by Fay Keenan
Turning away as the reporter gave him the obligatory thank you, he chanced a glance back at Holly, who was still looking in his direction, eyes narrowed, face unreadable. For one aching, desperate moment, he wanted to throw caution to the wind and run to her, to gather her up in his arms and tell her it was all going to be all right, but he knew he couldn’t; he couldn’t risk discrediting her cause, and his career, any further.
Ducking his head to avoid more interrogations from the assorted media representatives, he hurried towards the Members’ Entrance and through the gate, back inside the Westminster bubble and temporary safety.
42
Charlie did, inevitably, catch up with Holly’s appearance on the Channel 4 news that evening. Still hiding out in his office, the thought of going back to his poky rented flat was too depressing to contemplate until security chucked him out. He wasn’t even sure what time that would be. He replayed Cathy English’s interview with Holly several times, hating himself more and more when he could see, repeatedly, the passion and fervour in Holly’s eyes for the cause. Why hadn’t he stood up to the Secretary of State when he’d had the chance? Why hadn’t he pushed harder to lobby her when he’d had the perfect opportunity in the office that day?
He knew why; pragmatism had won out over passion. Cora Mellish hadn’t been in touch since that meeting; she’d probably just filed it under minor irritations, scratched the itch and moved on. He, on the other hand, felt that his credibility had been eroded. Since Holly had told the media that he’d taken a step away from the campaign, he’d felt a chill wind blowing. Colleagues who’d previously bid him a cheery hello seemed to be avoiding him in the corridors, and he seemed to be becoming that thing all politicians were accused of: someone who valued his position more than his principles.
Gloomily, he slid the bar on the video back to the beginning of Holly’s interview again, wanting to torture himself one more time with it. As he was about to lose himself in her voice for the umpteenth time, his brooding was interrupted by the shrill ring of his mobile. Heart lurching, still hoping that it might be Holly on the other end, he swiped without looking at the caller’s ID.
‘Hello, Mr Thorpe,’ a voice on the other end said when he’d identified himself. ‘This is Peter Eddington from the news website AllFeed here. Do you have any comment on the story that’s about to break that you put pressure on a vulnerable constituent to sleep with you in exchange for political help?’
‘Wh-what?’ Charlie was instantly alert. ‘Where has this come from?’
‘I can’t reveal my sources, as you well know by now,’ Eddington replied. ‘Just wanted to see if I could add your version of events to the story before it goes live on the site tonight.’
‘No,’ Charlie replied. ‘No comment at all.’
Hand shaking, he pressed the end-call button on his phone and sat back in his chair, mind reeling. Where the hell had this come from? As if it wasn’t bad enough that Holly thought he was an unprincipled shit, now his name was going to be linked to hers and splashed all over the internet. Hands still shaking, he dialled Tom Fielding’s number.
‘Tom? Sorry, I know it’s late. Has anyone from the media been on to you?’ Briefly he outlined his conversation with the reporter. Tom’s advice was succinct and to the point. ‘OK, no, I’ll stick to the no-comment line. We’ll meet when I get home tomorrow night… No, I haven’t spoken to her… No, I don’t think she’s the one who’s spoken to them. I know she’s angry with me, but it’s not her style. She’s more concerned with getting publicity for the CF campaign and this won’t help it at all.’ He rubbed his free hand over his eyes. ‘OK. Goodnight, Tom.’
Charlie was stumped. He and Holly were two freely consenting adults. There was no abuse of trust there at all. They both knew what they were doing, and until it had all gone sour, it had been the best thing in his life. Who the hell would have the credibility and standing to leak this story and be believed?
He thought about phoning Holly, just to see if she could shed any light on where the story might have come from, but hesitated. Perhaps it was better to try to see her in person. A masochistic yearning for details then made him navigate to Twitter to see if the story had been picked up in places other than AllFeed.
Holly, also known as #GreenGoddess had a fair few results; mostly of her decked out with ribbons and waving a placard about at that afternoon’s demonstration. Slightly more worryingly, though, when he searched for his own name on the social media platform, a few, less complimentary hashtags were attached. Among the more embarrassing included #WestCountryCad and #WhatACharlie. He felt physically sick when he saw some of the comments, too. If the story was playing out the way Peter Eddington had suggested, he’d get a reputation as a calculating predator before the week was out.
Swiping the iPad’s screen angrily, he packed away his things and headed for the flat. Another sleepless night, then another uncomfortable day beckoned before he could regroup with Tom and work out the best approach to this mess. At the moment, he just didn’t know which way to jump, although throwing himself off Westminster Bridge seemed a decent prospect right now. Hurrying out of the building and heading for Farringdon on the Tube, he hoped he’d get home without being stopped.
The next morning, bleary-eyed from insomnia, Charlie virtually sleepwalked to the Tube. He’d finally put the iPad down at about 3 a.m., after reading pretty much every link on social media that might throw some light on when the story about him and Holly had broken. He was still none the wiser about who had leaked it. Swiping wearily to the AllFeed website as the Tube pulled out, there it was in all its glory in the sidebar of shame on the right-hand side of the page.
‘She just wanted to help her nephew: what he asked for in return will blow your mind!’
Below it were a couple of blurred photographs of himself and Holly during their picnic on Willowbury Hill. The angle of the photos suggested things had been a lot more intimate in that moment than they actually had been, and Charlie couldn’t help groaning when he saw them. An old lady sitting next to him shuffled away in surprise.
It was worse when he clicked the link. Several pictures, obviously snapped with a long lens at Willowfest, showed the two of them in various lovelorn poses. The copy was worse still.
Charlie Thorpe is believed to have seduced health and well-being shop owner and CF campaigner Holly Renton in return for promising her his support over the legislation of new drugs for the chronic condition, cystic fibrosis. Vulnerable Holly’s tragic thee-year-old nephew Harry is a sufferer of the condition, which may dramatically shorten his life if he does not gain access to these life-altering medications. After initially pledging his support, Thorpe has since withdrawn from the campaign, according to sources close to Ms Renton, and seeks instead to pursue promotion in other areas, leaving lovelorn Holly and tragic Harry high and dry.
It was nothing more than hearsay and tittle-tattle, but damaging enough. Furiously, Charlie wondered who the hell the source was. Who would be looking to ruin not just his reputation, but Holly’s as well? Immediately he discounted anyone who actually cared about them both, with this story painting Holly as a naive damsel in distress and himself as some self-serving predator who put pressure on women to get what he wanted. Neither could be further from the truth, and Holly would be furious if she knew she was being presented like that. A victim she most certainly was not. So, the question was, who had leaked this ridiculous story?
As he was thinking, his phone bleeped with a text. It was from Tom.
Done some digging overnight. Think I know who the source was. Get home as early as you can for crisis management planning tomorrow.
Charlie breathed out. Tom was handling it. All he had to do now was get through today and get home to Willowbury without incident. Suddenly, the day ahead seemed interminably long.
43
It had been a phenomenally shitty day, there was no getting away from it. As Charlie collapsed down into the seat on the train he’d managed to grab
just outside Reading, having given up his seat for a heavily pregnant commuter at Paddington, he closed his eyes and tried to blot out the horror of the past few days. Being in London involved far more work than he could have imagined, taking him further away from constituency business than he’d ever wanted to be. Also, since the relentless hashtags on Twitter about his relationship with Holly, and the reasons she’d dumped him, had gone public, he’d had to run the gauntlet of alternate glances of sympathy, amusement and curiosity from his colleagues in the House wherever he went. Or at least, that’s how it felt.
Perhaps lack of sleep was making him paranoid. It was true that he hadn’t slept properly since his relationship with Holly had imploded so spectacularly, and the memory of her smile, her touch and her presence haunted his every waking moment. He’d failed utterly by choosing the wrong side of the argument; there was no way back. As another wave of despair washed over him, like the rain that was now lashing the windows of the carriage, he closed his eyes in utter defeat. Usually he’d try to keep his eyes open on the commute; it really wouldn’t do to be photographed snoring and dribbling and then have those photographs plastered all over social media, but tonight he was past caring. What could be worse than the coverage he’d already had, anyway?
‘All tickets from London Paddington and Reading, please!’ Just as Charlie was dropping off, Train Manager Lydia’s familiar cheery voice lurched him awake.
Fumbling around in his jacket pocket for his season ticket, Charlie felt a rising sense of panic. Surely he hadn’t taken it out of his jacket since he’d been in London? A peak ticket from London to the west was well over a hundred quid if it had to be bought there and then, and he’d already forked out a king’s ransom for the year’s ticket. Groping in his outside pockets, even unzipping his bag to check abortively for it though he knew he always kept it on him, Charlie realised it was no use. With a sinking feeling, it dawned on him; he’d turned out his pockets to find his Westminster pass that morning, and in his state of exhaustion, he must have left his season ticket on the kitchen table of his flat. In fact, he could visualise it now, waiting there for when he returned on Sunday evening, or early Monday morning if he chose to spend another lonely Sunday in Willowbury, in the hope that Holly might have a change of heart and drop in.
‘Tickets from London Paddington and Reading?’ Lydia had reached his row of seats and was looking expectantly at him.
He immediately knew from the expression that flickered across her face before she composed it into a more neutrally friendly one that she was aware of that awful AllFeed story. His face grew hot as he tried to compose himself. His eyes pricked in frustration, and he cleared his throat.
‘Have you got a ticket, my love?’ Lydia asked him kindly. She was smiling down at him, her eyes full of world-weary been-there-seen-it-heard-it-all humour, and Charlie had the sudden, inexplicable urge to give in and cry.
Realising the game was up, he decided that honesty was the best policy. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s confession time. I left my season ticket on the kitchen table before I went to work this morning.’ Wearily he reached for his wallet. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Lydia’s smile broadened. ‘Well, I feel like I should be wearing a dog collar tonight! You’re the third person who’s fessed up to not having the right ticket, or even a ticket at all. Must be getting close to the weekend.’ She glanced behind her furtively. ‘Look, I know this train was a few minutes late as the previous one was cancelled, which probably meant that you were inconvenienced, especially since you’ve had to stand since Paddington.’ She glanced meaningfully at him. ‘I saw you give up your seat for that lovely pregnant lady. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing someone with your apparent reputation would do, really.’
‘You’ve seen that news story, then?’
‘Yup.’ Lydia smiled. ‘Just remember that today’s top story is tomorrow’s clickbait, regardless of how true it is, or not. Interesting that that so-called source didn’t give their name.’
‘They very rarely do when they’re making stuff up,’ Charlie muttered.
‘Your Holly doesn’t seem the sort to be taken in by anyone, either,’ Lydia continued. ‘Knows her own mind, from what else I’ve seen across the media. Wouldn’t want to be seen as some helpless girl.’
‘She’s not my Holly any more, if she ever was, but she definitely wouldn’t want to be seen as that,’ Charlie agreed. ‘But I still don’t know who stuck the boot in.’
‘Oh, people will do anything to get what they want,’ Lydia replied. ‘I’m sure office politics are even worse, working where you do. Made any enemies lately?’
‘You’re asking a politician?’ Charlie was surprised to hear his own laughter, albeit rather more brittle than it would usually be. ‘I’ll have to make a list.’
‘But, anyway, what do I know?’ Lydia smiled knowingly and looked down at her ticket machine. ‘Now, onto this missing ticket. I know you’re a regular on this service, and I’ve seen your season ticket a fair few times, so let’s say no more about it. Show me your ticket next time. I’m sure you won’t forget it again!’
Charlie swallowed hard and suddenly found he had immense trouble speaking. He looked down at his shoes, frightened to look up at her in case he disgraced himself and the stiff upper lip his father was so fond of failed him. Dignity at all times, Charlie. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘No problem,’ Lydia replied. Glancing around again, to make sure there was nothing more urgent requiring her attention, she put a hand briefly on Charlie’s shoulder. ‘You can only do what you can do. Remember that, Charlie Thorpe.’
As she moved down the carriage to check the remaining tickets, Charlie felt his barely-there composure start to crumble. He hadn’t realised how close to the edge he was until one person’s kindness sent him hurtling over it. As he stared fixedly down at his shoes, hot, heavy tears, the first he’d shed in a long time, dripped warmly onto his clenched hands.
44
By the time he’d got on the connection to Willowbury, Charlie was feeling less distraught and more up to facing the hell of the news story. With Tom on the case, he was sure everything would be sorted out and the facts righted in no time. He was almost feeling optimistic by the time he’d agreed to meet Tom at the constituency office. Taking a bottle of whisky along might be a bit premature, but he had faith it would all turn out all right, once Tom told him who he suspected the source was.
One look at Tom’s face as he pushed open the front door to the office was enough to make all hope flee, however. Charlie had never seen the man so angry.
‘What the fuck were you thinking?’ Tom shouted, before Charlie could open his mouth and say anything. ‘Going on national television and publicly denouncing Holly and her case without even a thought for the bad publicity it would generate?’
‘What? I didn’t…’ Charlie was befuddled.
‘You might as well just have twirled a moustache and given an evil laugh, the way the media’s painting you right now.’
‘Ruth Middleton…’ Charlie sighed, instantly seeing the reporter’s cool stare in his mind’s eye. ‘She caught me on the hop. And I had no idea Holly was going to be smack in the middle of that demonstration until I got there. Seeing her, I just lost the thread of what I was saying.’
‘Oh, so you decided to publicly step away from the campaign that you became the poster boy for after PMQs and not expect any fallout? Not only do you look like a total prat, now, but you look like an indecisive, heartless one, too. And add that to that fucking awful Charlie the Cad story on AllFeed, it’s a wonder the selection committee aren’t calling for your resignation.’ Tom began to pace the threadbare carpet of the office. ‘Didn’t I tell you enough times that the first rule of politics is never to be doorstepped – talk to the press on your own terms. It seems Holly knows that better than you do.’
At the mention of her name, Charlie’s heart lurched. ‘Have you spoken to
her?’
‘No,’ Tom replied. ‘I thought it was best to keep some distance between her and this office for now, until I’ve worked out who the hell fed that pile of crap to AllFeed in the first place.’
‘You said you had your suspicions?’ Charlie said, relieved that the barrage he was facing seemed to be ending.
‘I do indeed.’ Tom stopped pacing and rummaged in his briefcase, open on the desk.
‘Well?’ Charlie suddenly felt very stressed and very, very tired. It had been a long week, and it wasn’t over yet. He wished he could turn to Holly for comfort, but he’d be the last person she’d want to see.
‘If I’m right, this all goes back to Miles Fairbrother.’ Tom passed Charlie a piece of what looked like fax paper.
‘What’s this?’ Charlie couldn’t make any sense of the information.
‘As you know, Miles was more than just put out when Holly bought the freehold to the building where she now runs her shop. He’d been gagging to expand the bakery for years and wanted any excuse to put the boot in once he realised that she’d bought one of the prime locations on the High Street outright, and with her grandfather’s money, too.’
‘She once told me that Miles and her grandfather had had some kind of falling out.’ Charlie furrowed his brow. ‘But why would Miles want to get me out of a job, too? He’s been sucking up to me since I got into the seat.’
‘Look at what I’ve just given you.’ Tom paused, allowing Charlie to look again at the piece of paper in his hand.
Although it was blurred, being a fax transmission, he could just about make out a series of figures.