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Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. Epilogue
  58. Author’s Note
  59. Acknowledgments
  60. More from Fay Keenan
  61. About the Author
  62. About Boldwood Books

Charlie’s stomach fluttered. An actual, formal date. And one where he’d have to be on his best behaviour because the constituency would be watching. But then, weren’t they always? And he didn’t have the faintest idea where his dinner suit was, either. Somewhere in the bottom of one of the boxes he hadn’t yet unpacked, he guessed. Suddenly, this dinner seemed a while lot more complicated than he’d initially thought.

Another text message came through, but this time it had a link to the dinner dance in its body, as well. It was from Tom Fielding, who was already developing the uncanny ability to tap into whatever Charlie was thinking about without having actually spoken to him.

Have you written your speech for the dinner on Wednesday? Do we need to meet before you head back to London? Am free on Sunday night if you need me.

Shit. The speech. Charlie had forgotten that that was also part of the deal. Ah well, he thought, there was no such thing as a free lunch, or dinner in this case.

Texting back an affirmative to Tom (that put paid to his sudden, mad notion of actually spending some time with Holly before Westminster beckoned on Monday morning), he put his mind to the speech. He was a good public speaker, and it shouldn’t have presented any problems for him, but the thought that Holly would be sitting by his side as he spoke suddenly made him feel like the cripplingly self-conscious teenager he’d been the night they’d met all those years ago. He’d chosen politics as a way of exploring his own opinions, constructing a persona back then, being involved in something that felt worthwhile. He supposed, actually, that his reasons, fifteen years on, hadn’t changed that much.

‘Come on, Charlie, get a grip,’ he said, realising too late that it was out loud.

The week ahead had suddenly got a whole lot more challenging. He hoped he’d be up to it.

20

Holly, having accepted Charlie’s invitation to the dinner dance, had spent a considerable time wondering what the heck had possessed her. She hadn’t been to a black-tie event since her graduation, and certainly didn’t have anything decent to wear. Mutinously, she considered just showing up in skinny jeans and her black satin corset, but the corset was rather eye-popping (and distinctly uncomfortable when you tried to eat or dance in it) and she couldn’t, in all honestly, have looked Charlie in the eye if she’d rocked up in jeans.