Page 65 of The Unlikely Heir
Happy? The idea startles me.
I’ve never stopped to consider whether or not I’m happy. I focus on getting things done, achieving my agenda. My happiness doesn’t ever enter the equation.
I don’t want to consider whether I’ve been happier recently. And I especially don’t want to think about the source of my happiness.
It’s later that day when Callum enters my head again. The trade negotiations ended midday, with an agreement satisfactory to all parties. I fly back to London in time to go straight into a meeting about cyberbullying legislation with representatives from the Home Office and the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport, along with various other relevant agencies.
“Research shows that cyberbullies are likely to be males between twenty-three to thirty, emotionally unstable, highly educated, and often with psychopathic personality traits,” Melita, the head of the National Cyber Security Centre, tells everyone at the table.
I think of what Callum told me about BritishPatriot, the guy who endlessly mocks him.
And I have an idea. It’s a crazy, stupid idea. Reckless, bordering on idiotic. But I can’t get it out of my head.
And at the end of the meeting, I approach Melita just as she’s leaving.
“Melita, do you have a quick moment?”
“Of course, Prime Minister.”
“Any chance your people can do some research for me?”
ChapterSixteen
Callum
I wake up and discover an editorial inTheCorporate Timesby the esteemed journalist Nigel Paterson, accompanied by a photo of me falling overboard.
I read it on my phone as I eat the raisin toast Herbert has brought me.
Look, it was fun for a while, watching an American bumble around pretending to play prince. But we need to get serious here. Are they actually expecting us to accept that this guy is going to be our king?
Someone needs to have a quiet word in his ear that it’s time for him to stand aside.
Because Callum Prescott is not who you cast to play the role of king. He’s a moderately funny court jester.
Which is not what our country needs right now.
The words follow me throughout my day, to the Haversham Dog Shelter, where a particularly amorous cocker spaniel decides my leg is his soulmate, to the opening of a halfway house at Bethnal Green.
When I get home that evening, I find BritishPatriot has done his own take on it.
Callum Prescott would probably be as useless as a jester as he is at everything else. I’d follow him around, pelting tomatoes at him.
Before I can help myself, I send both links to Oliver.
Do you think I should invest in a jester hat???
Oliver messages me back almost instantly.
He’s a fuckwit.
I love how Oliver will have fun with me but will also sometimes just tell it to me straight.
Who? The journalist who wrote the opinion piece or our patriotic friend?
Both of them. Unfortunately, fuckwittery isn’t a limited resource in this country.
About a second later, there’s another message from Oliver.
