Page 62 of The Unlikely Heir
“Hey,” I say.
“Oh, hey, you’re free. How did your day go?”
I pull a face, and Callum laughs.
“That bad?”
“Let’s just say the stench of the agricultural emissions we’re debating stinks a whole lot less than the politics around them.”
I kick off my shoes and lie back on my bed, propping myself up on my pillows as I talk through my day with Callum, answering his questions about the negotiations and the environmental angle we plan to play.
“Do you know one of the theories about how agriculture evolved is that climate change drove hunter-gatherers and animals into smaller areas, and the closer association meant humans started domesticating them?”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
So Callum explains the theory, his words washing over like a balm. One part of my brain focuses on his words, but the other part listens to the gentle modulation of his American accent.
“Sorry, am I boring you?” It’s only when I hear the concern in his voice that I realize I’ve closed my eyes.
I quickly open them. “I spent the day discussing agricultural effluent. Trust me, this conversation is the intellectual highlight of my day.”
Callum smiles. I can’t help noting how it brings out the dimples in his cheek.
I suddenly realize all we’ve done so far is talk about me.
“So, how did your event in Brighton go?” I ask him.
“Good. It was so inspirational to meet all the sailors. Some of them have overcome such adversity. Oh, and I’m definitely winning the competition for the most negative headline, which I think makes me the winner every day this week.”
I squint at him. “Are you sure about that? I think my inability to hammer out a deal with the EU will be allTheCorporate Timescan focus on.”
“You spent the day in a conference room. I spent the day around boats and water. Who do you think had the most potential for generating a headline?”
My stomach lurches. “What happened?”
“Oh, nothing major. Side note, do you have any idea how many ropes there are on a boat to trip over?”
“Did you fall in?”
“I might have tested the buoyancy of my life jacket. But on the plus side, I’ve given the newspaper headline writers a chance to come up with some fun puns.” Callum’s trying for an upbeat tone, but I get the feeling he’s really not feeling it right now. “And you know, every time something like this happens, I provide more inspiration for the trolls on social media, which some could say is a service to the community.”
I make my voice gentle. “Why, what are people saying on social media?”
Callum’s face is pinched. “I know you’re going to tell me not to look, but there’s this one guy who calls himself BritishPatriot, and he posts twenty Tweets a day, and they are all pretty much on the same theme about how much I suck.” Callum attempts a laugh, but I can see the hurt on his face.
“What did he post about today?”
“He linked to a photo of me falling in and said, ‘Pity he didn’t do the country a favor and drown.’”
It isn’t just the words Callum says. It’s the matter-of-fact way he recites them, like he’s already committed them to memory. Like they’ve become embedded in his brain.
Callum rubs his forehead, his shoulders slumping. “I’m trying so hard, and I really do think I’m connecting to the people I meet in a real way now. Yet no matter what I do, someone always finds fault in it.”
“If you’re looking for universal approval in life, Callum, you’re going to be waiting for a long time.”
He swallows. “I know.”
The look of pain on his face makes me regret my easy-pat answer to this. Sometimes I forget he’s only twenty-five. I have fourteen years on him, years where my skin has grown considerably tougher. I was thirty-two when I entered politics, already battle-hardened from a career as a barrister, and I’m a far more self-assured—read arrogant—person than Callum will ever be. And even then, I’ve found it difficult to follow the conceived wisdom of ignoring all the negativity.
