Page 40 of The Unlikely Heir
I definitely believe THAT statement. Unique is good though.
Oliver’s message comes back almost automatically.
Unique is definitely good. Remember that.
This is another thing that peppers Oliver and my conversations besides gentle teasing. He always seems to be trying to boost me up in a subtle, restrained British kind of way.
I think he feels sorry for me.
I’d much prefer it to be mutual respect driving my conversations with the British prime minister rather than pity. But I’ll take what I can get.
Because Oliver Hartwell understands what I’m going through, and that’s rare for me in my life at the moment.
My grandmother and even Nicholas and Amelia are in the public spotlight with me, but they’ve been in it their whole life, so they don’t quite understand how hard it is to go from obscurity to royalty.
Oliver understands what it’s like to change from being a nobody to suddenly having the attention of the whole country.
And he doesn’t seem to mind the random stuff I share with him. In fact, he often seems genuinely interested.
I decide to share another nugget now because it’s slightly relevant to our topic of conversation, which has always been good enough for me.
I was reading this interesting article about why humans care so much about what other people think of us. Evolutionarily it makes sense because group cooperation was such an important part of survival for early humans. You didn’t want to be the one left behind to face the saber-toothed tiger by yourself. So we’re really fighting against millions of years of evolutionary biology trying to not care what people think.
Oliver sends three replies in quick succession.
That’s depressing.
Maybe the only people who can actually handle it are the unevolved of us.
It would explain a lot of my colleagues in Parliament, to be honest.
I laugh again as I settle back against the sofa.
It looks like it’s going to be another long night of exchanging messages with Oliver Hartwell, dipping in and out of each other’s brains, making each other laugh.
Which is somehow turning into my favorite form of entertainment.
Even if it is driven by Oliver feeling sorry for me, I’m totally taking it.
ChapterEleven
Oliver
“You all right, Prime Minister?” Toby asks me. We’re in my office at Downing Street, a space steeped in centuries of history with its dark wood paneling and towering bookshelves filled with volumes of laws and the supposed wisdom of governance.
I blink at him, surprised. “Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
“You look knackered. Were you up late working again?” There’s a scolding tone to Toby’s voice, which is justified. After Garett left, I worked ridiculous hours in this very room, planning ways to push through our legislative agenda under the soft glow of the antique desk lamp that had belonged to Clement Attlee.
But my late afternoon tiredness today isn’t due to working around the clock to distract myself from my marriage failure.
It’s because I’ve been up late every night this week messaging Callum. The hours disappear without me realizing, leaching away in a haze of quips and facts as Callum and I amuse each other.
I slide a look at Toby. If I tell him I spent three hours last night messaging a guy, he’ll be excited I’m moving on. However, if I tell him I spent three hours messaging the Prince of Wales, his scolding tone will return in force.
But I refuse to believe I’m doing anything wrong.
The messages between Callum and me are completely innocent. Last night it started as our normal exchange about the comments in the tabloids and social media, and then our conversation somehow moved on to the history of tea, which Callum had been reading about.
