Page 150 of The Unlikely Pair
As we sit to eat, my father immediately launches into a dissection of the latest opinion polls.
“You’re positioned extremely well, Harry. The Labour government is basically writing its own resignation letter, and the public is clamoring for change. If you play your cards right, you’ll be moving into Number 10 in a few months’ time.”
I push the roast beef around my plate, only half-attentive. My thoughts keep drifting back to Toby, wondering what he’s doing at this very moment. Is he thinking about me too? Is he yearning for me as much as I’m yearning for him?
“Harry? Are you paying attention?” My father’s voice pierces through my reverie.
“Yes, of course,” I say automatically. “The polls are looking favorable.”
“At the moment, you’re golden, and this situation with your bodyguard hasn’t tarnished your image in the media either.”
Because the press is only reporting unsubstantiated speculation, there has been no mention of Toby being the person who uncovered Paul’s betrayal, so I’m getting all the accolades.
But my father talking about the election reminds me that the days leading up to the fifth of May are like a ticking time bomb.
If Toby and my relationship is untenable now, it will be utterly impossible if I become prime minister.
I take a sip of wine to avoid answering my father.
My mother mercifully changes the subject, asking Prunella about her latest charity endeavor. But I can feel my father’s gaze still fixed upon me.
After dinner concludes, my father and I head to the study for his traditional ritual of an after-dinner cigar and brandy.
He settles into his leather armchair and lights a cigar. I pour out a small brandy for each of us, then sit in the chair beside him. The rich scent of tobacco permeates the air as my father takes a long draw, exhaling a plume of smoke.
My father studies me over the glowing tip of his cigar. “You’re uncharacteristically quiet tonight, Harry.”
I shift in my seat, avoiding his probing gaze. “I’ve just got a great deal on my mind.”
“Are you concerned about the rhetoric coming from your Kingswell and Norbridge candidate?”
It takes me a second to comprehend what he’s talking about. Amidst all the Paul fallout, I’d vaguely registered that David Grantham made a speech at a church gathering alluding to traditional values in a way that caused a commotion in the press.
“Well, I’m not particularly enamored with him as a candidate,” I say as I sip my brandy. It burns a smooth path down my throat, the rich, complex flavors a welcome distraction from the heavy weight of my thoughts.
My father shrugs. “You understand politics sometimes require you to get into bed with people you’d usually prefer not to associate with.”
Actually, for me, Father, it requires me not to be in bed with the person I want.
I rub my face. I daren’t say that.
“Yes, I understand that,” I say quietly.
Silence descends upon us once more.
“So, if it’s not that, what else is troubling you?” He arches an eyebrow expectantly.
How can I answer him honestly? This man gave up the job he loved to make way for me.
I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. This is uncharted territory for us, discussing matters of the heart. In our family, emotions are meticulously guarded, rarely acknowledged. But the burden of my feelings is too much to bear alone.
My father leans forward in his chair. His eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, soften with concern. “Harry, you can talk to me. It’s almost like since you’ve been home, you’re…mourning for something.”
“I wouldn’t call it mourning. I’d call it pining,” I say quietly.
My father splutters around his cigar. “Pining? You just spent over a month stranded in the Scandinavian wilderness. Who the hell was there for you to now pine for?”
“Hewas there,” I whisper.
