April 1993

There were going to be people who called him a traitor; people who said he was justifying violence; even those who sent him death threats and called for his arrest. But Sebastien didn’t care. He was scheduled for a debate that afternoon with the President of the Young Tories, Andrew Marvin, on whether Sinn Fein should be included in peace talks with Northern Ireland, and despite all the reasons not to, he was arguing the affirmative.

Sebastien could understand why people would hate him for it. The Bishopsgate bombing was still fresh. People were justifiably upset. He’d been upset, too, when he’d first heard the news. Violence was always upsetting, especially when lives were lost. Even though the IRA had sent a warning of the bombing an hour ahead of time, a photographer had still been killed, and dozens had been injured.

Sebastien wasn’t justifying violence. He abhorred violence. But he also believed that the fastest way to ending violence was to bring your opponent into the conversation. The British could not just ignore Sinn Fein and pretend it wasn’t a major actor in Northern Irish politics. They had to take them seriously; especially now that they had the firepower to decimate large sections of the City of London.

Anyway, violence always had a root cause. This is what his involvement in the radical leftwing anti-colonialist struggle had taught him: violence didn’t come from nothing. It had been created by the unjust policies of the UK, which had occupied Ireland for centuries, caused a famine that had killed millions, and then persecuted the Catholic majority through a segregated system enforced by an anti-Irish police force.

And if people didn’t want that violence to continue—on both sides—then the biggest and most influential Catholic political party had to be included in peace talks. It was just logical.

Usually, a debate between two university students would not be widely attended; even a debate on a subject this controversial. But Sebastien was used to the attention that his name brought to any event in which he participated. And because the son of Sir Reginald Montague, MP of CC Ashford, would be arguing in support of Sinn Fein’s inclusion in peace talks, reporters would be there. So would Blunt, of course.

Sebastien straightened and shuffled through the cards he was holding. He didn’t really need them; he’d memorised all his talking points, and he was very good at thinking on the fly. It was an ability that people had always admired about him. Most people, when they argued about something they believed in, got emotional and tongue-tied. This never happened to Sebastien. Maybe it was because he kept his emotions in check in all matters of his life, including politics. Or maybe it was because at the end of the day, nothing he advocated for would actually affect him. He had no real stake in them.

Sebastien wasn’t a Catholic in Northern Ireland, plagued by violence and discrimination by the government and the marauding UVF. He would never earn minimum wage, so was largely unaffected by the campaign he headed. He’d been educated at a public school, so any reforms to state schools would not apply to him. There were a million other examples of this, and sometimes, Sebastien feared that his lack of personal investment in his causes left him cold and detached. He compensated for this by learning as much as he could about the people who were affected. Their suffering fuelled his fire and gave him the firebrand temperament that people associated with his political speeches. But underneath the rhetoric, he always kept his emotions at bay. He was protected by his class, wealth and gender, insulated from the worst of the world, and thus able to stay partial and unemotional when things got heated.

Sebastien supposed it was a good thing. It allowed him to use his prodigious speaking skills for the betterment of those who needed an advocate. It wouldn’t do for him to lose control when he was fighting for those who had nothing.

Still, he sometimes wondered what it would feel like to lose control.

The door to the auditorium’s antechamber opened, and Sebastien looked up, expecting to see the Debate Club supervisor, Professor Dillard. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see Jess. She looked elegant and unusually conservative in a simple black dress, stockings, and low pumps. As she walked towards him, he tilted his head to one side and gave her a cheeky smile.

“You’re dressed as if you’re supporting the opposition,” he said. “Should I take that personally? Have you lost faith in me already, without even hearing my arguments?”

“Don’t be silly,” she scolded, as she came to stand in front of him. “I’m covering the debate, so I have to dress professionally.”

As she spoke, she reached up and straightened his tie. The gesture seemed reflexive to Sebastien, as if she hadn’t even thought before doing it. But it set his heart hammering to feel her fingers grazing over his chest, even through the fabric.

“You’re always working, aren’t you?” he asked as she smoothed down the silk.

“Well that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” The side of her mouth quirked up. “Maybe that’s why we get along so well.”

“Speaking of which, how is your novel going?”

Jess dropped her hands to her side. “It’s going well. My professor said I’m on track to finish this summer, if I stick to my word count goal. He even said I could use Part One as my senior thesis.”

“That’s very exciting!” Sebastien grasped her arms, and the warmth from her body sent a tremor through him. “You’re doing so well, Jess. I’m so proud of you.”

Jess laughed and shrugged. “It’s the first draft of a first novel by a university student. It’s probably utter shite. Anyway, this is your day, not mine. You’re about to walk into the hornet’s nest! How are you feeling? Are you ready?”

Sebastien shrugged. Then, without warning, he grabbed Jess’s hands and spun her away from him, then back in, catching her in a low dip. She screeched in fear and delight, and as he bent her low, her eyes sparkled. He grinned. “I’m ready.”

Part of Sebastien’s confident nonchalance was genuine; he really didn’t mind if he pissed people off. He’d already lost the approval of the person whose opinion mattered most—his father—so what did it matter what anyone else thought?

However, another part of his nonchalance was put on. Sebastien was nervous, as much as he didn’t care to admit it. Not exactly about his performance, which he knew would be on point, but by Jess being in attendance. It both scared and electrified him to realise that he did care what she thought: that he wanted to impress her. Usually his indifference was his armour. But Jess, with her thoughtful eyes and careful opinions, kept him on edge. He knew she liked him, but he wasn’t sure how much or in what way. In the months since they’d met, they’d seen each other constantly, but nothing had happened between them. Sebastien contributed this to two factors: firstly, Jess was stubbornly opaque. Every time he thought he had cracked her shell, she slipped back inside it. Even now, as he righted her, the gleam of joy and laughter slipped from her eyes, replaced by their usual calm detachment.

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The second reason was Sebastien’s fault. He had dedicated himself so single mindedly to his political goals that he had completely neglected his romantic life. Not that he was completely useless. He knew he was good-looking, and women often flirted with him. When he was drunk and feeling confident after some victory or another, he was even able to bring one of these girls home with him. But he hadn’t learned how to woo a woman he was serious about. How did he show Jess he liked her without making her feel like he was only after one thing? Where was he supposed to bring her on a date? What was too fancy and what was not fancy enough? How did he act on a date? And how could he make her feel like the precious and rare woman that she was?

It was times like this that he wished he could ask his father for advice. But while Sir Reginald would probably welcome the chance to school him on the art of seduction, Sebastien couldn’t bear the thought of asking for his father’s advice, then turning around the next day and lambasting him at some political rally or another. Not to mention that his father would be dreadfully superior about the whole thing. He probably also had antiquated views on women that would be more infuriating than helpful.

No, it was better not to involve his father. Sebastien would have to find another way to figure out how to tell Jess how he felt.

It didn’t help matters either that she often wrote about him in the Weekly. Jess was a consummate professional, and he knew she wouldn’t want to compromise her integrity by dating one of her subjects.

But there was no denying there was something between them. Something that made him want to pull her into him now and kiss her until they were both breathless.

But he didn’t. Instead, he let her go, and she smoothed down her dress before looking him over carefully.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her brow crinkling just enough to give away her concern.

Sebastien grimaced. “Did you see a balding man sitting near the back in a grey suit?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Well, he’s there. He’s always there. Take a look when you’re back out and you’ll see him.”

Jess frowned more deeply. “Who is she?”

“His name’s Blunt. He’s my father’s spin doctor.” Sebasiten sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s always at these debates; any of my public appearances, actually.”

“Is he here to intimidate you? Is that even legal?”

Sebastien laughed hollowly. “It’s perfectly legal. And no, he’s not here to intimidate me. At least, not officially. His official purpose is to record and report back on everything I say, so that my father can be prepared for any questions he might get from reporters or constituents. It makes sense, really. He can’t be blindsided by something I say, it would only make him look more foolish than I already do every day.”

“That seems… really controlling.”

Sebastien tried to shrug. “I can’t complain. He gives me more freedom than a lot of fathers in his position would. He doesn’t try to stop me from speaking my mind or making public statements. Just tells everyone I’m in my rebellious phase, that I’ll grow out of it. And by pseudo-allowing it, he undermines me, makes me look like the ungrateful son and him the indulgent, long-suffering father.”

Jess reached out and touched his arm. It was a small gesture, but the comfort of it made Sebastien’s eyes water. “I’m sorry,” Jess murmured. “That sounds really hard. But… you’re not making a fool of your father. You can’t help it if you believe differently from him, and on some level, I’m sure he’s proud of you for being your own man.”

“I don’t know about that. I think he’d prefer if I was his man.”

Jess thought for a moment. “You said Blunt’s official purpose was to record you. But does he have an unofficial one?”

“Well, you said it: to remind me that my father is always watching, and that, at the end of the day, he has the control. That he could make my life a living hell, if he wanted to.”

There was a short silence as Jess absorbed this. Then she took a step closer to him. “You’re very brave, Sebastien,” she said softly.

Sebastien gazed down at her. She was so close, and he could see the soft glisten of sweat on her brow, the imperfect line of black eyeliner on her eyelid, the soft puffiness of her lips as they opened slightly. She was close enough to touch, to taste, to kiss, all he had to do was lean down and—

Just then, the door banged open, and Sebastien and Jess leapt apart, as if shocked by an electric current.

Dillard stood in the doorway, sweating slightly. “Are you all ready, Montague?” he asked, clapping his hands together. “We’re about the start.”

“Yes,” Sebastien said distractedly. He glanced at Jess; she had moved away from him.

“I’ll see you after,” she said with a small smile. “Or if you’re mobbed by fans—and enemies—then I’ll see you at Imogen’s showcase later?”

“Of course.” Sebastien laughed. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

Jess left, and Sebastien straightened his tie once more. Then, steeling himself, he left the antechamber with Dillard to face the proverbial firing squad.

Afterwards, Sebastien was buzzing. Verbally eviscerating Andrew Marvin always did that to him. Hearing the shouts of approval and disgust from the audience, feeling their collective adoration and hatred did it, too. Maybe the hatred should have disturbed him more, but if anything, it just reminded him that he was doing something right: something provocative and challenging to the status quo. Something that would piss his father off.

And when Sebastien wasn’t feeling melancholic or guilty about his father, he very much enjoyed pissing him off.

The auditorium was crowded after the debate, and Sebastien had to fight to untangle himself from the admirers, reporters, and occasional hecklers who had gathered around him. It took a long time, and he was feeling good enough that he agreed to give several interviews, which prolonged the whole affair. Sebastien could get a little cocky when he was on the buzz of his own brilliance.

The downside was that he missed Jess. By the time he was able to free himself, she was nowhere to be seen. Darkness had fallen, and when he checked his watch, he realised he was late for Imogen’s showcase.

He took a taxi from the university, and by the time he arrived at the warehouse, the performance had just begun. He stood in the back and watched over the heads of the crowd as the voices of Imogen and her parents filled the room, then the doctors “entered”, surrounding Imogen and lifting her up, dragging her away as she screamed, cried, and puked.

It was a bit on the nose for Sebastien, if he was being honest. He preferred Imogen’s more subtle work. But he couldn’t deny the emotional impact of the piece, and he thought she was very brave for putting herself out there so unapologetically. He would never have revealed the worst moments of his life like that. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything more terrifying than being so emotionally vulnerable in front of a whole crowd of people.

His eyes lit on Jess, who was standing near the front, watching Imogen with wide eyes. When she didn’t think anyone was watching her, her face was more expressive than usual, and he watched with interest as shock, disgust, rage, and sadness passed over it. He liked her like this, he realised: open and vulnerable.

Maybe she would like him like that, too.

He didn’t have to be vulnerable in front of a whole audience, like Imogen was. But he could summon the courage to be vulnerable in front of one person.

Moving slowly but purposefully, Sebastien made his way through the crowd. When he reached Jess’s side, he put a hand on her arm, and she looked up in surprise.

“I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” she whispered. She placed her hand over his, then turned around to face him. “I’m sorry I left without seeing you. I didn’t want to miss Imogen’s show.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “I’m just glad you’re here now. Jess…” He swallowed. His throat had gone uncharacteristically dry. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?” Her eyes, always so unreadable, seemed to be pulsating intensity, and for the first time in Sebastien Montague’s life, words failed him. For the first time, his emotions could no longer be kept at bay. For the first time, he was tongue-tied and out of control.

So he didn’t use words. Instead, he kissed her. And she kissed him back, until the world around them melted away. Imogen’s strangled screams; the audience’s gasps and tears; everything faded. It was just the two of them, hot lips pressed into each other, and the feeling that the world was theirs.