Page 149 of The Unlikely Pair

Paul nods, his expression inscrutable. “I’ll be waiting right here if you need me, sir.” His words, usually a comfort, now feel fraught with double meaning. I swallow hard, forcing a tight smile as I pass the security checkpoint. Toby follows close behind, his presence a reassuring warmth at my back. As we step into the Members Lobby, I exhale shakily.

Toby catches my eye and nods his head over to the southern wall. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgment, following him over to where we can talk privately near the bust of former Prime Minister Harold Wilson.

“What are we going to do? We need to act fast, but we can’t be sure who else might be involved in this,” Toby says in a low voice.

It’s the same fear we had clutching the satellite phone. Not knowing who to trust.

“If Paul’s involved, there might be others from the Royalty and Specialist Protection unit who are compromised,” I say.

“I’ll call Oliver, get his advice on who he thinks will be the best person to approach, whether it should be MI5 or the Metropolitan Police. You need to deliver your leader of the opposition speech as expected to avoid raising any suspicion justin case your behavior is being monitored.” Toby blows out a deep breath. “Hopefully, we’ll just discover I’m being paranoid.”

“It’s worth investigating, nonetheless. Good luck.” I lean towards him automatically, intending to kiss him like I did so many times when we were both going on separate missions, him to chop firewood or fish, me to check the snare lines.

It’s only when Toby takes a step back that reality sets in. He stares at me for a few heartbeats, his eyes dark. Then, he turns and slips out of the Members Lobby, his phone already in his hand.

Bloody hell. I draw a shaky breath.

When I pull myself together enough to head into the Chamber, I see Rupert eyeing me suspiciously. But I’ve got more pressing matters to worry about now.

An hour later, I’m standing at the despatch box, delivering my scathing critique of the policies the government has just laid out, when Toby slips into the back of the Chamber.

My eyes find his and he gives me a small nod, and it’s enough for me to know he has this in hand.

It’s a reminder how even though we are on opposite sides of the Chamber, and I’m currently attacking the government he is part of, on a deeper level, Toby and I will forever be on the same team.

The headline leaps out at me from the front page of the newspaper:

Matheson’s Bodyguard Implicated in Kidnapping Plot

“It’s nice to see that our government security agencies leak more than a chocolate teapot under a heat lamp,” Prunella says as she pours herself a cup of tea.

“I think leaking to the press is the least of the Metropolitan Police’s troubles right now,” I say.

The last few days have been a flurry of intense interviews and debriefings with MI5 as I recount every interaction and conversation I’ve ever had with Paul. Because after Toby raised his concerns and the Royalty and Specialist Protection branch of the Metropolitan police decided to take a deeper look into Paul’s background, it quickly became obvious that Paul was not who he claimed he was and that he had ties to the men who tried to kidnap us. But Paul has clammed up tighter than a Whitehall budget meeting, refusing to utter a word even under intense questioning. The kidnappers we trapped haven’t been any more forthcoming, maintaining a stubborn silence that would put a Trappist monk to shame.

The ultimate perpetrators behind our kidnapping still remain elusive, as does the motive.

The idea that an unknown group could infiltrate our security services and attempt to kidnap high-ranking politicians has Westminster in a tizzy. Not knowing who’s behind it or why has everyone from the home secretary to the tea lady on high alert. There are whispers of foreign interference, domestic extremists, and even corporate espionage.

Through it all, one overarching desire has throbbed through me.

I want to talk to Toby.

I want to hear his voice, discuss everything that has occurred with him, hear his snark, concoct funny idioms about this.

It feels unfathomable to go through this without Toby by my side.

What happened with Paul is the perfect pretext for talking to Toby, but I haven’t contacted him. Nor has he contacted me.

What is he feeling?

We kissed after the State Opening of Parliament. But was that only force of habit for him because we’ve always connected so well physically? Does he harbor genuine feelings for me? Is the barrier I sensed sometimes in Toby, that I never quite understood, stopping him from contacting me? Or is it because he also knows how utterly impossible anything permanent between us would be?

I think of the way he used to look at me and touch me, how he worked so diligently to create the sauna experience, his whispered voice as we watched the northern lights and I told him there was no one else I would rather have shared the experience with.

“Same for me.”

My inner turmoil is still at the forefront of my mind when my parents arrive that night for dinner. The dining room is awash in warm light from the ornate crystal chandelier, casting a golden glow on the china and sparkling crystal glasses. And all I can think of is Toby in the cabin, his voice full of excitement as he held up a battered tin bowl.