Page 14 of The Unlikely Pair
Unlike this conversation. The subtext in Toby’s eyes seemed clear.
“I went to Cambridge myself. I was in Trinity,” I said.
Toby’s unimpressed gaze didn’t waver. “Right.”
He glanced over his shoulder, clearly searching for an escape route from this conversation. “You’ll have to excuse me. I was having an interesting discussion about the finer points of Swiss fondue etiquette before you interrupted. I should get back to it.”
He abruptly turned, his back forming a barrier that shut down further conversation between us.
I was left staring at Toby’s back, feeling like a student who’d just been dismissed by a particularly disdainful professor.
“What was that all about?” I asked Noel in bewilderment as we retreated a few steps.
“He’s a member of the Young Labour Party. Very political,” Noel said in an undertone.
Now, I had an explanation for his hostility. My father was a prominent member of the Conservative Party, as was his father before him. He’d obviously recognized my name.
“You didn’t think to inform me of his affiliation with Young Labour before making the introduction?” I said.
Noel shrugged. “Toby is normally friendly to everyone.”
“Evidently, he made an exception in my case.” I attempted to conceal my disappointment with a cool tone.
Following our initial encounter, Toby Webley seemed to make a concerted effort to avoid my presence for the remainder of the holiday.
I couldn’t help but observe that he made a hasty exit whenever we found ourselves in the same vicinity.
I found myself growing increasingly annoyed by this behavior.
The man with the effusive grin and boisterous laugh appeared more than willing to bestow his conviviality upon everyone but myself.
On the last day of the trip, as we all endeavored to complete our final runs down the slopes, I found myself next to Toby while queuing for the ski lift.
He pushed his ski goggles onto his head, and his cheeks were flushed pink from the crisp mountain air. He looked like he should be in a brochure advertising the benefits of good health.
He met my gaze, his expression immediately cooling.
“Harry.”
“Toby.”
He turned back to ignore me like he’d done the rest of the trip, and suddenly, resentment welled inside me.
“I heard you are a member of Young Labour,” I said in a loud voice.
Toby swirled back around. “Yes, I am.”
“I’m curious how someone of such obvious intelligence manages to reconcile the complete lack of common sense required to be a member of Young Labour.”
Toby had blinked for a few moments before he’d responded. “Well, I think it’s because of this concept that you, as a Conservative, are probably unfamiliar with. It’s called compassion. Ring any bells? No? I didn’t think so.”
Toby had then deliberately moved forward to ride with the group ahead and avoid sharing the lift with me.
And that set the standard for Toby and my interactions going forward. Any time we were in the same place, we needled each other relentlessly. At Barney’s wedding, we had an argument fierier than the sparklers on the cake about the merits of the new education policy.
Toby always got so passionate, so alive, whenever we argued. And as much as I vehemently disagreed with nearly every word out of his mouth, our debates were invigorating. I found myself perversely dreading and anticipating every encounter with Toby.
Of the two of us, I was the first to enter politics after my father resigned as MP.
