Page 141 of The Unlikely Pair

“No, there aren’t any moments like that,” I say.

I meet Kimberly’s gaze, my expression resolute. “Because we always saved each other.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Toby

London is loud.

I can’t get over that fact. I guess my ears became acclimatized to the Scandinavian wilderness, where the loudest sounds were the rushing of the river, the whisper of the wind through the trees, and the occasional bird cry.

But now, everything seems too loud.

The sound of traffic, the whir of appliances, and the din of televisions in neighboring flats.

And currently, the voices of the party strategists at the meeting I’m attending at the Labour Party Headquarters are far too loud.

“The Conservatives are winning the PR battle on this one.” Easton Grieves, one of the Labour Party’s top strategists, is scowling.

“Well, it’s easier for them. Their survivor is the party leader. It would have been better if this happened when Toby was still Oliver Hartwell’s chief of staff,” Madeline Miller, another strategist, says.

“I apologize if the timing of when I was randomly kidnapped doesn’t play into the narrative you want to spin,” I interject because, fuck it, it’s only nine-thirty in the morning and I alreadyhave a throbbing headache. I’m sure it’s partly caused by people talking about me like I’m not even in the room.

An aide brings in water, tea, and coffee, along with a plate of freshly baked pastries. People around me don’t even glance at them while I stare like they are a miracle requiring biblical rewriting.

It’s part of a larger pattern of being unnerved by small, everyday things.

I catch myself marveling over the strangeness of simple things like the convenience of a microwave, the comfort of central heating. The simple act of turning on a light switch or running water from a tap feels like a luxury I’m not quite sure I deserve. Every time I open my pantry or fridge, the sheer overwhelming number of items dazzles my brain.

And I stare at my new phone, overwhelmed by the constant notifications and the pressure to reconnect with a world I now feel strangely detached from.

But the thing I’m finding the most unnerving is I can’t stop thinking about Harry, nestled in the countryside of Ashbury with his wife. What is he saying? What is he doing?

I’m spending all of my time alone, replaying our time together. The way we could bicker but then have deeper, meaningful conversations. The way he touched me. Kissed me. Held me.

We needed each other in the wilderness. We don’t need each other now.

So why do I feel like something essential is missing?

It’s natural to feel this way, right? For forty-two days, my whole life revolved around Harry. Of course I’m going to have some withdrawal symptoms.

But heroin addicts also have withdrawal symptoms. It doesn’t mean what they crave is good for them.

It doesn’t mean anything.

“Did you see the recently ‘leaked’ photos of Matheson,” Easton is saying now. “So clearly staged.”

I snap to attention. “There are photos of Harry?”

“Yes.The Corporate Timesjust ran some photos taken through a long-range lens, showing him at his country estate.”

I’m already on my phone looking up the website.

The photos of Harry are the lead item, showing him and Prunella walking arm-in-arm. His arm is wrapped around her shoulders, and Prunella is smiling up at him while Harry gives her a look of deep affection. The perfect image of a loving couple reunited after a harrowing ordeal. It’s a masterful PR move.

The photos are clearly designed to tug at the heartstrings. Harry, the devoted husband, back in the arms of his loving wife.

And it works. Because they definitely pluck at my heartstrings. With a sharp, painful twang.