by Fay Keenan
‘Wow,’ Charlie said as he set his glass down on the table, half of it gone already. ‘That’s quite something.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Holly agreed. ‘Slightly Christmas puddingy, I think.’
‘Yes, that’s definitely it.’ Charlie drained his glass. ‘Another?’
‘Oh, go on then,’ Holly laughed. ‘But be careful – this stuff is stronger than you think.’
‘It’s at least eight hours until I have to catch the train,’ Charlie said. ‘I’m sure I can have another one.’
‘If you’re sure, then yes please,’ Holly replied. She’d developed a tolerance for brandy over the years she’d been living in Willowbury, but something told her, from the sudden sparkle in his eyes, that Charlie had yet to build his own. It was a wonderful-tasting spirit, but, like a lot of apple brandies, the effects crept up on you. She was glad neither of them had to drive home.
As Charlie brought over the second round of doubles, Holly smiled. It had been a wonderful weekend, and even if both of them were going to feel the effects of the booze in the morning, it had definitely been worth it.
33
‘Ugh… what time is it?’ Holly rubbed a hand over her eyes and reached across to her phone to turn off the alarm, which she’d set last night alongside Charlie’s to ensure that he would make the 6 a.m. Willowbury to Bristol Temple Meads service, and not miss his 6.45 connection from Bristol to London Paddington.
‘About five o’clock,’ Charlie murmured sleepily. He turned over and tapped his phone to turn off the cacophony of his own alarm and chucked it back on the bedside table. ‘This seemed like such a good idea last night.’
Holly smiled, despite the thump in her temples that reminded her of the double apple brandies after their meal at The Travellers’ Rest last night. They’d wandered back to her place, half-cut, and tumbled into bed, both of them rather too full of food and decent drink to do more than cuddle up. However, from the way Charlie was pulling her close now, Holly knew he’d made a pretty full recovery.
‘You don’t have time for any of that sort of thing,’ she murmured as he wrapped one of her thighs around his. ‘You’ve got that train to catch.’
‘Surely we’ve got time for a quick one,’ he murmured into her ear, sending tingles down her neck with his breath. ‘Lying beside you all night has got me halfway there already.’
‘You’re the one with the schedule,’ she replied. ‘I don’t have to open up the shop until nine.’
Needing no further encouragement, Charlie made good on his word.
‘Is it wrong to tell you that I’m going to miss you like mad between now and Wednesday?’ Charlie said an hour later as they both stood on the Bristol-bound platform of Willowbury station. What it lacked in romantic charm, being a new installation only a decade old, the rising sun made up for as it shone warmly down on the only two passengers up early enough for the train to Bristol.
‘No,’ Holly smiled, and then nestled into his arms. ‘I’m feeling a bit Brief Encounter, seeing you off on the platform. But I’ll be down in a couple of days to watch you be amazing in the Commons.’
‘Don’t say it like that,’ Charlie laughed nervously. ‘I’m petrified enough as it is.’
‘You’ll smash it,’ Holly said. ‘Not just for Harry, but for all of the CF patients out there who need you to speak up.’ Her clear gaze locked with his, and despite their tiredness after a night well spent, and an impromptu early morning, both could see love and hope reflected.
‘I meant what I said, that night at Willowfest,’ Charlie said softly. ‘I’m in love with you, Holly. I can’t imagine ever being without you.’
Holly’s heart fluttered in her chest at his bare and frank admission. ‘I love you too, Charlie. And, I think, even if you hadn’t turned up in my life as the political animal that you are, if we’d met in another way, doing something else, I still would.’
‘I’m glad,’ Charlie whispered as he drew her to him again. ‘I’m glad you don’t just love me for the power!’
Holly laughed. ‘Don’t get above yourself. You’re not Prime Minister yet!’
As the tinny voice of the automated train announcer spoke its presence with a mechanical ping, Charlie held Holly tighter. ‘I really will miss you, you know.’
Holly gasped as the breath was, rather pleasurably, squeezed out of her. ‘Me too. Travel safe.’
‘I will.’
Within a minute or so, the Bristol-bound train, a mere two carriages on a small branch line like Willowbury, had drawn up to the platform. Charlie and Holly broke apart far enough to share one, last, passionate kiss, which would have to sustain them both until Wednesday when Holly joined him in London.
‘Take care,’ she said softly as the train drew to a halt.
There was a pause before the door buttons illuminated, and, turning to pick up his small suitcase and his satchel, Charlie smiled. ‘I miss you already.’ He glanced at the door and pressed the button to open it. ‘Oh, fuck it!’ Sweeping Holly up, he found her lips with his once more, as the train doors glided open, almost taking her off her feet on the platform.
‘Go,’ Holly said breathlessly. ‘They won’t wait for you, even if you are the MP!’
‘I’ll text you later,’ Charlie said as he grabbed his suitcase and satchel.
‘See you on Wednesday,’ Holly called as the doors began to close.
In one more moment, the train had rumbled to life. As it pulled away from Willowbury station, Holly reflected that it might not have been as romantic as a steam train, but her heart was still thumping. Charlie loved her; he loved her. And, scarier still, she knew that she loved him. Thoughts raced through her mind as she realised that she hadn’t felt this way for a long time, not since she and Andrew had first met, and even then, it seemed different somehow. Filled with hope, and feeling more than a little wobbly-footed with love, she headed back home to get herself together before another busy day at ComIncense.
As promised, when Charlie reached London a couple of hours later, Holly’s phone pinged. Sending him a quick reply, as she was in full swing in the shop, she mused on what this week would bring. It may well be the turning point that she and Rachel and the rest of their family had waited so long for; could Charlie’s question at PMQs really make a difference, be the catalyst for further discussions about getting the drugs to CF patients that might make a huge change to their lives? For the first time in a long time, Holly found herself putting her faith in politics, and politicians, and hoping against hope that Charlie would be someone who would make a difference.
Later that evening, she spoke to Rachel, who was hoping to bring Harry home from the BRHC on Tuesday morning. The intravenous antibiotics had managed to stabilise his chest infection, thank goodness, but Holly couldn’t help wondering how many more trips to hospital the little boy was going to end up taking all the time he was waiting for medication that could really change his life.
34
Wednesday morning in Westminster dawned clear and bright, and as Charlie walked to work, ubiquitous coffee cup in hand, he felt more than a slight flutter of nerves that rivalled the flapping wings of the early-morning pigeons hoovering up bits of dropped pastry and bagel from the commuters over Westminster Bridge. The city in the morning thrummed with energy, with activity, with the sound of varied languages and accents from workers and tourists, and the scent of water, diesel fumes from the buses and freshly brewed coffee. As at home as he was in Willowbury these days, Charlie’s heart still held a torch for London life. His job, at least, allowed him to appreciate both, so long may that job be his.
But this Wednesday was different. This was the day he was going to ask his question about cystic fibrosis medication to none other than the Prime Minister. For an MP who’d been in the job only a matter of months, this was a tremendous opportunity, and one he couldn’t afford to cock up. And there, sitting in the gallery, witnessing either his first moment of parliamentary triumph or failure, would be the woman he’d twice
told he loved; once after that heady mix of mead and magic at Willowfest and once on an early dawn platform as the train pulled in to bring him here. Both times, his words had been nothing but the truth.
Saying hello to the policeman at the entrance to Portcullis House, the modern glass building across the road from the Palace of Westminster where his office was situated, he headed straight through the connecting tunnel to the Commons, by way of the message board outside the Commons Chamber. Although most communication was done by email these days, it was worth keeping an eye on the board, as certain members of the House still liked to communicate that way. He would then have a little time to prepare himself for the weekly Punch and Judy show that was Prime Minister’s Questions. Beginning at 12.30, it would be half an hour of pure Westminster theatre. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit there wasn’t a part of him that was absolutely terrified about being not just a spectator but an active participant in the show, today.
‘Morning, Charlie,’ Andrew Statham, the government’s Chief Whip, was checking the message board as Charlie approached. ‘I see you’re on the list today.’ Tall and authoritarian, Statham looked the archetypal Westminster enforcer, and Charlie, being around fifteen years younger, viewed him as a lower-school student might view the Head Boy.
‘That’s right,’ Charlie replied. ‘Any last-minute advice?’
‘Try not to piss the PM off,’ Statham said. ‘You’re new, so don’t rock the boat.’ He regarded Charlie levelly. ‘The issue you’re asking about is emotive… a good choice to get your name out there, but bear in mind these things are a constant work in progress. Don’t expect the world to dance to your tune because you asked a question.’
Charlie tried to give what he hoped was a jovial smile. ‘Understood. It’s an issue that affects at least one family in my constituency, though, so it is of legitimate concern on a constituency level.’
‘I’m sure you mean well,’ Statham replied. ‘But policy, as you know from your years as a researcher in this place, is an ever-shifting thing. Don’t pin your hopes on pushing something through when there are multiple interests at stake, especially when it comes to Health and Social Care policy.’
‘I have to try, though,’ Charlie replied. ‘What sort of constituency MP would I be if I didn’t?’
‘Are you sure this is about the cause, or the individuals?’ Statham’s voice dropped as another member wandered over to check his post. ‘You seem to have a very… personal interest in this case, if social media is anything to go by. I’d hate to see you putting yourself out there for a cause that, politically, might come back and bite you in the arse.’
Charlie felt his heartbeat, already elevated at the prospect of raising his question later in the day, speed up even more. ‘I haven’t seen any adverse social media activity,’ he ventured. ‘Just friends having a good time in their constituency.’ There had been one or two shots of him judging the Willowfest fancy-dress competition at the weekend, but, thankfully, none of the more intimate pictures that the tourists had snapped on Willowbury Hill had, as yet, emerged on any social media platform. Sure, he’d had his arm around Holly in one of the post-fancy-dress judging pictures, but it wasn’t as if he’d been caught groping her or anything.
‘So long as that’s all that’s driving this,’ Statham said as he chucked a couple of flyers from his pigeonhole into the recycling bin. ‘Remember, if the policy goes in a different direction to the one you like, as a member of Her Majesty’s Government, you will be duty-bound to support it if it becomes a whipping issue.’ The Whips were the staffers who made sure that, on issues of governmental importance, all party MPs voted with the government’s position, regardless of personal opinion. It could be a tricky issue for a politician driven by principles, but it was the chance you took when you signed up to represent a political party. Those who dissented ran the risk of losing their seats and plunging into obscurity, losing what influence they had if they crossed the floor over a matter of principle.
Charlie’s blood ran cold. Was Statham telling him to back off the CF medication issue for the sake of his own career, or for the sake of the government? His brain ticked quickly. ‘Well, I still have to risk it,’ he said more lightly than he felt. ‘After all, as you say, policy is always a work in progress. Perhaps this work in progress will end up benefitting my constituent and their family.’
‘Just bear in mind that, if it comes to the crunch, the Whip’s Office will advise you,’ Statham said, slipping the letters he’d picked up into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
‘I don’t doubt that,’ Charlie muttered. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the comms.’
‘You do that,’ Statham said. ‘I’ll see you in the chamber later.’
Feeling more nervous than ever, Charlie hurriedly pocketed a message he’d received and headed off to his office. In four hours’ time he’d be standing in the hallowed hall of the Commons, putting a question to the PM, and he now had no idea whether or not it would advance his career, or kill it stone dead.
Holly’s train arrived at Paddington promptly, and, since she had plenty of time and she loved to walk in London, she decided to meander over to the Houses of Parliament on foot. It was about two and a half miles, door to door, but there was plenty to see. If she went through Hyde Park, she could even skirt around through Green Park and pass Buckingham Palace on the way, before making her way to the Palace of Westminster. Keeping an eye on the time, because she needed to be at the Commons by eleven forty-five, she fingered the pass that Charlie had arranged for her and felt sad that Rachel wasn’t by her side. Harry had come home yesterday afternoon, and Rachel was keeping him off nursery for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side. Rachel had sent her sister a crazy-face emoji earlier this morning to signify that Harry’s energy levels appeared in no way diminished by his chest infection, and Holly couldn’t help laughing when Rachel had sent her a picture of herself and Harry both pulling faces at the selfie camera a little while later.
Holly’s stomach fluttered, and she wondered how Charlie was feeling right now. She contemplated phoning him, but she figured he’d be caught up in preparing for his big moment and may not want to be distracted. As if he’d sensed her thoughts, however, her phone pinged just as she was entering Hyde Park. Fumbling in her shoulder bag, she smiled to see that he’d sent her a shot of him pretending to bite his nails. The caption simply read:
It’s all fine. Nothing to worry about! #terrified.
Grinning, she took a quick selfie by the Hyde Park Bandstand and sent it off to him.
On my way. Just imagine you’re playing from here, and not the Chamber! #Breakaleg
She kept smiling as his reply came back almost instantly.
So glad you’ll be here to witness my triumph/humiliation. See you after xx
Sending him a blowing kisses emoji, Holly checked her watch and upped her pace. If she hurried, she might have time to grab a snack before going into the House of Commons. Breakfast at home seemed an awfully long time ago, and she didn’t want her tummy rumbling during Charlie’s big moment. She was astonished about how nervous she felt for him.
35
Charlie paced the hallway outside the chamber and wondered if he had time to dash to the loo for another pee before he had to go in and sit down. Now, more than ever, he wondered at the Prime Minister’s ability to do this week after week, standing up among the rowdy, opinionated masses of MPs from both sides and being accountable for policy decisions, good and bad.
He checked his phone once more, just to make sure he’d switched it to silent. As he did, he saw another message from Holly. Swiping the screen, he saw that she’d taken a selfie next to the glass wall that separated the Public Gallery from the Commons Chamber, and written ‘Good Luck!’ with a hand-drawn heart next to it. His actual heart flipped. He suddenly didn’t know if it had been the right thing to invite her down to see him do this, after all. What if he really did cock it up? She’d be disappointed, and he’d be embarrassed. Th
en, he chided himself. There was no point in thinking like that; he had to visualise success. He smiled a bit at that – his father, a man of few words, most of them gruff, would put it another way – Stand up straight and get on with it. He wondered if his dad was watching or listening today; John Thorpe wasn’t a huge fan of what he called ‘the Lions’ Den of PMQs’, but Charlie hoped, perhaps, he’d make an exception today, since his son was going to speak.
It was time. He knew that, even though he looked at his watch just to confirm. He drew a deep breath and walked into the chamber, glancing up at the Public Gallery as he did so, and feeling his heart flip as he saw a redheaded figure sitting nearest the glass wall. He couldn’t see her expression, but he smiled in her general direction, hoping she’d be watching.
‘Order, order!’ The Speaker’s strident voice rang out across the chamber, and those present took their seats.
Charlie swallowed hard; he had five questions to wait before he could ask his, and every second that passed, the butterflies seemed to be breeding in his stomach. Trying to breathe normally, he focused his attention on the Prime Minister, attempting to tune out the rumbles of dissension that greeted the first couple of questions. He didn’t dare look up at the Public Gallery in case he lost the thread of the process, but he could almost feel Holly’s eyes upon him. He hoped he was going to make her proud.
Holly looked over the crowded Commons Chamber and smiled as she observed Charlie. He was sitting with his back ramrod straight, his hands loosely placed in his lap, but the gestures seemed conscious; she knew he was nervous. And no wonder. This was not only a public forum in terms of the amount of people in the chamber itself, but also those in the Public Gallery, which was packed, and it was being simultaneously broadcast on at least two national radio stations, as well as the BBC News channel, Sky News and BBC Parliament.