Chapter68
Ludo
Afew days after I sent Sunny my farewell text, I still hadn’t had a reply. It hurt, but I’d expected no less. The silence left everything all feeling rather unresolved, somehow, and that was frustrating. Then a message came through from the Government Media Office saying Carstairs was holding a press conference at the Newton Bardon site in Leicester at two o’clock, and, well, it felt like fate was telling me to go to Leicester.
I had asked to go, but my father was refusing to let me cover it. We were having a stand-off over it in theSentinel’s small conference room.
“But the nuclear plant story is mine,” I protested.
“I’m sending Ford,” Father said. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, and he had his hands on his hips, giving me what the newsroom called Full Waistcoat. When Father went Full Waistcoat, you jolly well knew you’d lost. My head was thumping from downing too much champagne at Le Gavroche, and I was tired and grumpy because I’d woken at seven, thanks to Jonty’s latest surprise alarm, Sheena Easton’s “Morning Train.”
“Is this because of Sunny?” I said. “Is he the reason you’re not sending me to Leicester?”
Father put one hand to his temple, pressing into it with the heel of his thumb, as if he felt a headache coming on and the only way to prevent it was to act like he was in a 1920s silent film.
“I am acting as your editor, not your father,” he said. His voice was softer. The grandstanding of earlier now gone. “As your father, yes, I can see sending you to Leicestershire might be a bad idea, given the situation with Sunny Miller.”
Sunny was “the situation” again.
“But speaking as your editor, Ludo, you must understand that you have informed me of your desire to leave the politics team. As a result of this frankly mystifying, if not downright ungrateful, decision, I must now think about what is best for the paper. And today, that means sending Ford to cover Newton Bardon.”
We were back to Full Waistcoat. My phone pinged in my pocket; I didn’t dare check it.
“Now, my question to you, Ludo, is why do youreallywant to go to Leicester? Is it my reporter asking? Or is it my son?”
Ouch. That was irritatingly perceptive.
“You think I’m still hung up on Sunny?”
“Ludo, you literally spoke about nothing else at dinner last night. You briefly mentioned your idea about Uncle Ben’s biography, then segued straight onto Sunny. All night. You were a tedious bore, squawking on and on like a lovesick goose whose partner was presently roasting in the oven.”
“I didn’t talk about him that much, did I?”
“Ludo, your mother, brother, and I now all have honours degrees in Sunny Miller studies. You’re clearly not over him. And, frankly, I’m not sure it’s very healthy.” Father paced stiff-legged from one side of the room to the other, as if his ankles were in calipers, hands still stridently upon his hips. I was silent, unsure what to say or do. He came to a stop at the head of the table and craned his head towards me. He looked like a rooster squaring up for a fight. If roosters wore waistcoats. Which, arguably, they should. Father eyeballed me directly. “The question is, Ludo, what are you going to do about it? Because this mooningmuststop.”
I wasn’t sure if he was asking as my editor or as my father, so I kept my trap shut. On the walk back to my desk, I checked my phone. A small piece of me hoped the text was from Sunny. It wasn’t.
Government Media Office:Press Alert. Information Only. Not For Publication: Torsten Beaumont-Flattery is no longer special adviser to the Secretary of State for the Environment and Energy. A replacement will be announced soon. In the interim, please forward any enquiries to Rebecca-Jo Farley in the Minister’s office.
That was a bolt from the blue.
“Penny, did you see the message about Torsten?” I asked, when I got back to the politics desk. “What do you think happened?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Penny lit up, eager to share the gossip. “It’s all terribly romantic.”
“Spill. The. Tea,” I said. “Immediately.”
“He’s chucked it all in for some bird. He’s moving up to Derbyshire to live with her in some retreat in the forest.”
Golly, Summer moved fast.
“He’s only known her a month,” Penny added. “But I guess the heart knows what it wants.”
If you feel something with all your heart, dear boy, go for it. God put it there so you couldn’t ignore it. So that with every heartbeat, you’d be reminded of it. To meet our destiny, we must follow our heart.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it does.”
May you have the wisdom to see how rare true love is, the good judgement to recognise it when you find it, and the sense to hold on to it for dear life—and to fight for it when it’s slipping through your fingers.
