Page 142 of The Unlikely Pair

I can’t tear my eyes from the photos. The rational part of my brain knows Harry and Prunella’s relationship is not an intimate one. But it appears the rational part of my brain doesn’t control my stomach, which has decided to invest in a good dose of nausea.

“The Conservatives are starting to decimate us in the polls. They got a considerable bounce from Matheson’s reemergence. Did Matheson divulge anything that we can use?” Easton asks, and I drag my eyes from the screen to answer him.

“Well, he wasn’t exactly having daily meetings with the Tory strategists that I could easily overhear.”

“Did anything happen out there that we could twist or use to discredit him?”

Anger surges inside me. “Are you fucking kidding me? Have we really stooped this low?”

Easton doesn’t back down in the face of my anger. “You’re telling me you didn’t see another side to him in the days you were together?”

“I was with the man for forty-two days in a survival situation. Of course I saw another side to him.” I fold my arms across my chest. “But we’re not going to use anything that happened out there against him.”

“Don’t you think the Conservatives are priming him for anything they can use against you, against us? Don’t be naïve, Toby.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

Both Easton’s and Madeline’s eyebrows shoot up.

But it’s nothing to the surprise inside me about the absolute certainty with which I said those words.

I trust Harry Matheson. Even now, I still trust him.

The thought shakes me.

Am I being naïve? The stakes are so high right now.

Chapter Forty

Harry

I’m lonely.

It’s absurd to be lonely when I’m constantly surrounded by people. Prunella. My parents. Paul and my other bodyguards. Advisors in every shape and form. A psychology team, because apparently there is awareness I’ve gone through an ordeal, though I suspect their concern has more to do with my public image and getting me election-ready than my personal well-being.

My ordeal wasn’t just the physical challenges I faced in the wilderness. It’s the emotional upheaval I’m still struggling to recover from.

A clean break from Toby. That’s what I thought I needed to sever the intense, all-consuming bond we forged in the wilderness. I had thought it would give me a chance to regain my equilibrium, to remember who I am without him by my side.

But it’s not working.

Instead, I think about him constantly. I continue to envision the conversations we’d have if we were together, trying to work out what observations and retorts he would make if he were here with me.

Thinking about Toby leaves me with an ache I can’t get rid of, no matter what I do.

My PR team has scheduled an interview with the BBC, so Prunella and I obligingly attend. As negotiated extensively with my PR team beforehand, the interview has a Team GB, national, patriotic pride vibe, focusing on how two British politicians defeated the terrorists hunting them.

“Toby Webley and you have a history of animosity, yet you obviously managed to work together for the common good,” the interviewer prompts, leaning forward with a gleam in her eye. “Can you tell us more about how you put aside your differences and learned to work together?”

How can I sum up the experience with Toby? How can I convey the profound impact those forty-two days have had on me? The way Toby challenged me, supported me, and ultimately changed me in ways I’m still trying to understand?

“When you’re reliant on another person for survival, you quickly learn to put aside your differences and focus on what really matters,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You learn to appreciate each other’s strengths, trust each other implicitly, and have each other’s back no matter what.”

I take a deep breath, fighting to keep my expression neutral, to respond with the measured, dispassionate tone that has always been my hallmark. But I can feel the cracks in my composure, the way my voice threatens to waver under the weight of all I’m leaving unsaid.

The unemotional mask I’ve always hidden behind chafes as if it’s no longer a comfortable fit.

Prunella squeezes my hand, and I’m grateful for that, although equally, one part of me notices how wrong her hand feels. I hate that her hand still feels so wrong entwined in mine.