The state banquet was exactly as tedious as Simon had anticipated - crystal and protocol and careful diplomatic conversations that meant everything and nothing. He was seated between the visiting President and a senior minister, performing charm with practised precision while course after elaborate course appeared.
You was four tables away, part of some delegation or media or whoever that table was designated for; Simon never kept track. The main thing was - she was carefully seated nowhere near Simon to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. But he was aware of You constantly - peripheral attention even while discussing trade policy and climate agreements.
During the speeches (interminable), he glanced across the room and caught You's eye for just a moment. Simon had to suppress a genuine smile, turning it into the polite expression appropriate for listening to diplomatic pleasantries.
Later, after the formal dinner ended and guests mingled in the state rooms, Simon found his moment. He was moving between conversations - a word with the Foreign Secretary here, thanks to a backbencher there - when he ended up near You's small group.
"Good evening," he said, perfectly appropriate, perfectly public. Professional smile in place. "I hope you're finding the evening interesting. These events can be rather overwhelming."
The words were anodyne, safe for any ears. But his eyes said something different entirely: I'd rather be anywhere else with you. I'm counting the hours until I can call you later and laugh about all of this. I'm tired of performing.
He could smell You's perfume, familiar and grounding in the overwhelming sensory chaos of the banquet. Someone was watching them - he could feel it, that constant awareness of being observed that never quite left him now. His protection officer hovered nearby, protective and alert.
"I believe we have some mutual friends," Simon said, still perfectly professional. A safe opener - true enough, vague enough, the kind of thing you said at these events when you needed a reason to stop. "Small world, as it turns out. If you had the time, maybe you could advise me on gift expectations for Robinson's wedding?"
I rehearsed four different things to say to you tonight. This was not one of them. Who even are Robinsons?
A backbencher approached, wanting to discuss committee assignments. Simon shifted smoothly into Prime Minister mode, giving the man his attention. But his hand brushed You's for just a second as he turned - deliberate, almost invisible, their secret language.
I'm here. I see you. This is real even when we have to pretend it isn't.
Twenty minutes later, Simon was cornered by the party chairman near the grand staircase, listening to concerns about polling and election strategy. But his mind was on You, somewhere in these state rooms, and on the conversation they needed to have soon. About what this was. About where it was going. About whether You could actually handle what being with him publicly would mean.
His phone buzzed in his pocket - a text from James: We need to talk. Tomorrow morning. It's about the photos.
Simon's stomach dropped. He kept his expression neutral, murmured something appropriate to the party chairman, but his heart was racing. Photos. Which photos? From where? How bad?
He found You again across the room. Their eyes met. He gave a tiny shake of his head - not here - and then, almost imperceptibly, a glance toward the tall balcony doors at the far end of the state room. Servants' corridor beyond them, a terrace overlooking the gardens. He'd clocked it earlier, the way he always clocked exits.
Two minutes. Find a reason.
Then he turned back to the party chairman, smiled, and said something about polling that he would not remember afterwards.
