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?’