Page 39 of The Unlikely Spare
“Sometimes it’s all so bloody overwhelming,” I say quietly, and these are words I didn’t plan to let escape, but now I’ve started, I have to continue. “The reef, deforestation, rising temperatures, indigenous rights… How can I even begin to address any of it?”
My heart pounds as I wait for his reply. The silence stretches between us, and my fingers find my signet ring, twisting it in circles.
Why am I saying this to O’Connell of all people?
Perhaps it’s because he’s the only person around who isn’t attempting to either impress or photograph me.
Or perhaps because, despite everything, I suspect he might actually give an honest answer.
He’s quiet for so long that I think he might not respond at all.
“You start where you are,” he finally says, voice low enough that I can only just hear it over the wind and engines. “With whatever piece is in front of you. You can’t fix everything, but that doesn’t mean you fix nothing.”
I wanted O’Connell’s opinion of me to improve, but now I’m concerned I’ve revealed too much.
“Very philosophical for a man who tackles people for a living,” I say, but there’s no real bite in it.
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “I contain multitudes.”
I can’t help the surprised laugh that escapes me. “Did you just quote Walt Whitman, O’Connell?”
He shrugs. “Even schools in the Belfast slums teach literature.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him sharply. Did he mention Belfast deliberately? A reminder of the vast gulf between our starting points in life? Is that where part of his judgment and dislike comes from? I know the Crown’s history with Ireland reads less like diplomacy and more like a masterclass in how to make enemies for eight hundred years. We managed to bungle everything from language to land rights with spectacular consistency.
But his dislike for me somehow feels more personal than historical. Which makes me think he’s still judging me for that incident with my mother.
The boat’s engines shift from their steady thrum to a lower pitch. The sudden deceleration makes me grip the railing tighter.
“I believe we’re approaching the snorkeling site, sir,” O’Connell says. “You should get ready.”
I nod, our brief moment of connection already dissolving like salt in the tropical sea.
“Lead the way, O’Connell.”
I follow him through the boat’s main cabin, where James is conferring with the reef guide, no doubt ensuring that even the fish have been briefed on proper royal protocol. I’m already in my bathing suit, so preparing for the snorkeling is an easy task of taking off my shirt and putting on a wetsuit when I reach the back deck.
Unfortunately, it proves challenging to maintain the appropriate royal dignity while struggling into what is essentially a full-body compression sock. It appears whoever designed wetsuits fundamentally misunderstood human anatomy.
“Do you require assistance, sir?” Officer Singh asks as I attempt to pull the suit up over my hips.
“No, thank you,” I manage through gritted teeth. “I’m determined to win this battle of wills with neoprene.”
There’s a muffled snort from the corner where O’Connell is pulling on his own wetsuit with irritating efficiency. He’s already got his halfway on, the top portion folded down to his waist, exposing abs you could grate cheese on.
I determinedly look away.
The reef guide approaches us with a broad smile. “Right then! We’ve anchored at Parrotfish Cove, one of our best snorkeling spots. Clear visibility today, about twenty meters. We should see plenty of coral formations, reef fish, and if we’re lucky, maybe a sea turtle.”
“No sharks?” I ask.
“Oh, we might see a reef shark or two,” he says cheerfully. “Nothing to worry about. They’re like underwater puppies.”
“Underwater puppies with rather more rows of teeth than strictly necessary,” I mutter. “I must have missed that particular breed at Crufts.”
O’Connell appears at my side, handing me a mask and snorkel.
Something about seeing him so perfectly composed, professional, and handsome spikes my irritation.
