Page 157 of The Unlikely Pair
But Toby’s smile fades when my father arrives by my side.
“I’ve arranged for the driver to bring the car around,” he says, his tone brisk and businesslike. His gaze skims over Toby, his forehead furrowing.
I know my father is worried my feelings for Toby will derail the campaign, derail what our family has been working to achieve for generations.
But I suddenly realize Toby has never met my father. It feels wrong that two of the most important people in my life don’t know each other.
“Father, this is Toby Webley,” I say. “Toby, this is my father, Arthur Matheson.”
My father sticks out his hand, ever polite, even when greeting the man he’s worried will be his son’s downfall. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Toby. I guess I need to thank you for your part in keeping my son alive and bringing him home.”
Toby stares down at my father’s outstretched hand but makes no move to take it. He glances at me, and something flickers in his eyes, an emotion I don’t recognize.
It almost looks like regret.
But then he’s squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin as he directs his attention back to my father. “We’ve actually met before.” His tone is cool.
My father’s eyebrows come together. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t remember me. I was sixteen, and I’d come home from school early, and you were just leaving my flat after visiting my mother. I’m sure you remember her though. Evelyn Pointer.”
The name means nothing to me, but my father lurches back like he’s taken a punch to his stomach.
“I’ve always wondered if you’d ever put two and two together and realized I was her son,” Toby continues, his eyes not leaving my father’s face. “Because besides the time we met, I’m sure she talked about me, right? Probably even showed you photos because she was that kind of mum. But you didn’t care. You probably didn’t even pay attention to anything she said. You were only there for the fucking, right?”
What the hell? I whip my head around to stare at my father.
He’s gone deathly pale. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out.
Toby presses on, his voice like steel. “Do you have any idea what you put her through? She was a vulnerable widow swept off her feet by this charming aristocrat who took an interest in her. You made her fall for you, and then you dropped her like a stone.”
Oh, holy God. He can’t mean… The woman my father had an affair with that cost him the party leadership… Is Toby actually saying that was his mother?
My father seems to shrink under the weight of Toby’s accusation, his shoulders slumping.
Toby’s gaze flicks to me, and I can’t muster any other expression than reflecting the absolute shock and horror I’m feeling.
I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing my emotions, but there is no way I can keep these feelings down.
Toby turns his attention back to my father. “So excuse me, but I don’t particularly want to shake your hand.”
“I’m sorry,” my father chokes out the words.
Toby looks at him for a few silent seconds, his face a mask of controlled anger, over twenty years of unspoken resentment and hurt condensed into a single, loaded glance.
Then he turns away, walking down the steps, his hand raised to hail a cab.
I stand there, staring vacantly after him, stunned.
I watch Toby get into the cab, watch it move down the street, its taillights retreating.
Our car pulls up, and I climb in blindly, barely comprehending my body moving, my mind still stuck on the pain and anger etched onto Toby’s face. Nausea washes over me as I begin to comprehend my father’s actions and the impact it had on Toby’s life.
My father’s face is ashen.
“I had no idea…” he says.
I don’t say anything.
