Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Harry
The next morning, I receive psychological clearance to leave Birmingham.
I get the feeling there was significant pressure applied by the Conservative Party to make sure it happened speedily.
We dipped in the polls while I was away, and they believe they need me back at the helm if we’re going to win this election.
Which I guess is a good thing, given my concerns about my position being usurped by Rupert.
My emotional state doesn’t matter as long as I can give a good soundbite.
Prunella has put her foot down and insisted I not head straight to London but rather to our country estate in Ashbury to convalesce.
I listen as my father and Amanda, the Conservative Party chairperson, discuss this on a conference call.
“A joint media statement agreed to by both parties has been issued this morning with the basic details to quell wild speculation. But we’ll have to discuss a communication strategy going forward,” Amanda says.
“I’m sure Harry will be ready for the media in a few days. He understands what a crucial time this is with the election in only a few months,” my father replies.
I definitely understand the stakes in this.
My family needs me. My party needs me. My country needs me.
But there’s one more thing I must do before I can fully step back into my old life, one last piece of unfinished business.
I have to say goodbye to Toby.
The hospital corridors seem endless as I make my way to his room. I’ve been rehearsing this conversation for hours, trying to find the right words to express the maelstrom of emotions that threatens to overwhelm me.
I pause outside his door, my hand hovering over the handle. I close my eyes, gathering my courage, and knock softly.
“Come in.”
I enter the room, my steps measured and slow. Toby is perched on a chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed. He looks up as I approach.
For a second, I want nothing more than to step forward and enfold him in my arms.
I pull up short and clear my throat instead.
“So, you cleared your psychological assessment as well, then?” I ask.
“Yes, apparently, getting stuck in the wilderness with you didn’t turn me crazy. I’m pretty sure a miracle is being declared somewhere right now.” There is something inscrutable in Toby’s eyes.
I can’t muster a smile.
“I’m fairly sure a few things that happened out there could be declared a miracle,” I say softly.
Toby rubs his hand across his face. “Yeah, the miracle that we didn’t kill each other. Although it could be argued some of our constituents might have preferred that option.”
“Well, you can’t always give your constituents everything they want.”
And there it is. A flicker of a Toby smile before it fades away.
“You’re going to Ashbury?” he asks.
I nod. “For a few days at least. My family wants me close.”
Toby’s throat works, and I suddenly want nothing more than to hear those words lodged in his throat right now. There are so many things left unsaid between us.
“I’m heading to London,” he says finally.
Just then, my new mobile chimes with a message. Before I can stop myself, I check it. It’s like Pavlov’s dog. Forty-two days away from all technology, yet I’m still conditioned to respond to notifications.
The message is from Charlie, confirming my media team will be at my house tomorrow for a strategy meeting.
Toby’s watching me with a dark gaze when I lift my head from the screen.
“You’re back online then,” he says.
“Yes.”
“You might want to update your social media bios to include you’re a survivor of the Finnish wilderness.
That might lure a few of those survivalist prep people into voting for you if they know you’ll be a good bet if the zombie apocalypse happens.
” Toby’s voice sounds slightly too bright, almost brittle.
“Thank you for that sound political advice. I’ll bear it in mind.”
“I guess maybe we should consider the last forty-two days just a giant disconnect retreat. Although I probably could have done without the whole ‘fighting for survival’ thing. But hey, at least we’ve got some great stories to tell at dinner parties.
We should probably skimp on the details of what we actually ate, though, because I don’t know if rabbit liver is going to become the next thing in gourmet cooking. ”
I can’t bear this any longer. I can’t bear to see Toby trying to mask his feelings behind a facade of jokes and quips.
But as I take a step forward, my phone beeps again. I know it’s another message from Charlie or one of my other aides lining up a political meeting, all focused on the ultimate goal of becoming the next prime minister.
It’s a reminder of why this thing between Toby and me needs to end right now.
I stop.
“I should get going. So…um…take care,” I say.
Toby just looks at me with those beautiful eyes. Eyes I now know better than I know my own.
“You too, Harry. Try not to get lost in the wilderness again.”
I attempt a smile, but it’s not even convincing enough to fool myself.
I turn on my heel and leave.
The corridors stretch endlessly before me, a labyrinth of sterile white walls and gleaming floors, a cold, impersonal maze. I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead.
Prunella studies me closely as I get into the car, and I try to school the emotions threatening to crush my chest.
What did I expect from Toby? Heartfelt declarations of love? Whispered confessions about how much we mean to each other?
We are back in reality now. And the reality is I’m Harry Matheson, the third generation in my family of MPs from Brambleshire. I’m the leader of the Conservative Party. I have an election to win.
He’s a prominent figure in the Labour government trying to win re-election. We are now back to being adversaries.
I have a lifetime of experience with schooling my emotions to draw on.
But every mile I travel away from Toby makes it harder to breathe.
Toby told me not to get lost in the wilderness again. I might be on the M5 motorway rather than stumbling through a Finnish forest.
But I’m still feeling lost.
Nation’s Jaw Drops: Missing MPs Found Alive After Forty-Two Days
Back from the Wild: MPs Prove Harder to Lose Than a Bad Penny
Lost MPs Found: Now Ready for a Much-Needed Bath and a Cuppa
From Frostbite to Spotlight: MPs’ Wild Adventure Ends with a Hero’s Welcome
Forget Wilderness Survival, Can They Survive the Latest Polls?
The rescue of Toby and me has definitely sent the media into a frenzy.
Along with the Conservative Party, if the wild enthusiasm on display from my communication advisors and party hierarchy as they sit around the table in my study is anything to go by.
Outside the vast windows are the sprawling lawns of the estate. While I was away, the last of summer wilted away, and the tree branches are now stark and leafless under the gloomy sky.
Voices swirl around me.
“Harry’s rescue has completely changed the election. We can pin this as a story of true British grit and resilience. The public will eat it up. Picture it: From the Nordic Wilderness to 10 Downing Street: Harry’s Heroic Journey,” Kimberly, my communications advisor, says.
“Nothing like everyone assuming he’s dead for over a month for them to actually appreciate him,” Amanda says smugly.
“Risen from the ashes like Jesus.”
“We could play up the Christlike analogy.”
“It’s a pity he shaved off the beard. We could have reinforced that narrative visually. He looked like a modern-day prophet. Stripped to the essentials, focused on what truly matters, ready to lead his people to a brighter future.”
“You realize that as Jesus lived in the first century in the Middle East, he would have most likely had brown eyes, dark hair, and olive-brown skin,” I say wearily.
“Unfortunately, a Labour MP also survived, so we can’t really play the survival of the fittest, nothing will defeat the Conservative angle,” Amanda says.
Unfortunately, Toby also survived? Unfortunately?
My sole aim for the last six weeks of my life has been Toby’s survival, and the idea it is seen as a negative by those trying to get me elected causes nausea to rise up inside me.
“Actually, I think we can play the Toby Webley angle to our advantage. Talk about Harry’s bipartisan strengths, how he can work across the aisle,” Kimberly replies.
What would Toby say if he could participate in this conversation? It’s something I can’t stop myself from thinking constantly.
I can almost hear his voice in my head, that wry tone he gets when he’s about to make a cutting observation. “Ah, yes, let’s reduce a life-altering experience to a cheap campaign slogan. That’s sure to resonate with the voters.”
I want to talk to him. I want to tell him about the walk I took in the woods of the estate yesterday, how I spotted a single, solitary deer appearing like magic on the edge of the clearing, only to melt back into the forest.
I want to talk to him about how I can’t look at a squirrel now without wrinkling my nose, knowing the tough, gamy meat that lies under their cute fur.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the conversation at hand. As much as I’d like to lose myself in thoughts of Toby, I have a responsibility to my party and constituents.
“So, what’s our next move?” I ask.
Amanda frowns. “I’m afraid there is no time for a gentle re-entry. We’ve got less than six months to the election. Rupert did a good job keeping things moving on the candidate selection front while you were away.”
Rupert, who has been uncharacteristically quiet so far in this meeting, smirks as Amanda hands me a list.
I scan down it, stopping when I see a particular name.
Unease flickers as I glance up at Amanda and Rupert. “Grantham? The fundamentalist Christian? Didn’t he have a troubling record on climate change and social issues?”
Amanda nods, her expression unreadable. “I know he’s a bit of a firebrand, but he was by far the frontrunner within his constituency.”
“Are you confident we can keep his extremist views in check?”
“He’s been informed that we expect him to toe the party line. And, Harry, I understand your reservations. But the reality is, we’re in a tough fight. The polls are extremely close. We have to make some difficult choices if we want to win. And right now, David Grantham is one of those choices.”
I lean back in my chair, weariness washing over me. Everything in politics is a calculated risk. I know that.
But I can’t help the protest that falls from my lips. “I just worry that by embracing candidates like Grantham, we’re losing sight of what we stand for as a party. We should be focusing on policies, not pandering to populism.”
Rupert snickers. “Come now, Harry, don’t tell me you went all soft out there in the wilderness.”
Amanda fixes me with a stern look. “Harry, you know as well as I do that at this stage in the campaign, it’s about winning seats, and Grantham has a certain…appeal to a particular segment of the electorate. We need to do whatever it takes to secure a Conservative victory.”
I nod reluctantly. This is the game we play, I know that. It’s not always pretty, but it’s the reality of politics.
I was born into a Conservative family. It always felt like my destiny to follow my father and grandfather into politics.
I truly believe the Tory party under me will do a better job at managing the country than the current government.
So, I agree with Amanda. We have to do whatever it takes to get the job done.
As the meeting continues, my mind drifts back to Toby. Everything seemed so simple and clear in the wilderness with him. All we had to do was find food and shelter, stay alive. But back here, in the world of politics and power, nothing is ever black and white.
Kimberly’s voice brings me back to the present.
“The media is frothing at the mouth for an interview with you, but we thought we’d give you until next week to whip them into even more of a frenzy.
But I think this week we should release some carefully staged long-range pictures of you and Prunella wandering the estate.
Then, next week, we’ll arrange a sit-down interview with the BBC.
We want to paint a picture of resilience, of a leader who can overcome any obstacle and come out stronger on the other side.
“There’s been some discussion with the government communication team about doing a joint interview with Toby Webley, but we feel you and Prunella together are better optics.”
My heart skips a beat at the mention of Toby’s name. I try to keep my expression neutral, but I can feel blood rushing to my face.
Do I want to do a joint interview with Toby? Sit next to him and talk about our experiences in a neutral, calm way? It appears my communication team has vetoed that option anyway.
“Of course, by not doing a joint interview, it means Toby Webley will probably do an interview on his own. Yours should get more attention as the higher profile politician unless he says something truly scandalous. There’s nothing Toby Webley could say in an interview that could be used against you, is there? Nothing we should prepare for?”
You mean, like the fact we had sex with each other almost every day?
It strikes me exactly how Toby could ruin my entire career, the legacy of my family, just by confiding in one person what happened between us.
But I meant what I said.
I trust him.
I clear my throat. “No. I don’t believe there is anything you need to prepare for.”
“Are there any particular moments we can use to highlight your strengths?” Kimberly’s eyes are intent on mine. “Any moments where you saved Toby Webley that we can spin to our advantage?”
Memories flood my mind. Lunging to grab Toby’s hand to save him from falling over the waterfall.
But then Toby came up with the idea to use the dummies to get the terrorists off our trail.
Rescuing him from the ravine. Him saving me from hypothermia by getting me to the cabin after I gave him my survival blanket.
“No, there aren’t any moments like that,” I say.
I meet Kimberly’s gaze, my expression resolute. “Because we always saved each other.”