Page 170 of The Unlikely Pair
I barely have time to make it to my office before I have to head to the Commons Chamber.
I stride down the corridors accompanied by two aides providing me with eleventh-hour briefings on the topics slated for today’s debates. Around me, the halls of Westminster buzz with activity, MPs and staffers hurrying to and fro, their chatter a distant hum against the pounding of my heart.
“We’ve received notification from the Speaker about an urgent question pertaining to David Grantham’s remarks,” Charlie tells me.
“I had anticipated as much,” I say.
“We’ve prepared some draft statements in response,” Charlie says.
We pass beneath the vaulted ceilings and ornate archways, the very stones seeming to whisper of the history that has unfolded within these walls.
I’ve never engaged in the ritual of touching the feet of the statues of Margaret Thatcher and Winston Churchill for luck, but I’m tempted to do it today. Because I don’t believe I have ever needed luck more than at this moment.
Two great prime ministers of the United Kingdom who once trod these same corridors. And now, I stand on the precipice of joining their ranks, the keys to 10 Downing Street nearly within my grasp.
But at what cost?
That thought keeps circling in my head. I can’t escape it.
I enter the Chamber that’s already buzzing with activity—MPs milling about, voices rising and falling in a cacophony that echoes under the intricately decorated wooden ceiling. The green leather benches are filling up quickly, a sea of dark suits and somber faces.
I make my way over to the leader of the opposition’s seat, nodding and shaking hands with colleagues as I go. But even as I exchange pleasantries and forced smiles, my mind is elsewhere.
As I settle into my seat, my gaze is drawn to the government’s benches, scanning the faces of my political rivals. And then, I see him, and it’s as though the very contents of my chest have been scooped out.
Toby.
My mind is inundated with memories. Toby lying beside me in bed, tracing languid patterns across my chest. Toby’s eyes sparkling when we engaged in spirited discussions. The gentle touch of Toby’s lips against mine.
How can I, with Toby watching from across the Chamber, condone the remarks made by David Grantham? How can I stand and defend remarks that claim the intimate moments we shared are somehow evil and wrong?
Nausea overtakes my stomach, and my mouth is as dry as parchment.
Sure enough, as soon as the Speaker’s Procession and prayers are over, and the first business has been conducted, a hush falls over the Chamber, the silence broken only by the rustling of papers and the occasional cough as the Speaker clears his throat.
“I have granted an urgent question to Yasha Ingles.”
Of course he has. I can see the government ministers and backbench MPs leaning forward in anticipation, eager to witness how I shall navigate my way out of this.
Yasha rises and reads their question. “To ask the leader of the opposition what steps he intends to take in response to the recent remarks made by David Grantham, the Conservative candidate for Kingswell and Norbridge, which have been widely criticized as homophobic and contrary to the values of equality and dignity. And whether he will reaffirm his party’s commitment to LGBTQ+ rights in light of these comments.”
The leather of my seat clings to me as I rise, as if reluctant to let me go. I smooth the front of my suit jacket. I take a step, then another, my footfalls unnaturally loud in the expectant silence of the Chamber until I reach the despatch box.
“Thank you, Mr. Speaker. I appreciate the opportunity to address this House and the nation on a matter of such gravity. In regard to the comments made by David Grantham, it is crucial to recognize that our party encompasses a wide spectrum of views. Democracy thrives on diverse opinions and vigorous debate. It is through this process that we refine our policies and strengthen our commitment to justice and equality.”
The words feel like poison on my tongue.
I can feel the eyes of the Chamber upon me, the weight of their expectations, their judgment.
I don’t glance at Toby, yet I fancy I can feel the searing intensity of his gaze, his condemnation of my cowardice and hypocrisy with my carefully crafted words that say nothing at all.
“The Honourable Member for Havenbridge East,” the Speaker says.
My heart sinks.
Toby is on his feet.
“Mr. Speaker, I would like to thank the leader of the opposition for his response. Yet, he has left the heart of the issue unaddressed. The principles of dignity and respect are not mere policies we debate—they are the cornerstones of our shared humanity.” Our eyes meet as he stares at me from across the Chamber. My heart thuds in my ears.
