Page 161 of The Unlikely Pair
“What, no hare stew for breakfast?” he asks as I present him toast with butter and jam.
“Unfortunately, Waitrose didn’t have any European hare at their butchery. I did put in a complaint.”
He smirks at me. “I’m sure you did.”
“No squirrel either. It’s like they don’t understand what makes good cuisine.”
He chuckles, then takes a bite of his toast.
We linger over breakfast, talking like we used to. But it’s mainly reminiscing about our time together in the wilderness and how much we appreciate the small conveniences of modern life we never noticed before.
“I have two showers a day now,” I admit. “I never thought I’d have such an appreciation for hot water on demand and indoor plumbing, but I can’t get enough of it.”
“I was so bewildered when I got to Ashbury and first opened the pantry,” Harry says.
“You mean discovering the miracle of food that doesn’t try to run away from you,” I say.
Harry smiles. “Yes. But also, I couldn’t comprehend how there could be so much variety of food available. I was almost paralyzed into indecision.”
“Oh, I know that feeling. I’m still spending a good ten minutes staring at the contents of my wardrobe every morning, overwhelmed by the choice,” I say.
“In some ways, it was so much easier when we simply had one outfit to wear. Well, half an outfit, as it transpired,” Harry replies.
“You can’t forget the survival blanket,” I point out.
He releases his low Harry chuckle. “You’re right. We really did set the standard for survival-blanket chic.”
“I never thought I’d be nostalgic for a glorified piece of tin foil, but here we are.”
“Here we are,” he agrees.
His hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, long fingers that I know so intimately, hands that have mapped everyinch of my body, now curled around the ceramic with a casual grace that makes my heart ache.
I wanted to fall in love. As the plane crash unfolded, that was my biggest regret, that I’d never experienced love.
I guess I got my wish.
I already knew from observing my mother that love can break you. I just never understood exactly how much.
“I guess I better get along then,” Harry says when he’s helped me wash up after breakfast.
“I guess you better,” I reply.
He hesitates at the base of the stairs. “Do you mind awfully if I borrow some clothes?”
That’s right. He arrived here last night in a tuxedo. On the off chance my flat is being staked out by tabloid photographers, he can’t be seen leaving my flat in the same clothes he was in last night.
He’ll get caught. His political career will be ruined because of me.
The toast does a cartwheel in my stomach.
If you’d asked me before the plane crash what I would do if I had the chance to ruin Harry, I would have seized it with both hands. I would have done theMacarenaon the grave of Harry’s political career. I would have thrown a party to celebrate his defeat, raising a toast to the sweet taste of victory.
But now I can’t think of anything worse than being responsible for his downfall. I might not agree with him, but a key part of our democracy is a functional opposition.
And I would rather have Harry as the leader of the Conservative Party than anyone else.
The throat-clogging feeling from this morning is back.
