Page 65 of The Unlikely Pair

“Harry,” I mimic back.

He ignores me and places our trousers near the fire, stuffing pine needles inside to help them dry quickly.

I have a brief moment of disorientation as I watch him. Because this is Harry, leader of the Conservative Party, with the start of a patchy beard, hair that looks like it’s staging a rebellion against the concept of gravity, and now a survival blanket wrapped around him in a makeshift skirt.

It’s only been four days since our plane crashed. It’s hard to believe that a week ago, I was facing a perfectly groomed Harry Matheson across the Chamber.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Harry sits on the opposite side of the fire, still wrapped in his survival blanket, and I wait to see how long it takes before he realizes what the equation of survival blanket plus groin equals.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, he starts squirming uncomfortably.

“Getting slightly warm under the blanket?” I suggest archly.

Harry is apparently much better than I am at tolerating physical discomfort for the sake of decorum because he doesn’t remove it despite his face growing redder.

“If we are pausing here for a while, we really should think about trying to find other food sources,” Harry says.

His comment rips my thoughts away from contemplating exactly what is happening to Harry Matheson’s groin right now. Which is probably a good thing.

“I’m all about introducing some variety to our diet,” I reply.

Harry retreats from the fire and bends over the survival kit to unzip and rifle through it.

“I’ve seen some mushrooms and berries in the forest, but I don’t know enough to be confident I could avoid the poisonous species, so I think fishing is our best option,” he says.

“Mushrooms and berries are not a risk worth taking,” I agree.

“So I guess we’re trying our hand at fishing,” Harry says as he gets out the fishing line and hooks.

Seeing Harry so confidently construct a fishing line has resentment surging inside me.

Fishing is one of those activities in the UK where the class divide often shows up, especially when it comes to fly fishing. The best fishing spots are frequently on private land and onlyaccessible if you personally know the landowners or are willing to pay a hefty fee.

Unlike Harry, I didn’t spend my childhood roaming the countryside of England. I spent my childhood in a two-bedroom flat in Croydon, often left alone as my mother worked two jobs to support us.

If we need video game expertise or kicking a ball around a muddy field out here, I’m your guy.

I’m used to being confident and capable. But out here in the wilderness, I feel as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane.

I’m not accustomed to relying on someone else to provide for me. And the idea it’s Harry Matheson I’m relying on is almost more unpalatable than the idea of choking down another energy bar.

Harry doesn’t seem to be having a similar existential crisis about our fishing expedition. He securely ties the hook onto the piece of nylon and then looks up at me.

“We need to acquire some bait.”

“What type of bait?”

“I admit my knowledge of Scandinavian fish species is rather limited, but assuming they are similar to British fish, we should look for grubs.”

“Right. Let’s add grub hunting to our fun wilderness bonding activities,” I say. “I can’t wait to update my CV when I get home.”

Harry and I move through the clearing with the precision and focus of a military operation. It’s a weird feeling of competitiveness that has me pulling apart a broken log to find grubs before Harry does while holding a survival blanket in place around my legs.

The rotting log is slimy under my fingers. As I peel back the layers of decaying wood, I’m greeted by a wriggling mass of pale, squishy bodies. I’ve never been so happy to see something disgusting in my life.

I pluck a fat, juicy grub from its wooden lair, holding it aloft like a trophy. “Will this do?”