face and clear my head.
But when I push open the door and step inside, I see Harry standing at the sink, his hands gripping the edge of the counter as he stares at his own reflection, and my stomach flutters.
A quick check of the cubicles reveals no one is in here but us.
Our gazes meet in the mirror and are immediately locked together. His eyes widen, and I can hear nothing but the rumble of my own heartbeat in my ears.
“Harry,” I manage to say.
“Toby,” he replies.
We continue to stare at each other. My heart continues to pound.
Then we move towards each other at the same time.
It’s like a collision of forces as our lips crash together, desperate and hungry. Harry’s hands are in my hair, on my face, pulling me closer, and I’m clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything to anchor myself to him.
We tumble backward into a cubicle, hitting the wall. I don’t care.
Harry’s lips are on mine, and that’s all that matters.
We’re mauling at each other’s clothes, tugging, wrenching, the need to feel, to touch, to possess overwhelming any sense of propriety or restraint.
Fabric rips, but I pay no attention because all that matters is getting my hands on his skin, keeping my lips on his, and savoring the taste and feel of him.
Then his hand is on my chest, his palm pressed against my racing heart as if he’s trying to absorb its rhythm into his own skin.
My eyes prickle because it’s been a week of my life without this, a week without touching this man, and even though he’s currently consuming my mouth, it finally feels like I can breathe again.
I’ve never kissed Harry when he’s clean-shaven, and I miss the rasp of his beard against my skin. The smoothness of his jawline is disconcerting, a reminder that while this feels so familiar, things are different from the last time I kissed him.
When we finally break apart, our chests are heaving as we struggle to catch our breath. Harry rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his fingers still tangled in my hair.
He finally withdraws. He opens his eyes and his blue gaze pierces mine.
“It appears you are still a necessity,” he says.