Chapter 1
Chapter One
Toby
Harry Matheson is the most insufferable, pompous man on the planet.
Very fortunately, my job requires me to inform him of this fact on a regular basis.
I itch with impatience as Harry stands at the despatch box in Parliament, every strand of his blond hair perfectly in place, his posh, perfectly modulated voice grating on my nerves like the whine of a sadistic dentist’s drill.
“The Labour government has once again shown that they believe the legacy of our ancestors, the history that made the United Kingdom great, should be cast aside in favor of a soulless, homogenized future.” Harry delivers his speech with a ramrod straight back.
Of course he’s got perfect posture. Slouching is not tolerated in the aristocracy.
They likely sleep on wooden planks to ensure this.
Parliament is currently debating our government’s recent infrastructure spending package. Harry, as leader of the opposition, is trying to argue that our bill doesn’t include enough funding to preserve Britain’s historic landmarks.
The cynical part of me can’t help thinking there’s a reason Harry Matheson the Third—who inherited the title of the Earl of Ashbury but renounced it so he could stand for Parliament—wants to spend the taxpayers’ money preserving historic buildings. His family probably owns half of them.
Alfred nudges me. “Are you going to respond?”
It’s a tradition that Members of Parliament, commonly known as MPs, reserve their space on the benches of the Commons Chamber using prayer cards. I’ve noticed Alfred always makes sure he’s next to me any day there’s a potential showdown between Harry and me.
I swear he’d be handing out popcorn if food was allowed in the Commons Chamber.
“Of course I’ll respond,” I say.
After all, I’d hate to disappoint.
And arguing against Harry Matheson seems to come as automatically to me as tying my shoelaces.
“We must not let the Labour Party’s shortsightedness rob us of our heritage.” Harry’s final words still hang in the air as I stand to catch the Speaker’s eye, then sit back down, the tradition of alerting the Speaker that I want to speak.
“The Honourable Gentleman for Havenbridge East,” he says.
Anticipation ripples through me as I get to my feet again. For some reason, I feel most alive when taking Harry down a peg or ten.
“I thank the Right Honourable Gentleman for his impassioned concern for our nation’s history,” I begin, and all right, there may be a trace of sarcasm in my tone.
“But he seems to be mistaking what a government’s role actually is.
We’re here to build a future for our country, not to wallow in the dusty relics of the past like a bunch of moths in a forgotten attic. ”
“Hear, hear!” some of my fellow MPs call from behind me. This is the great thing about debating in Parliament. You always have a supporting chorus.
“But really, can we blame the Right Honourable Gentleman for his obsession with historic landmarks?” I continue.
“After all, he’s the leader of the Conservative Party, who loves to cling to the past. Let’s not forget they still call themselves Tories despite changing the name of their party almost two hundred years ago.
And I suppose it’s only natural for them to feel a kinship with crumbling out-of-date structures. ”
There’s open laughter now, which gives me a thrill. I always like to provide entertainment for my colleagues—bonus points if it’s at Harry Matheson’s expense.
I flick a glance at him now.
Harry Matheson is incredibly unflappable. It’s one of his most annoying traits.
When he’s irritated, his nostrils pinch together slightly, but that is usually the extent to which he shows his emotions.
I live for that nostril pinch, by the way. Especially when I’m the cause.
This is why triumph surges through me when I see his nostrils getting a workout as he returns to the despatch box to speak.
“Mr. Speaker,” Harry begins, his voice dripping with condescension, “I must thank the Honourable Gentleman for Havenbridge East for his enlightening speech. It’s always an interesting perspective to hear from someone who likely thinks “cultural heritage” is the name of a new craft beer.
“But perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised by his disdain for the past,” Harry continues, his blue eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “After all, if I belonged to a party with a track record as dismal as Labour’s, I imagine the past would be something I’d be eager to forget as well.”
I rise to my feet, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth.
“Mr. Speaker, I must confess, I do have much in common with a craft beer. After all, we both aim to be refreshing, full of character, and enjoyed by the masses. Very different from the Right Honourable Harry Matheson, who is outdated, bitter, and leaves a bad taste in the mouth of the nation.”
The Labour benches erupt in laughter and cheers, but the Speaker quickly intervenes. “Order! Order! I remind both Honourable Members to refrain from personal attacks and stick to the matter at hand.”
And there it is. We’ve reached the point where the Speaker steps in and closes the back-and-forth between Harry and me.
It’s inevitable. In fact, I have evidence that the secretary of defense and the secretary of transport run an underground betting ring that takes wagers on exactly how long it’ll be before we reach this point.
I intentionally adopt a casual position when I sit back down, one leg folded over the other, a smirk on my face.
Harry’s cool eyes meet mine across the Chamber as he takes his own seat on the bench opposite mine.
There are thirteen feet between the government and the opposition benches. It is said to be the equivalent of the length of two swords, a reminder to MPs that we should settle our arguments with our wits rather than force.
Although, I honestly believe it would sometimes be easier to deal with Harry Matheson if I had a sword in hand.
The session continues, and in the end, we get the votes we need to pass the legislation.
Just another day in the office.
When Parliament adjourns, I head out of the Commons Chamber, passing through the lobby outside—known as the Commons’ Lobby or Members’ Lobby—because while our British ancestors conjured names such as Wetwang, Crackpot, and Boggy Bottom for our towns, it appears their imagination well and truly ran out when it came to the House of Parliament.
The Commons Chamber is where MPs elected to the House of Commons gather to debate and vote on the country’s big issues, like a rowdy classroom where everyone’s eager to have their say.
Meanwhile, if I continue through the Central Lobby and then through the Peers Corridor and Lobby, I’ll come to the more ornate chamber where the House of Lords meets.
It is more like the grandparents’ table, filled with appointed and hereditary members who review and refine the decisions made by the Commons.
But instead of aiming for the Lords Chamber, I veer left, heading for my office.
The Houses of Parliament, a.k.a. the Palace of Westminster, might be a beacon of democracy, but it’s a nightmare for the maintenance team.
The Gothic revival architecture wins points for style but loses a few for the leaks, creaks, and occasional squeaks—not from the aging floorboards but from the four-legged unofficial residents.
A significant effort was made a few years ago to get on top of the rodent problem. Unfortunately, Harry Matheson and the rest of the Tory party survived the clear-out.
I head to my office, where I’m greeted by my aides, who all want to simultaneously brief me about the climate change conference I’m heading to tomorrow in Oslo.
Before my good friend Oliver Hartwell resigned as the prime minister, I was his chief of staff, a job that gave me a front-row seat to the circus of politics, complete with daily juggling acts and occasional clown sightings.
But then, in a story straight out of a fairytale, Oliver fell head over heels in love with the Prince of Wales and chose to resign from politics so he could be with Prince Callum.
There’s an unwritten rule that when a prime minister resigns, the chief of staff follows suit. After my resignation, I mooched around for a few months as a backbench MP before being asked to apply for the head of the Climate Change Task Force.
It’s an important and interesting job, but it’s definitely a change in pace. Being chief of staff was like being in a blockbuster film—spotlights, action, and occasional plot twists. Now, sometimes, the most dramatic moment of my day comes when someone uses a plastic straw in my presence.
“It is good to see how seriously the Tories are taking climate change, the fact they’re sending their leader to the conference,” Prateet, one of my aides, says as I snap back to attention.
Good definitely wouldn’t be my go-to word for the fact I’m about to spend five days in close proximity to Harry Matheson as part of the UK delegation in Oslo.
“Hmm,” is all I say in reply. I struggle to give the Tories, especially Harry Matheson, credit for anything.
“I’m messaging you the flight details for tomorrow.” Jia Li, my private secretary, looks up from her phone. “You’ll need to watch that the Tories don’t take credit for the progress you make at the conference.”
“Trust me, I can handle Harry Matheson,” I say.