by Fay Keenan
‘Ha-ha!’ Holly said mutinously. She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s getting late – I’d better head off.’
‘Thanks again for tonight.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘I’m usually so on it with Harry’s meds, but I’ve really been off my game lately. I’m just crap.’
‘You are not crap!’ Holly replied hotly. ‘You’re doing the best you can under very tricky circumstances. And I don’t know how you manage it. Especially since Harry’s miserable excuse for a father has bogged off to the other side of the world. You do an amazing job and you give Harry everything he needs.’
‘Thanks, sis,’ Rachel replied. ‘It’s just hard, you know, knowing that there’s a drug out there that could make all the difference for Harry, give him, and us, a new lease of life, and yet he can’t have it.’
‘You need to nudge Charlie,’ Holly said. ‘Forget about what’s going on with him and me. Make another appointment to see him and get him to help. He’s the MP, for goodness’ sake. That’s his flipping job.’
‘I will,’ Rachel sighed. ‘As soon as Harry’s settled into nursery, I’ll book in to one of Charlie’s surgeries again. Who knows, Charlie might be able to do some good where Hugo Fitzgerald couldn’t.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Holly said softly. ‘He seems like a good bloke. And I’m not just saying that because I snogged him tonight.’ She hugged her sister. ‘Call me if you need anything, OK?’
‘I will.’ Rachel smiled. ‘And hopefully I won’t interrupt your next session with Charlie!’
‘‘Night, sis,’ Holly said as she walked to the front door.
As she left Rachel’s place and got in the car to head home, Holly mused on what she and Rachel had discussed. It was still early days with Charlie; should she be the one to broach the subject of Harry’s medication needs with him, or should she leave it to Rachel? She was Harry’s aunt, after all. She was too fuzzy-headed with the stress of tonight, and the earlier excitement of kissing Charlie, to think straight. He’d said he was busy all weekend, and perhaps that was a good thing. They both needed some space to breathe.
19
Charlie wasn’t joking when he said he had a busy weekend ahead. As he’d feared, Westminster business was taking up more time than he’d anticipated and so he found himself catching up with constituency work in the evenings and at weekends. He also had the Summer Fayre to open in one of the smaller villages on his patch on Saturday afternoon, a Youth Speaks debating competition to judge on the Saturday evening and then, on Sunday, a few hours’ work on all of the papers he’d brought back with him. The life of an MP was certainly a busy one, but this was why he’d got into politics in the first place: to feel as though he was making a difference. And he’d got fed up of shouting at the TV and radio about it – he wanted to be part of the change.
Ruefully, he looked at his phone on Saturday morning. He so desperately wanted to reconnect with Holly, but he just wasn’t going to get the time. A few text messages would have to do until he came back again on Friday. Or would it?
Glancing at his iCal diary, which synched with the MacBook, his phone and his e-reader, he saw he had an evening out in Stavenham, the larger town in his constituency, on Wednesday night, so he’d have to make a midweek trip back to attend.
Stavenham was the sensible older sibling to Willowbury’s wayward prodigal child. The major source of his comfortable majority, it boasted red-brick buildings, an ageing population and an abundance of wealth. The local party was holding a dinner dance. Events like this, Charlie had assumed, had died out years ago, but not in this part of the world, it seemed, where trial by canapé was still very much in vogue. He, as the new Member of Parliament, was the guest of honour. Charlie suspected that Hugo Fitzgerald would have relished the opportunity to drink good claret and press the flesh of his wealthier constituents, but he was rather more concerned with when he was going to find the time to complete the ever-growing pile of paperwork that seemed to be permanently in his in tray. Remembering the advice that Tom Fielding had given him on their first meeting, though, he realised he couldn’t cry off the dinner. The kudos of having an MP at an event in person was worth its weight in gold, Tom had said, no matter what your own views on the matter.
Looking at the invitation, that Tom Fielding had popped into his paper diary, Charlie gave a lurch. Charlie Thorpe MP and Guest, it read. Great. He barely knew anyone round here well enough to invite as a plus-one to a starchy evening with a bunch of the blue-rinse brigade, and it was too short notice to ask one of his London mates to go with him – they’d all be caught up in their lives in the capital. But if he didn’t take someone, he’d spend the evening fending off interrogations from grannies wanting to marry off their granddaughters to him. He sighed. Now he really did wish he’d spent more time with Holly on Friday night, but he could hardly just text her and ask her to be his date for this thing.
Or could he?
Remembering the big reveal of their previous connection on Friday night, he grinned. She’d obviously been to a fair few of these events in her time, being a former student member of the same political world. Although time had moved on, and, from what she’d said, her own political beliefs, he wondered if she’d be willing to grin and bear it and accompany him to the dinner. After all, it would be packed full of small business owners and might be an opportunity for her to do some networking for ComIncense, do a little promotion perhaps. He wondered if, and how, he could sell it to her. Deciding a text message might be the safest option (she could only say no, right?), he quickly composed something and, before he could change his mind, pinged it to her.
I’ve got a dinner dance to go to next Weds and would love you to be my plus-one! Could you bear to hang out with party members for a couple of hours? I think you owe me after that big reveal on Friday ;) x
Heart thumping, he put his phone down and tried not to admit he’d be waiting with bated breath for a response. He turned to his in tray and began reading through the latest minutes of the Health and Social Care Committee. Although he was very much at the start of his career, he wanted to stay informed of as many of the developments as he could. Well briefed is well armed, which was another of Tom Fielding’s maxims. He had the feeling that Tom would end up teaching him a lot.
He noticed that one of the issues on the discussion list for the committee was the funding of several new drugs by the National Health Service, and one of them caught his eye. It had been a long-term battle between the NHS and the pharmaceutical company to find a price for the drug that was mutually acceptable, and it seemed that the committee was still wrangling. Momentum was building, though, for this particular drug, through a combination of social media campaigning and public action. However, the two parties had been at stalemate for some time, despite legislation being agreed across Europe and the wider world. It was the drug that Rachel Jamieson, Holly’s sister, had come to see him about. With a lurch, he realised that a week had gone by and he’d almost completely forgotten to look into it. The folder of paperwork that Rachel had handed him was still sitting unattended in his in tray.
It was one of those dreadful predicaments, Charlie thought as he grabbed it and started to skim the contents. There was only so much money, to go only so far. When it came to people’s health, though, like so much of his new career, it was almost impossible to separate the emotional costs from the financial ones. How could you explain to the family of a seriously ill child that the drug that might save or prolong their life was too expensive to be funded? How could you look someone in the eye and basically admit that their child’s life wasn’t worth saving? But the sad truth was that decisions had to be made: close the maternity wing of the hospital or fund a lifesaving drug for ten cancer patients; advance research into dementia or take the same money and fund a campaign to mitigate obesity? These decisions were heartbreaking, but ultimately the government was at the behest of the drug companies, who had their own research and interests to fund. These questions had dogged and fascinated Charlie
for a long time, as the child of two practising GPs, and now he was actually part of the legislature, he desperately wanted to find the answers. The problem was, as with all things political, answers were often more difficult to give than the questions were to ask.
Lost in his musings, his heart thumped when his phone bleeped. With a slightly shaky hand, he swiped the screen.
Not sure I owe you THAT much! Can you promise a roll of gaffer tape if I need it to keep my subversive opinions to myself? X
Charlie grinned, and swiftly texted back.
Is that a yes? X
The response came back quicker than he’d thought it would.
Only because it’s you. I wouldn’t have said yes to Hugo. X
Letting out a sigh of relief, Charlie texted back a quick thank you, and then dropped in that the event was, naturally, black tie. Having imparted that information, he was relieved that Holly didn’t reply back with a snarky response. Judging by her current look, she may well have an ideological disagreement with the dress code as well as the event. Then he chided himself for thinking that way. What did it matter what she wore? This was the twenty-first century, and these dinners were a complete anachronism anyway. She could rock up wearing a hemp overcoat, Doc Martens and a tutu and he wouldn’t care. And, living in Willowbury as she did, he had to be prepared for the possibility that she might. The important thing was, she’d said yes.
Oh God. She’d said yes!
Charlie’s stomach fluttered. An actual, formal date. And one where he’d have to be on his best behaviour because the constituency would be watching. But then, weren’t they always? And he didn’t have the faintest idea where his dinner suit was, either. Somewhere in the bottom of one of the boxes he hadn’t yet unpacked, he guessed. Suddenly, this dinner seemed a while lot more complicated than he’d initially thought.
Another text message came through, but this time it had a link to the dinner dance in its body, as well. It was from Tom Fielding, who was already developing the uncanny ability to tap into whatever Charlie was thinking about without having actually spoken to him.
Have you written your speech for the dinner on Wednesday? Do we need to meet before you head back to London? Am free on Sunday night if you need me.
Shit. The speech. Charlie had forgotten that that was also part of the deal. Ah well, he thought, there was no such thing as a free lunch, or dinner in this case.
Texting back an affirmative to Tom (that put paid to his sudden, mad notion of actually spending some time with Holly before Westminster beckoned on Monday morning), he put his mind to the speech. He was a good public speaker, and it shouldn’t have presented any problems for him, but the thought that Holly would be sitting by his side as he spoke suddenly made him feel like the cripplingly self-conscious teenager he’d been the night they’d met all those years ago. He’d chosen politics as a way of exploring his own opinions, constructing a persona back then, being involved in something that felt worthwhile. He supposed, actually, that his reasons, fifteen years on, hadn’t changed that much.
‘Come on, Charlie, get a grip,’ he said, realising too late that it was out loud.
The week ahead had suddenly got a whole lot more challenging. He hoped he’d be up to it.
20
Holly, having accepted Charlie’s invitation to the dinner dance, had spent a considerable time wondering what the heck had possessed her. She hadn’t been to a black-tie event since her graduation, and certainly didn’t have anything decent to wear. Mutinously, she considered just showing up in skinny jeans and her black satin corset, but the corset was rather eye-popping (and distinctly uncomfortable when you tried to eat or dance in it) and she couldn’t, in all honestly, have looked Charlie in the eye if she’d rocked up in jeans.
As a staunch believer in sustainability, she’d baulked at buying something brand new from one of the many fast-fashion online retailers, and she simply didn’t have the time to trail up the A38 into Bristol, or across to Taunton, to check out the high-street stores. But there was, actually, very little she owned that she could wear. There were, of course, many clothes shops on Willowbury High Street, but they were of the New Age and alternative variety, and while she secretly wanted to buy a mock Pre-Raphaelite crushed-velvet maxi dress, she didn’t think it would strike quite the right note with Charlie’s local party members. Her last hope, therefore, in the brief breaks she had when Rachel was minding ComIncense, was to check out the rails of the two charity shops that bookended the top and bottom of the High Street. Holly hoped that one or other of them would come up with something she could wear for this night out that would be a happy compromise.
Miraculously, she spotted the absolute perfect dress in the St Peter’s Hospice shop, albeit in a rather subversive colour, and snapped it up for a fraction of the price it would have cost when it was new. Sustainable box ticked, and feeling distinctly happier, she headed back to her shop.
On Wednesday evening, Rachel came over, having left Harry at his grandparents’ for an hour, to help Holly get ready. Holly hadn’t really needed any help, but Rachel, sensing that Holly was more nervous than she was letting on, had insisted.
‘I feel as trussed up as a turkey the night before Christmas!’ Holly grumbled as Rachel put the finishing touches to her hair.
‘Well, you look stunning, so suck it up, sis,’ Rachel replied. ‘That colour really suits you, although it shouldn’t, with the shade your hair is at the moment.’
‘Thanks,’ Holly said dryly. She stood up from the stool at her dressing table and smoothed down the velvet bodice of the long, fishtailed dress she was wearing. It was a vintage piece and, much to her surprise and Rachel’s approval, it fitted her as though it had been made for her. Of an early 1990s pedigree, it looked astonishingly like the dress Julia Roberts wore to eat snails in Pretty Woman and, with her long red hair piled on top of her head and her late grandmother’s pearls at her throat, Holly did bear more than a passing resemblance to the heroine of the iconic film. The butterfly tattoo on one shoulder blade that just peeked out from the high back of the dress gave the look a bit more of her signature individual twist, and as she turned to face her sister, Rachel smiled in approval.
‘I know this isn’t usually your thing,’ Rachel said as she tucked a stray strand of unruly hair behind Holly’s ear, ‘but when you get dressed up, you look absolutely amazing.’
‘Thanks,’ Holly muttered. ‘Although, to be honest, I don’t know why I’m bothering. I had enough of these stupid political dinners when I was involved in local politics as a teenager, and I’m about as far from all that now as I could possibly be. Why the hell did I agree to be Charlie’s plus-one tonight?’
‘Because he asked you, and you fancy him rotten?’ Rachel teased.
‘Well, there is that,’ Holly conceded reluctantly. ‘But I never thought I’d end up sucking up my politics and hanging off his arm all night.’
‘It won’t be like that,’ Rachel said soothingly. ‘He did say that there would be lots of small business owners there, like you. You might be able to do some networking.’
‘I doubt the Stavenham business owners would want to consort with the likes of me!’ Holly snorted. ‘It’s all artisan cheeseries and high-end boutiques there. Not exactly my target market. I doubt we’d have a lot of customers in common.’
‘You never know,’ Rachel soothed. She went to the tote bag she’d brought with her and pulled out a black cashmere wrap. She slipped it around Holly’s shoulders. ‘And before you grumble, it’s from that brilliant place that sells recycled cashmere accessories online, so you can wear it with a clear conscience,’ she said.
‘You know me too well,’ Holly smiled at her sister in the mirror.
‘Charlie won’t be able to take his eyes off you,’ Rachel said softly. ‘And rightly so.’
Holly’s eyes filled with tears and she blinked furiously. ‘You’re too much.’
Rachel smiled. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you risk your mascara!’
‘Sure you didn’t,’ Holly grumbled, to hide how touched she really felt. ‘Now, where did I put my handbag?’
‘It’s on the bed. Don’t forget your phone, just in case you need picking up or something.’
‘And in case you need me.’
‘Don’t worry about that – Mum and Dad are around if I suddenly have a brain freeze and Harry needs anything. You can relax for the night.’
‘Relaxing is the last thing it’ll be,’ Holly sniffed. ‘But at least it’s a free dinner.’
As if on cue, there was a knock at her door. Holly’s stomach fluttered. ‘I don’t know about this.’
‘Too late to back out now,’ Rachel said briskly. ‘You have a wee and do whatever you need to, I’ll let him in.’ She leaned forward and gave Holly a brief hug. ‘You look amazing. He’ll be blown away.’
As Rachel went downstairs to open the door to Charlie, Holly took a deep breath. They hadn’t seen each other since she’d dashed away on Friday evening and suddenly her stomach was awhirl with the memory of those kisses, and what they’d nearly led to. She wished that, for the first time since then, they’d arranged to just go for a drink or something. Being on show at a constituency dinner was just too much pressure, too soon. After Sunday lunch with her parents, and now this, it wasn’t as if their dates had been any way conventional so far.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! You’re not nineteen any more, and you’ve kissed him. Get over yourself.’ She reflected, as she said this out loud, that her inner voice was far more critical than Rachel’s more diplomatic forms of reassurance. But it was too late to back out now. Grabbing her beaded black handbag and checking her hair and face in the mirror one last time, she headed out of her bedroom and towards the steps that led to her front door.