Stavenham was the sensible older sibling to Willowbury’s wayward prodigal child. The major source of his comfortable majority, it boasted red-brick buildings, an ageing population and an abundance of wealth. The local party was holding a dinner dance. Events like this, Charlie had assumed, had died out years ago, but not in this part of the world, it seemed, where trial by canapé was still very much in vogue. He, as the new Member of Parliament, was the guest of honour. Charlie suspected that Hugo Fitzgerald would have relished the opportunity to drink good claret and press the flesh of his wealthier constituents, but he was rather more concerned with when he was going to find the time to complete the ever-growing pile of paperwork that seemed to be permanently in his in tray. Remembering the advice that Tom Fielding had given him on their first meeting, though, he realised he couldn’t cry off the dinner. The kudos of having an MP at an event in person was worth its weight in gold, Tom had said, no matter what your own views on the matter.

Looking at the invitation, that Tom Fielding had popped into his paper diary, Charlie gave a lurch. Charlie Thorpe MP and Guest, it read. Great. He barely knew anyone round here well enough to invite as a plus-one to a starchy evening with a bunch of the blue-rinse brigade, and it was too short notice to ask one of his London mates to go with him – they’d all be caught up in their lives in the capital. But if he didn’t take someone, he’d spend the evening fending off interrogations from grannies wanting to marry off their granddaughters to him. He sighed. Now he really did wish he’d spent more time with Holly on Friday night, but he could hardly just text her and ask her to be his date for this thing.

Or could he?

Remembering the big reveal of their previous connection on Friday night, he grinned. She’d obviously been to a fair few of these events in her time, being a former student member of the same political world. Although time had moved on, and, from what she’d said, her own political beliefs, he wondered if she’d be willing to grin and bear it and accompany him to the dinner. After all, it would be packed full of small business owners and might be an opportunity for her to do some networking for ComIncense, do a little promotion perhaps. He wondered if, and how, he could sell it to her. Deciding a text message might be the safest option (she could only say no, right?), he quickly composed something and, before he could change his mind, pinged it to her.