Page 1 of The Unlikely Pair

Chapter One

Toby

Harry Matheson is the most insufferable, pompous man on the planet.

Very fortunately, my job requires me to inform him of this fact on a regular basis.

I itch with impatience as Harry stands at the despatch box in Parliament, every strand of his blond hair perfectly in place, his posh, perfectly modulated voice grating on my nerves like the whine of a sadistic dentist’s drill.

“The Labour government has once again shown that they believe the legacy of our ancestors, the history that made the United Kingdom great, should be cast aside in favor of a soulless, homogenized future.” Harry delivers his speech with a ramrod straight back. Of course he’s got perfect posture. Slouching is not tolerated in the aristocracy. They likely sleep on wooden planks to ensure this.

Parliament is currently debating our government’s recent infrastructure spending package. Harry, as leader of the opposition, is trying to argue that our bill doesn’t include enough funding to preserve Britain’s historic landmarks.

The cynical part of me can’t help thinking there’s a reason Harry Matheson the Third—who inherited the title of the Earlof Ashbury but renounced it so he could stand for Parliament—wants to spend the taxpayers’ money preserving historic buildings. His family probably owns half of them.

Alfred nudges me. “Are you going to respond?”

It’s a tradition that Members of Parliament, commonly known as MPs, reserve their space on the benches of the Commons Chamber using prayer cards. I’ve noticed Alfred always makes sure he’s next to me any day there’s a potential showdown between Harry and me.

I swear he’d be handing out popcorn if food was allowed in the Commons Chamber.

“Of course I’ll respond,” I say.

After all, I’d hate to disappoint.

And arguing against Harry Matheson seems to come as automatically to me as tying my shoelaces.

“We must not let the Labour Party’s shortsightedness rob us of our heritage.” Harry’s final words still hang in the air as I stand to catch the Speaker’s eye, then sit back down, the tradition of alerting the Speaker that I want to speak.

“The Honourable Gentleman for Havenbridge East,” he says.

Anticipation ripples through me as I get to my feet again. For some reason, I feel most alive when taking Harry down a peg or ten.

“I thank the Right Honourable Gentleman for his impassioned concern for our nation’s history,” I begin, and all right, there may be a trace of sarcasm in my tone. “But he seems to be mistaking what a government’s role actually is. We’re here to build a future for our country, not to wallow in the dusty relics of the past like a bunch of moths in a forgotten attic.”

“Hear, hear!” some of my fellow MPs call from behind me. This is the great thing about debating in Parliament. You always have a supporting chorus.

“But really, can we blame the Right Honourable Gentleman for his obsession with historic landmarks?” I continue. “After all, he’s the leader of the Conservative Party, who loves to cling to the past. Let’s not forget they still call themselves Tories despite changing the name of their party almost two hundred years ago. And I suppose it’s only natural for them to feel a kinship with crumbling out-of-date structures.”

There’s open laughter now, which gives me a thrill. I always like to provide entertainment for my colleagues—bonus points if it’s at Harry Matheson’s expense.

I flick a glance at him now.

Harry Matheson is incredibly unflappable. It’s one of his most annoying traits.

When he’s irritated, his nostrils pinch together slightly, but that is usually the extent to which he shows his emotions.

I live for that nostril pinch, by the way. Especially when I’m the cause.

This is why triumph surges through me when I see his nostrils getting a workout as he returns to the despatch box to speak.

“Mr. Speaker,” Harry begins, his voice dripping with condescension, “I must thank the Honourable Gentleman for Havenbridge East for his enlightening speech. It’s always an interesting perspective to hear from someone who likely thinks “cultural heritage” is the name of a new craft beer.

“But perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised by his disdain for the past,” Harry continues, his blue eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “After all, if I belonged to a party with a track record as dismal as Labour’s, I imagine the past would be something I’d be eager to forget as well.”

I rise to my feet, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. “Mr. Speaker, I must confess, I do have much in common with a craft beer. After all, we both aim to be refreshing, full ofcharacter, and enjoyed by the masses. Very different from the Right Honourable Harry Matheson, who is outdated, bitter, and leaves a bad taste in the mouth of the nation.”

The Labour benches erupt in laughter and cheers, but the Speaker quickly intervenes. “Order! Order! I remind both Honourable Members to refrain from personal attacks and stick to the matter at hand.”