The Weekender

by Fay Keenan

  ‘So that’s what you were arguing about?’ Charlie said. ‘He’s been putting pressure on you?’

  ‘Not exactly pressure,’ Holly said hurriedly. ‘I mean, he’s not been physically intimidating or anything, more a kind of word-of-mouth campaign to slag me and the shop off whenever he can.’

  ‘Well, if he carries on, let me know and I’ll do something about it,’ Charlie said.

  ‘With your MP’s hat on or your, er, friendship hat on?’ Holly smiled.

  Charlie drew Holly closer, so they were both standing underneath the archway. ‘With the hat that says I want to be a little bit more than friends,’ he said gruffly.

  Despite the rising warmth of the day, Holly shivered as their bodies drew closer. She wanted him so much, despite their being worlds apart ideologically these days. Who knows what would have happened if they’d taken things further all those years ago? Perhaps she’d have become the perfect politician’s wife, with the perfect family, all Boden dresses and sending the children to small, fee-paying schools? However, that was then, and this was most definitely now. Things were different; they were different. But try telling that to her raging emotions. She couldn’t fight her attraction to Charlie any more than she could stop the sun moving round Willowbury Hill.

  Charlie’s hand snaked around her waist, closing the final gap between them, and with his other hand, he reached up and gently removed the dark glasses she’d borrowed from her sister. ‘It’s OK,’ he murmured. ‘We’re in the shade enough to hopefully not aggravate your hangover!’

  ‘I’m not hungover,’ Holly said mutinously but couldn’t help herself smiling. ‘Well, OK, maybe I am a little bit. But I had to get through last night somehow.’

  Slowly, gently, Charlie dipped his head until his lips were within a breath of Holly’s own. She felt relieved that, as a consequence of last night’s excess of booze, she’d cleaned her teeth a few times when she’d got up. Their lips met in the gentlest of kisses that again took her back to when they’d first met, but as those kisses became deeper, more passionate, she realised they were heading in a much more grown-up direction.

  Sliding a hand around the back of Charlie’s neck, she encountered the waves of hair that curled on his collar. Her knees grew week, and it wasn’t just from lack of breakfast.

  ‘Is that an apology then?’ Charlie asked as they broke apart.

  ‘For what?’ Holly asked, trying to catch her breath.

  ‘For having a public barney with one of my wealthiest but most obnoxious constituents!’

  Holly laughed shakily. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘When can I see you again?’ Charlie asked. His arms were still tightly around her. ‘I’ve got to head back to London from here, I’m afraid, but I should be back tomorrow evening, if you’re free.’

  Holly shook her head. ‘I’m going to be tied up tomorrow and all weekend stocktaking, in between opening hours. And getting ready for Willowfest, which is happening the weekend after, of course.’

  ‘Willowfest?’ Charlie looked blank. ‘Oh yes. What with spending so much time on that speech for the dinner dance last weekend, I’d forgotten that was coming up.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘Remind me exactly what it is, again?’

  ‘The Folk and Fey festival that takes place here every year,’ Holly replied. ‘Did your amazing agent not brief you?’

  ‘Folk and what?’ Charlie replied.

  Holly pulled away slightly but kept her hand firmly clasped in Charlie’s as they began to walk back to ComIncense.

  ‘It’s evolved over the years,’ she explained as they headed out of the Priory grounds, ‘but it’s basically a weekend of folk music, fancy dress and celebrations of all things fey.’

  ‘Again, Holly, I’m none the wiser.’

  Holly laughed. ‘Why does that not surprise me?’ She turned and gestured across to the ruined Priory buildings. ‘All this, believe it or not, is thought to have been erected on a cross-section of some of the strongest ley lines in the country. It forms one point of a spiritual triangle, with Stonehenge and Avebury stone circle at the other points. If you do happen to believe in such things, it means there’s a huge amount of spiritual energy in this place, centred on the Priory grounds but radiating outwards through the town.’

  ‘If you believe in such things,’ Charlie echoed.

  ‘Well, plenty of people do, around here,’ Holly replied. ‘Otherwise I’d be out of business. Anyway, Willowbury decided about thirty or so years ago, when the town was a bit more run-down and a bit less wealthy, to try to cash in on this huge amount of spiritual energy. Hence, Willowfest was born.’

  ‘Is it anything like the Reading Festival?’ Charlie asked, shuddering at the prospect of mud-soaked tents and acres of lost wellies.

  Holly laughed. ‘Well, there’s music, but it’s on a much smaller scale. Although the guy who first came up with the idea, Alan Somerville, aspires to make it big enough to rival festivals like that one day.’

  ‘Alan Somerville? Wasn’t he the lead singer of that seventies prog rock band?’ Charlie wrinkled his brow.

  ‘Yup. The very same. Wrote several of his biggest hit albums while living in Willowbury, in fact. Claims the ley lines allow him to tap into a deep and abiding spirituality that gets somewhat, er, diluted by the more commercial aims of the music business these days.’

  ‘He’s never been asked to headline the O2 Arena, then?’ Charlie asked playfully.

  Holly laughed. ‘Not so far as I know. But he lives in hope. Although I think he quite likes being a big fish in this small Willowbury pond, anyway.’

  ‘So, what am I to expect of Willowfest?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Why don’t you let me show you,’ Holly murmured. ‘Come and be my date for it.’ She drew in closer to him. ‘It starts on the Saturday morning and winds down on Sunday afternoon.’

  Charlie smiled. ‘That sounds great, and just what I’ll need after a few days back in London.’ He paused momentarily. ‘I know I’ve got something constituency-based happening on that Friday night in Stavenham, but how about I come over first thing Saturday morning and we can, er, catch up a bit? Then you can show me exactly what Willowfest is all about.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ They’d reached the front door of ComIncense again, and Holly paused. ‘I look forward to it.’

  ‘Me too,’ Charlie replied. Then he dipped his head and kissed her again. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Holly said, insides churning again.

  As Charlie left, Holly, knowing that she had the most ridiculous grin plastered on her face, pushed open the shop door.

  ‘I take it you two have made it up, then?’ Rachel asked as she clocked the look on her sister’s face.

  ‘You could say that,’ Holly grinned. ‘Although, considering Charlie’s just agreed to be my date for Willowfest, how long for, I really don’t know!’

  ‘Does he know what he’s letting himself in for?’ Rachel laughed. ‘It’s probably a bit more, er, alternative than he’s used to.’

  ‘I did tell him about some of it,’ Holly replied, ‘but I think it’s probably best he experiences it for himself.’

  One thing was for certain, Holly thought, if Charlie didn’t run screaming from the Folk and Fey festival, he’d certainly experience the best Willowbury had to offer that weekend.

  24

  Charlie wasn’t joking when he’d said he had a busy time between then and his date with Holly for Willowfest. The House was in full swing, and, because of his interest in becoming more involved in the Department of Health and Social Care, he’d also earmarked some time on Tuesday to observe the next meeting of the Health and Social Care Committee. Although membership of the committee was out of the question at this early stage in his career, he hoped to listen, learn and get his face known by the Chair, with a view to joining it later on in his tenure. Sometimes, the route to advancement was about who you connected with, rather than what you knew. And nowhere more so, it seemed, than in Westminster
.

  Charlie was well used to networking from his days as a House of Commons researcher, and having worked in the Palace of Westminster before he got his parliamentary seat, he knew his way around fairly well. He wasn’t a natural ‘operator’, as so many politicians seemed to be; he struggled to make the seemingly inconsequential small talk that might lead someone into further confidences that he could use to his advantage, preferring to connect with people on a more personal and sincere level where he could. He knew that there were plenty like him in the House; it was just that those who knew how to play the game instinctively were the ones who tended to rise the fastest. However, a fair number of them fell quickly, too, he consoled himself.

  He glanced through the briefing notes that were available to those who might be interested in attending the session and felt his heart start to beat a bit faster. The committee was in the process of discussing the issues around funding the next generation of cystic fibrosis drugs, and their next session was going to be focused on it. Reading through the document swiftly, he then did a quick search of the Hansard records to find out if anyone had spoken on the issue lately. It appeared he may be in luck, as seconds later, he’d established that the last debate in the House was well over a year ago. This seemed to be because talks with the governing bodies and the drug companies had ground to a halt. Was now the time to bring the issue to light again?

  It wasn’t as if he didn’t have reason to raise this issue; indeed, it directly affected at least one family in his own constituency, and he was fairly sure he’d be able to find out quickly if there were any more people whose lives were touched by it in his area. And he already had a clutch of paperwork and research materials that had been given to him as a starting point.

  And, a small voice, which he quietly hushed inside his head, added, it will really impress Holly if you do this.

  That, of course, wasn’t his reason for thinking this way, at all. But, he thought, with a flush of excitement, it couldn’t hurt.

  But he needed to sit in on the committee first; after all, if there were already developments there, it might render tabling an Adjournment Debate on the issue redundant and make him look behind the curve. Or like some overenthusiastic idiot who didn’t know what he was talking about. This early on in his parliamentary career, he couldn’t afford to make that kind of mistake.

  Plenty of time for that later, he thought wryly. Several of the more infamous soundbites from his colleagues on both benches sprang to mind.

  When Tuesday dawned, Charlie ensured he got to the committee room early, bagged a good seat and prepared to absorb some information. If things worked out as he hoped, he’d be well briefed by the end of the afternoon.

  After two hours of listening to the testimony of doctors, an adult cystic fibrosis patient and various representatives of charities and research organisations, Charlie felt both hugely moved and far better informed. There seemed little doubt that the drug Rachel and Holly had been campaigning so hard for would, hopefully, make a huge difference to many CF patients’ lives, hopefully including little Harry. So why wasn’t this being taken forward by the NHS?

  Charlie returned to his office and thought carefully. After a little while, he drafted an email to his agent back in Willowbury. Tom was a fount of information about how best to proceed, and Charlie was confident that he’d know the best approach to take.

  A short time later, Tom duly replied, and Charlie raised his eyebrows in surprise. Tom had suggested that, instead of tabling an Adjournment Debate, which Charlie would have to wait to do until he’d delivered his maiden speech in the House, Charlie put his name and question forward to go into the ballot for none other than Prime Minister’s Questions. The response wasn’t quite what he’d expected, but he trusted the man’s judgement and decided to go with it. After all, there were few more visible platforms than the one he had suggested, and, if nothing else, it would get his face out there to the public, and his voice known to those who tuned in on the radio. The wording, of course, would have to be checked with Tom, too, but Charlie suddenly felt a frisson of excitement. If he was selected to ask his question, not only would he get his voice heard, but it would garner much-needed publicity for Harry and the other CF patients across the country. Of course, it all depended on the ballot; his question might well not be picked, but it was definitely worth a go to get his name, and the cause, out there. Also, he thought, with some sense of relief, being picked for PMQs was an acceptable substitute for a maiden speech: he’d be free to table an Adjournment Debate later on if he wanted to, having popped his parliamentary cherry.

  Charlie paused. As a politician, he needed a healthy dose of pragmatism; it wasn’t always possible to make the decisions people wanted. As a human being, and, more specifically in this case, a close friend (and hopefully, so much more) of the aunt of a CF patient, his heart was telling him he should be shouting his support for the cause for new medication from the rooftops of the House.

  Grabbing the notepad from his desk drawer, he began to draft a series of versions of the question he wanted to ask. The wording had to be spot on; neither accusatory that the government had stalled, nor piling blame on the pharmaceutical companies, whom the Health Executive had to work with if the deal for this drug was going to be negotiated successfully. It was harder than he thought to strike the right tone, but this platform was the biggest he was likely to get. And time was short; the deadline was fast approaching. He’d better get a move on.

  Back in the old days, it would have been unheard of for a new Member of Parliament to be in a position to ask a question in this form, but thanks to the electronic ballot system, known as the ‘shuffle’, he had as good a chance as any. Or as bad a chance, he thought ruefully. One thing was for sure, if he did get picked for Prime Minister’s Questions, it would be a nerve-wracking, adrenaline-fuelled experience.

  Should he text Holly and tell her? No, better not until he knew for sure if he was going to be called. He didn’t want to get her hopes up.

  Finally, happy with the wording he’d scribbled out and crossed through a million times, he typed it up and pinged it over to Tom. As soon as Tom gave him the go-ahead, he’d send it off via the Commons intranet. And then cross everything he’d get picked.

  It didn’t take long for Tom to come back to him, and, taking a deep breath, Charlie filled out the online form and submitted his question. It would now be a nail-biting wait before the results of the shuffle was announced.

  Feeling in need of some human interaction, he decided to head off to lunch.

  ‘All right?’ The chirpy tones of Stephen Brabham, Opposition MP for a constituency a couple along from Charlie’s own, broke into his thoughts. Stephen had entered Parliament at the last general election as a new MP and, a few months more familiar with the place and the processes than Charlie, could often be found tucking into the all-day breakfast in the House of Commons Members’ Tea Room. A man who’d been described by many as far too amenable to be a serious politician, in the short time he’d been working in the Commons, he’d proved surprisingly effective at networking and seemed to be in all places most of the time.

  ‘Hi, Steve,’ Charlie replied. ‘Early lunch?’

  Stephen glanced at his watch. ‘Not exactly. Late breakfast, more like. Was up until all hours sorting out the wording for my speech to the local branch of the National Union of Students.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll love it,’ Charlie replied. ‘Government-bashing, I suppose?’ he added wryly.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Stephen said airily. ‘Chances are they’ll be more interested in their smartphones than anything I have to say, but you’ve got to take the opportunities where you can, haven’t you? Especially since not all of us have the comfort of a huge, safe majority in our seats.’

  ‘Touché,’ Charlie grinned. He knew Stephen was only teasing but in some cliques in Westminster, the same accusation could be a lot more vitriolic. ‘Although it’s not something I take for granted, I can assure you.’ />
  ‘Not at the moment, perhaps,’ Stephen took another bite of his sausage. ‘But give it a few years and you’ll get complacent like the rest of them on your side.’

  ‘Nah,’ Charlie knew, from a lot of conversations with the other man (perhaps a few too many in the opinion of some of his fellow party members, who weren’t such believers in collaboration), when Stephen was pulling his leg. ‘I’m well aware of the precariousness of this business.’

  ‘Perhaps calling it a business is your first mistake,’ Stephen said between bites of toast. ‘I thought your lot were thinking about expanding your compassionate side after the last few years?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘Sorry, Steve, I’m not on the right form for an ideological discussion today. Got things to sort out in the real world.’

  Stephen smiled. ‘Don’t tell me your leafy constituency’s working you too hard already? Isn’t it all stockbrokers one end, hippies the other?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Charlie said. ‘But they keep me busy.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me keep you,’ Stephen said. ‘Drink later next week?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Charlie replied. ‘Might need one to commiserate or celebrate after next Wednesday if I get picked for PMQs.’

  ‘Bold move,’ Stephen raised a speculative eyebrow. ‘Especially this early. Perhaps I’ll give the lottery a spin myself.’

  ‘No harm in trying,’ Charlie replied, heading to the counter to get some food of his own. ‘You’ve got as good a chance as any.’