Page 104 of The Unlikely Heir

“I know. We’ll keep a close eye on it. Especially as Harry Matheson keeps reiterating the Conservatives’ call for a referendum.”

“Blimey. This is the last thing we need right now,” I say.

Especially as I’ve just started a secret relationship with the Prince of Wales.

I glance sideways at Toby, imagining saying those words to him.

What would he do? Secretly rally other MPs for a leadership challenge on the basis I’ve lost my mind?

Those last few days at Balmoral, Callum and I snatched time together whenever we could. The relative emptiness of the castle and the preoccupation of Callum’s family in getting outdoors at every chance meant we found lots of opportunities to be together. Cheers to the NDAs of the Balmoral Castle staff. That’s all I can say.

But as much as I got to kiss and touch Callum, it didn’t do anything besides fuel my absolute craving to be with him in any way possible.

Every upturn of his lips makes me drunk with happiness. Every laugh that bubbles out of him feels like the elixir of life. Kissing him feels like I’m filling my soul with sunshine.

Bloody hell. Being with Callum has unleashed a poetic side of myself I didn’t know existed.

I was telling the truth when I told Callum I’ve never felt anything like this before. If I’m completely honest, I haven’t felt anything remotely close.

It feels rotten to keep secrets from Toby, who’s supported me politically and personally for the past twenty years. There’s never been anything major I haven’t shared with him.

But I really don’t want to hear his analysis of this particular situation. I don’t want to risk my happiness being snatched away.

Luckily, we have a country to run, and our conversation quickly turns away from the royal family to the latest unemployment figures and our new tax policy. And I put the dilemma of Callum out of my mind for now.

* * *

That night, Callum video calls me at our usual time.

“Hey, you,” I answer.

The sight of Callum makes happiness flush through me.

“Hey,” he replies.

“How was the alpaca show?”

“It was good. I actually really enjoyed it. Met some really interesting people. And alpacas.”

“Did you get spit on?”

“Not by the alpacas. I actually learned that alpacas only spit occasionally. It’s their cousins, llamas, you’ve got to be careful of.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean, not by the alpacas? Please tell me no one else spat on you?”

“Well, there were some protesters outside when we showed up, and I’m pretty sure there were some saliva bombs hurled in our direction.” Callum’s tone is matter-of-fact.

His words cause me to shift uncomfortably. I don’t want to think how if this had happened twenty years ago, I would have been one of the loudest voices calling for the end of the monarchy. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been throwing spit bombs, but I would’ve definitely been on the picket line.

But twenty years ago, I had never encountered any members of the royal family. I’d never sat across from the queen in a weekly meeting and seen how deeply and passionately she cares for our country. I’d never witnessed firsthand the personal toll it took to be the Prince of Wales, to have your life dissected while trying to serve.

What do I think about the monarchy now? It feels impossible to tease apart the tangle of my personal and political opinions.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” I reply to Callum.

“The thing is, I understand the point some of the protesters are making.” Callum runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t deny the privilege and wealth of my family was built from colonialism and exploitation.”

Hadn’t I made that very argument as a student in the pub back in Oxford?