Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Harry
As I walk down to the Commons Chamber, my heart races for two distinctly different reasons.
Toby’s fear has infected me, and I can’t help but flick a glance back at Paul, who looks like his usual capable, professional self, striding a few feet behind me. It’s chilling to think the very man I trust with my life could be the person who betrayed Toby and me.
But the potential threat to my security isn’t the only thing preoccupying my mind.
Toby.
My mind throbs with his name. Kissing him in the lavatory felt like the most honest, genuine thing I’ve ever done in my life.
I meant what I said. Toby is a necessity. No matter how cold or hungry I was in the wilderness, I never craved food or warmth as much as I crave Toby now.
United with him in this potential situation with Paul reminds me of why he is such a necessity for me, how far it extends past my physical want for him.
Toby believes Paul is a threat, so I believe it. I trust Toby more than I have ever trusted anyone.
The halls of Westminster are usually a place of comfort for me. But today, as I walk through them towards the Chamber surrounded by my colleagues and Toby, they feel foreign, hostile, the echoes of our footsteps providing an ominous beat.
The irony of the situation does not elude me. Here I am, about to engage in a verbal sparring match with the government while a larger, different conflict is potentially playing out.
I straighten my spine, squaring my shoulders as we reach the security checkpoint at the entrance to the Members’ Lobby. This is always where the parliamentary security officers take over from personal bodyguards.
“Thank you, Paul,” I manage to say my usual farewell to him.
Paul nods, his expression inscrutable. “I’ll be waiting right here if you need me, sir.
” His words, usually a comfort, now feel fraught with double meaning.
I swallow hard, forcing a tight smile as I pass the security checkpoint.
Toby follows close behind, his presence a reassuring warmth at my back.
As we step into the Members Lobby, I exhale shakily.
Toby catches my eye and nods his head over to the southern wall. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgment, following him over to where we can talk privately near the bust of former Prime Minister Harold Wilson.
“What are we going to do? We need to act fast, but we can’t be sure who else might be involved in this,” Toby says in a low voice.
It’s the same fear we had clutching the satellite phone. Not knowing who to trust.
“If Paul’s involved, there might be others from the Royalty and Specialist Protection unit who are compromised,” I say.
“I’ll call Oliver, get his advice on who he thinks will be the best person to approach, whether it should be MI5 or the Metropolitan Police.
You need to deliver your leader of the opposition speech as expected to avoid raising any suspicion just in case your behavior is being monitored.
” Toby blows out a deep breath. “Hopefully, we’ll just discover I’m being paranoid. ”
“It’s worth investigating, nonetheless. Good luck.” I lean towards him automatically, intending to kiss him like I did so many times when we were both going on separate missions, him to chop firewood or fish, me to check the snare lines.
It’s only when Toby takes a step back that reality sets in. He stares at me for a few heartbeats, his eyes dark. Then, he turns and slips out of the Members Lobby, his phone already in his hand.
Bloody hell. I draw a shaky breath.
When I pull myself together enough to head into the Chamber, I see Rupert eyeing me suspiciously. But I’ve got more pressing matters to worry about now.
An hour later, I’m standing at the despatch box, delivering my scathing critique of the policies the government has just laid out, when Toby slips into the back of the Chamber.
My eyes find his and he gives me a small nod, and it’s enough for me to know he has this in hand.
It’s a reminder how even though we are on opposite sides of the Chamber, and I’m currently attacking the government he is part of, on a deeper level, Toby and I will forever be on the same team.
The headline leaps out at me from the front page of the newspaper:
Matheson’s Bodyguard Implicated in Kidnapping Plot
“It’s nice to see that our government security agencies leak more than a chocolate teapot under a heat lamp,” Prunella says as she pours herself a cup of tea.
“I think leaking to the press is the least of the Metropolitan Police’s troubles right now,” I say.
The last few days have been a flurry of intense interviews and debriefings with MI5 as I recount every interaction and conversation I’ve ever had with Paul.
Because after Toby raised his concerns and the Royalty and Specialist Protection branch of the Metropolitan police decided to take a deeper look into Paul’s background, it quickly became obvious that Paul was not who he claimed he was and that he had ties to the men who tried to kidnap us.
But Paul has clammed up tighter than a Whitehall budget meeting, refusing to utter a word even under intense questioning.
The kidnappers we trapped haven’t been any more forthcoming, maintaining a stubborn silence that would put a Trappist monk to shame.
The ultimate perpetrators behind our kidnapping still remain elusive, as does the motive.
The idea that an unknown group could infiltrate our security services and attempt to kidnap high-ranking politicians has Westminster in a tizzy.
Not knowing who’s behind it or why has everyone from the home secretary to the tea lady on high alert.
There are whispers of foreign interference, domestic extremists, and even corporate espionage.
Through it all, one overarching desire has throbbed through me.
I want to talk to Toby.
I want to hear his voice, discuss everything that has occurred with him, hear his snark, concoct funny idioms about this.
It feels unfathomable to go through this without Toby by my side.
What happened with Paul is the perfect pretext for talking to Toby, but I haven’t contacted him. Nor has he contacted me.
What is he feeling?
We kissed after the State Opening of Parliament.
But was that only force of habit for him because we’ve always connected so well physically?
Does he harbor genuine feelings for me? Is the barrier I sensed sometimes in Toby, that I never quite understood, stopping him from contacting me?
Or is it because he also knows how utterly impossible anything permanent between us would be?
I think of the way he used to look at me and touch me, how he worked so diligently to create the sauna experience, his whispered voice as we watched the northern lights and I told him there was no one else I would rather have shared the experience with.
“Same for me.”
My inner turmoil is still at the forefront of my mind when my parents arrive that night for dinner.
The dining room is awash in warm light from the ornate crystal chandelier, casting a golden glow on the china and sparkling crystal glasses.
And all I can think of is Toby in the cabin, his voice full of excitement as he held up a battered tin bowl.
As we sit to eat, my father immediately launches into a dissection of the latest opinion polls.
“You’re positioned extremely well, Harry. The Labour government is basically writing its own resignation letter, and the public is clamoring for change. If you play your cards right, you’ll be moving into Number 10 in a few months’ time.”
I push the roast beef around my plate, only half-attentive. My thoughts keep drifting back to Toby, wondering what he’s doing at this very moment. Is he thinking about me too? Is he yearning for me as much as I’m yearning for him?
“Harry? Are you paying attention?” My father’s voice pierces through my reverie.
“Yes, of course,” I say automatically. “The polls are looking favorable.”
“At the moment, you’re golden, and this situation with your bodyguard hasn’t tarnished your image in the media either.”
Because the press is only reporting unsubstantiated speculation, there has been no mention of Toby being the person who uncovered Paul’s betrayal, so I’m getting all the accolades.
But my father talking about the election reminds me that the days leading up to the fifth of May are like a ticking time bomb.
If Toby and my relationship is untenable now, it will be utterly impossible if I become prime minister.
I take a sip of wine to avoid answering my father.
My mother mercifully changes the subject, asking Prunella about her latest charity endeavor. But I can feel my father’s gaze still fixed upon me.
After dinner concludes, my father and I head to the study for his traditional ritual of an after-dinner cigar and brandy.
He settles into his leather armchair and lights a cigar. I pour out a small brandy for each of us, then sit in the chair beside him. The rich scent of tobacco permeates the air as my father takes a long draw, exhaling a plume of smoke.
My father studies me over the glowing tip of his cigar. “You’re uncharacteristically quiet tonight, Harry.”
I shift in my seat, avoiding his probing gaze. “I’ve just got a great deal on my mind.”
“Are you concerned about the rhetoric coming from your Kingswell and Norbridge candidate?”
It takes me a second to comprehend what he’s talking about. Amidst all the Paul fallout, I’d vaguely registered that David Grantham made a speech at a church gathering alluding to traditional values in a way that caused a commotion in the press.
“Well, I’m not particularly enamored with him as a candidate,” I say as I sip my brandy. It burns a smooth path down my throat, the rich, complex flavors a welcome distraction from the heavy weight of my thoughts.
My father shrugs. “You understand politics sometimes require you to get into bed with people you’d usually prefer not to associate with.”
Actually, for me, Father, it requires me not to be in bed with the person I want.
I rub my face. I daren’t say that.
“Yes, I understand that,” I say quietly.
Silence descends upon us once more.
“So, if it’s not that, what else is troubling you?” He arches an eyebrow expectantly.
How can I answer him honestly? This man gave up the job he loved to make way for me.
I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. This is uncharted territory for us, discussing matters of the heart. In our family, emotions are meticulously guarded, rarely acknowledged. But the burden of my feelings is too much to bear alone.
My father leans forward in his chair. His eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, soften with concern. “Harry, you can talk to me. It’s almost like since you’ve been home, you’re…mourning for something.”
“I wouldn’t call it mourning. I’d call it pining,” I say quietly.
My father splutters around his cigar. “Pining? You just spent over a month stranded in the Nordic wilderness. Who the hell was there for you to now pine for?”
“He was there,” I whisper.
My father’s head whips up to stare at me. A beat passes between us. Then two beats.
“Harry, you’ve had a traumatic life experience. You’re not thinking straight,” he says finally.
I press my fingers into my forehead. “I’m assuredly not thinking straight.”
“I mean, you’re not thinking things through clearly.”
“I actually feel I’m seeing things more clearly than ever,” I say.
My father shifts in his seat. He puts his cigar down and picks up his glass of brandy but doesn’t take a sip. “Do you want to know why I never ascended to the leadership of the party?”
I squirm uncomfortably. We’ve never talked about this, and I’ve never wanted to know. I’ve preferred to remain ignorant out of respect for my mother.
“I know the party chairperson withdrew his support for your leadership bid,” I say.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors as to why.”
“Yes, I have.”
My father is silent for a long moment, his expression inscrutable as he stares into the brandy he’s cradling in his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravelly.
“There was someone. Someone I cared for deeply, who made me feel alive in ways I never had before. But it was impossible for a multitude of reasons. So, I made the choice to end things. I confessed everything to your mother, and she forgave me. Then, I buried those feelings and focused on my ambitions instead. But by the time I made that decision, it was too late, and the rumors were out. That’s what cost me my leadership bid. ”
My father takes a deep breath, looking down at his cigar. “I made a mistake. I let my feelings interfere with my career. It’s the greatest regret of my life.”
He gives me a hard look. “Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
My father’s words swirl around my head as I prepare for bed.
I’ve denied my sexuality for so long. Surely I can suppress my feelings for Toby in the same way?
I look at the framed print of the snowstorm that now hangs in my bedroom and the words accompanying the picture run through my head.
We've got to go through it.
But for the first time in my life, I can’t envision how I’m going to just brace myself and get through this.