As Holly gazed at the picture, it all came back to her. Fifteen years ago, in her first year at university, she’d been a student delegate at a political conference in the capital. She’d been of a slightly different political persuasion back then than she was now, and far less sure of herself and her beliefs. Feeling like a fish out of water, she’d been flattered and charmed when a lanky, slightly geeky young man from Leeds University had started to talk to her and had shown her around, sticking by her side for the day’s conference and then into the evening event, which was being held at a Leicester Square nightclub. Happy to have someone to talk to, she’d been too shy to kiss him for more than a moment on the dance floor, but when he had rather haltingly asked to hold her hand as he walked her back to her hotel at the end of the night, she’d accepted. She remembered taking the picture of him at Great Portland Street, and smiling herself at his huge, attractive smile. He’d seen her back to the hotel, kissed her on the cheek and they’d swapped home phone numbers. Jolted rather more by him than she’d realised, Holly had been surprised when he’d called her at home during the Christmas holidays, but by then she was seeing someone else, so she’d drawn a line and not seen him again.

Vivian was still looking at the photograph in Holly’s hand, but she glanced at her face when she realised how stock-still her daughter had gone. ‘What is it, Hols?’

‘Can’t you see it?’ Holly replied. ‘I can’t believe I’d forgotten all about him until now. I mean, it’s been thirteen years since I graduated, and I haven’t given him a second thought until now.’

‘So?’ Vivian replied. ‘He was just some bloke you met in London, wasn’t he? I remember you talking about him after he rang you at Christmas. Nice, gentle Yorkshire accent, if I remember correctly. Very polite on the phone.’

‘Very polite in person, too,’ Holly murmured, remembering the sparkling brown eyes, the slightly sweaty palm held by her own and the chaste goodnight kiss. ‘And still is,’ she added unguardedly.

‘What do you mean? I thought you just said you’d forgotten about him. You never mentioned him again. Not to me, anyway.’

‘Er, Mum,’ Holly cursed as she felt her cheeks flaming. ‘The boy in the photograph… he grew up to be Charlie Thorpe.’

Vivian looked quizzical. ‘As in Charlie Thorpe, the new MP? Are you sure?’