Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The café in Manchester’s Northern Quarter is quaint but bustling with people. I’ve been nursing the same cup of tea for fifteen minutes, my phone face-up on the scarred wooden table like a digital lifeline.
I scroll through the messages again, though I’ve already memorized them.
Grant Thompson
Hello Ollie. Your message was quite a surprise. I’d be happy to discuss this further.
His reply was professional and cautious. Exactly what you’d expect from a man discovering he might have a son from a brief encounter decades ago. But at least he hadn’t told me to fuck off, which I took as a win.
Thank you for responding. I understand this must be unexpected. Would you be available to meet in person?
Yes. I’m based in Manchester. Where are you based?
I’m in London, but I’m due to be in Northern England for a work commitment next week.
Do you want to meet at The Idle Hands café on Dale Street? Next Sunday at 2 p.m.?
Perfect. Looking forward to meeting you.
Such sterile exchanges to set up one of the most significant meetings of my life.
My protection officers, Lenton and Chen, are strategically positioned around the café.
I’ve managed to tuck myself away at a table in the back, but a few other customers have clocked me.
There’ve been the usual double-takes and the dance of British politeness, where everyone pretends they haven’t noticed me while sending messages to their friends.
I ignore the glances in my direction and send a quick message to Callum.
How’s it going out there?
Callum
I’m all good. Though I feel like I should be holding binoculars and eating stale sandwiches.
I can’t help my snort at that.
Callum insisted on being nearby to provide me with emotional support if needed. But we’d decided my biological father didn’t need the shock of meeting both his long-lost son and the future King at the same time, so Callum’s waiting with his protection officers in a car on the street.
I don’t know if the world is ready for Callum the detective.
I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.
I check the time. Two oh three p.m.
The door chimes, and I glance up at the man who has just walked in.
Shit.
My stomach feels like it’s hosting an impromptu boxing match.
Because I immediately recognize the new arrival as my father.
He’s well-dressed in a neat button-down and dark trousers, like he’s made an effort without being formal. His hair is dark with flecks of silver, and he has the kind of tan that comes from overseeing construction sites rather than lounging on beaches.
He has my jawline. Or rather, I have his.
Grant Thompson scans the café. Then his gaze lands on me.
I see the exact moment he recognizes me. His eyes widen, he does a visible double-take, and his step falters for just a second.
Of course he knows who I am. I’m the former prime minister. I’m married to the Prince of Wales and currently the Prince Consort. I’ve been in the public eye for over a decade, and now my position as a member of the royal family ensures I’m never out of the news cycle.
But then my father drags his eyes away and continues his scan.
He’s clearly still looking for the “Ollie” who sent him a message about being his son.
He doesn’t realize I’m the person he’s here to meet.
Which means this is going to be interesting.
I swallow hard, then stand, my chair scraping against the floor.
“Grant Thompson?”
He turns at the sound of his name, his eyebrows flying up when he sees who has spoken.
The progression plays out across his face. Polite acknowledgment and confusion as to why the former prime minister knows his name.
Then the pieces click into place.
His face goes through several shades of pale before landing on something between shock and disbelief.
“Bloody hell.” The words seem to fly from his lips.
“I’m Ollie,” I say quietly.
Grant’s mouth opens and closes several times. It ends up frozen open, making him look like one of those carnival games where you throw balls into clowns’ mouths.
“Would you like to join me?” I gesture at my table.
“Ah yeah, sure.”
I retreat to my table, and he staggers over with the movements of someone who’s not entirely sure their legs will support them.
After he’s plonked himself down opposite me, he just stares at me for a few seconds.
“You’re Oliver Hartwell,” he says, as if he wants an independent check of reality.
“Yes.”
“The prime minister. I mean, former prime minister.”
“That’s correct.”
“And you’re now the Prince Consort. Married to the Prince of Wales.”
“Also correct.”
“And you’re telling me you’re my…?”
How should I finish that sentence? Your biological offspring? Your unexpected genetic legacy?
“Son. According to the DNA evidence.”
The word hangs between us like an unexploded bomb. My gut is churning. Grant’s hands are flat on the table, fingers spread as if he needs to feel something solid.
“I need a drink,” he says finally.
“I’m fairly sure they don’t serve anything stronger than coffee. But the tea’s decent. I had the English Breakfast.”
He lets out a startled laugh. “Oliver Hartwell is recommending tea to me.” He shakes his head. “And he’s apparently my son.”
“I understand it’s a shock,” I say gently.
“That’s the understatement of the century.” He blinks like he’s trying to clear his vision.
The server comes over, and Grant orders a cup of English Breakfast with a strained voice.
He waits until she’s retreated, then wraps both hands around the menu she’s left behind.
“You’re absolutely positive it’s me? That I’m your…” He trails off before he gets to the noun.
I nod. “I hired a private investigator. I believe there is no doubt based on how my DNA matched other members of your extended family.”
He bites his lip. “Your message said June 1985. The Rose & Shamrock in Brentwood.”
“Well, technically in the alley behind it, from what I’ve been told.”
Color rises in his cheeks. “Christ. You must think I’m a right bastard.”
I shrug. “As the product of that encounter, I’m in no position to judge.”
He picks up the salt shaker and turns it in slow circles.
“I was on a job in Brentwood for three months building an office complex. The lads and I would go to the pub on Friday and Saturday nights.” He looks up.
“I honestly don’t remember your mother specifically.
I’m sorry. I know that makes me sound terrible, but I was twenty-two and stupid. ”
“Twenty-two and stupid seems to be a universal condition.”
That surprises a small smile from him.
And that’s when we look at each other, really look. His eyes scan my face.
“You look like I did when I was younger,” he says. “Fuck. And you look a lot like my middle son. People used to say that to Josh when you were first elected. I think he even dressed up as you for one costume party at university.”
I smile. “I’d like to see photos of that.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Christ. Sorry, I’m probably butchering this. I came here today half thinking this was a hoax, but the Brentwood thing aligned, so I was curious… But I never expected this.”
Something about how genuine he is, how he’s just telling me what’s going through his head, feels so refreshing.
I spent my time in politics surrounded by so many people who had learned to mask what they really thought, and palace officials and courtiers aren’t exactly known for their candor either.
It’s rather nice being told the truth by someone who hasn’t calculated the cost of it first.
He actually reminds me a lot of my husband in that regard.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Perhaps it would have been better for me to tell you who I was over the phone. But I was worried you wouldn’t believe me.”
A grin cracks through the shock on his face. “I would have definitely thought it was a hoax if someone rang me and told me Oliver Hartwell was my son. My son Dean loves to play practical jokes. I would have thought it was one of his attempts to pull my leg.”
“So, you’ve got three children?” I say.
“Yeah. Well, I guess now I’ve got four.”
He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s simply updating a headcount.
His words hit me in the chest. That immediate acceptance, the fact that he’s automatically slotted me into his count of children, is not something I expected.
I swallow hard before I manage to reply. “What are your children like?”
“They’re great kids. Dean’s thirty-three, works with me in the business.
He’s got a good head for numbers. He’s never short of company, but can’t seem to keep anyone past a season.
Josh is thirty-one, a teacher at the local comprehensive.
He’s the one who looks a lot like you. He teaches PE and History, coaches the football team.
And Sarah’s twenty-eight, a junior doctor at Manchester Royal.
She’s brilliant, that one. Takes after her mother.
” His whole demeanor softens as he talks about his kids, pride creeping into his expression.
“They sound great.”
“They are. I haven’t told them about you yet, about how someone contacted me saying they were my son.” There’s almost an apologetic note in his voice.
“That’s all right. I completely understand.”
“They’re going to be shocked,” Grant continues. “Especially Sarah. She was properly into politics at university, had one of those ‘I agree with Oliver’ badges during the election campaign.”
“I’m so glad she has good taste,” I say, and Grant grins.
“Our whole family supported you. Well, Dean grumbled about the corporate tax increases affecting the business, but he came around.” Grant eyes me with something approaching approval. “You did well as PM. The infrastructure investment helped a lot of construction firms like mine.”
It’s possibly the most understated political endorsement I’ve ever received, yet it somehow means more than a dozen newspaper editorials.
“Thank you. I appreciate you saying that.”
We lapse into silence again, but it’s less awkward now. More like two people taking a breath before the next round.
The server arrives with his cup of tea, and he stirs two sugars into it.