Page 134 of The Unlikely Pair
“You had us all so worried,” my mother says, her voice trembling as she cups my face. “I’ve been praying every day for your safe return. I’m so grateful to have you back.”
I pat her back awkwardly. “It’s all right, Mum. I’m here now. I’m safe.”
My father gives me a stiff-armed hug. “It is good to see you,” he says.
“You too.”
“I’ve been talking to Amanda. The latest polling had us neck and neck with Labour, but she thinks your return will be the game changer if it’s managed right. The search for you has been dominating the headlines, and the media is going absolutely ballistic over the fact you’ve been found alive, as you can imagine.
“They’ll fly a team of media strategists and the party leadership up tonight. You can meet with them as soon as you’ve been given the medical and psychological all-clear. Rupert has been getting a bit too comfortable in the position of leader, so I think it’s imperative you take back control as soon as possible.”
My mind spins.
Politics.
That’s right, my job.
In a few months’ time, I could be elected prime minister.
“You’ll have to get yourself cleaned up before you see anyone,” my father says. “I’ll arrange for them to get you supplies.”
Half an hour later, I’m ushered into a sterile bathroom.
When I study myself in the mirror, I almost recoil from the stranger staring back. My beard is a feral, rugged mass of untamed hair, as is the hair on my head, which is sticking out in all directions.
I start by trimming my beard with scissors, cutting away the longer, unruly bits.
Once my beard is trimmed to a more manageable length, I lather with shaving cream.
With a deep breath, I pick up the razor. I start with my right cheek, dragging the razor slowly through the foam. The scrape of the blade against my skin is a strange sensation after all this time.
And Harry Matheson slowly emerges in the mirror.
I rinse the razor after each stroke, watching the shaving cream and bits of hair swirl down the drain. With each pass of the blade, more of my face is revealed.
I work carefully around my mouth, navigating the contours of my lips and chin. The mustache is the last to go.
I rinse my face with cool water, washing away the last traces of foam. I pat my skin dry with a towel and look into the mirror again.
Harry Matheson is back. The leader of the Conservative Party. Faithful, dutiful son and husband.
I run a hand over my smooth chin, feeling the vulnerability of new skin.
My hair is still wild and unconstrained.
I’m inundated with the memory of Toby running his fingers through my hair, teasing me as he tugged on the ends, his hazel eyes full of laughter.
I have to squeeze my eyes shut to force out the image.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Matheson?” one of the officers calls from outside the bathroom door.
I open my eyes and stare in the mirror again.
“Would you mind awfully tracking me down some hair product?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Toby
