Page 2 of The Unlikely Pair

And there it is. We’ve reached the point where the Speaker steps in and closes the back-and-forth between Harry and me.

It’s inevitable. In fact, I have evidence that the secretary of defense and the secretary of transport run an underground betting ring that takes wagers on exactly how long it’ll be before we reach this point.

I intentionally adopt a casual position when I sit back down, one leg folded over the other, a smirk on my face.

Harry’s cool eyes meet mine across the Chamber as he takes his own seat on the bench opposite mine.

There are thirteen feet between the government and the opposition benches. It is said to be the equivalent of the length of two swords, a reminder to MPs that we should settle our arguments with our wits rather than force.

Although, I honestly believe it would sometimes be easier to deal with Harry Matheson if I had a sword in hand.

The session continues, and in the end, we get the votes we need to pass the legislation.

Just another day in the office.

When Parliament adjourns, I head out of the Commons Chamber, passing through the lobby outside—known as the Commons’ Lobby or Members’ Lobby—because while our British ancestors conjured names such as Wetwang, Crackpot, and Boggy Bottom for our towns, it appears their imagination well and truly ran out when it came to the House of Parliament.

The Commons Chamber is where MPs elected to the House of Commons gather to debate and vote on the country’s big issues, like a rowdy classroom where everyone’s eager to have their say. Meanwhile, if I continue through the Central Lobby and then through the Peers Corridor and Lobby, I’ll come to the more ornate chamber where the House of Lords meets. It is more like the grandparents’ table, filled with appointed and hereditary members who review and refine the decisions made by the Commons.

But instead of aiming for the Lords Chamber, I veer left, heading for my office.

The Houses of Parliament, a.k.a. the Palace of Westminster, might be a beacon of democracy, but it’s a nightmare for the maintenance team. The Gothic revival architecture wins points for style but loses a few for the leaks, creaks, and occasional squeaks—not from the aging floorboards but from the four-legged unofficial residents.

A significant effort was made a few years ago to get on top of the rodent problem. Unfortunately, Harry Matheson and the rest of the Tory party survived the clear-out.

I head to my office, where I’m greeted by my aides, who all want to simultaneously brief me about the climate change conference I’m heading to tomorrow in Oslo.

Before my good friend Oliver Hartwell resigned as the prime minister, I was his chief of staff, a job that gave me a front-row seat to the circus of politics, complete with daily juggling acts and occasional clown sightings.

But then, in a story straight out of a fairytale, Oliver fell head over heels in love with the Prince of Wales and chose to resign from politics so he could be with Prince Callum.

There’s an unwritten rule that when a prime minister resigns, the chief of staff follows suit. After my resignation, I mooched around for a few months as a backbench MP beforebeing asked to apply for the head of the Climate Change Task Force.

It’s an important and interesting job, but it’s definitely a change in pace. Being chief of staff was like being in a blockbuster film—spotlights, action, and occasional plot twists. Now, sometimes, the most dramatic moment of my day comes when someone uses a plastic straw in my presence.

“It is good to see how seriously the Tories are taking climate change, the fact they’re sending their leader to the conference,” Prateet, one of my aides, says as I snap back to attention.

Good definitely wouldn’t be my go-to word for the fact I’m about to spend five days in close proximity to Harry Matheson as part of the UK delegation in Oslo.

“Hmm,” is all I say in reply. I struggle to give the Tories, especially Harry Matheson, credit for anything.

“I’m messaging you the flight details for tomorrow.” Jia Li, my private secretary, looks up from her phone. “You’ll need to watch that the Tories don’t take credit for the progress you make at the conference.”

“Trust me, I can handle Harry Matheson,” I say.

Chapter Two

Harry

I leave the Commons Chamber surrounded by other Tory MPs, conversing about the legislation that, despite our valiant efforts, the Labour government passed with ease.

“Only seven months to go, and then we’ll get the chance to change it back,” Arabella Stanhope, the shadow secretary of state for culture, media and sport, says.

It’s the common refrain within the Conservative Party these days. The countdown is on to the next general election, held every five years.

As we go through the Members’ Lobby, my gaze momentarily lingers upon the statues of Margaret Thatcher and Winston Churchill, the feet of which some MPs rub for luck before a speech. It’s always worth reminding Labour MPs that the two leaders immortalized here were Conservatives.

However, I’m resolutely not dwelling on Labour MPs right now. Especially not the Labour MP with dark curly hair, bright hazel eyes, and a sharp tongue who seems to take inordinate pleasure in vexing me.