College Green, which was adjacent to the Houses of Parliament, was the hub for demonstrations about a whole range of political issues, and was home to various camps at any given time; some semi-permanent, and some more temporary. Charlie had become accustomed to the various banners, tents and flags that often filled the space, and became even more crowded when the various national media outlets flooded in to report on stories of note. Often, it was difficult to differentiate between the paraphernalia of the many different causes represented outside the House, but as Charlie drew closer, there was no mistaking the vibrant yellow ribbons and clothes, and the ringing chants of the CF campaigners. Standing out against the backdrop of historic Westminster, voices ringing in the morning air, they made an imposing group.
‘NHS make CF drugs free! Let our children live and breathe! NHS make CF drugs free! Let our children live and breathe!’
The chant, and, even more heartbreakingly, the banners with pictures of young child CF patients on them, cut Charlie to the bone. And suddenly, inexplicably, he knew they were right. It didn’t matter the cost, this had to be something that was voted through, for the sake of every child in the country with cystic fibrosis. He’d been wrong to question his instincts; he knew that now. He should have put Harry and his family first all along, and the thousands of other patients. But he still had no idea how to fix it.
‘And if I’m not mistaken, here comes one of the figures at the centre of the debate about CF drugs, MP for Willowbury and Stavenham, Charlie Thorpe…’ the reporter’s voice cut into Charlie’s thoughts, which, unseeingly, had guided his feet towards the eye of the storm. ‘Mr Thorpe, have you any comment on the current stalemate between government and the pharmaceutical companies?’
Charlie’s heart thumped as a microphone was thrust into his face by a blonde reporter, Ruth Middleton, for one of the morning television current affairs shows. When he’d started this job, he’d received some training about what to do when asked a question on the hop like this, but he’d been so preoccupied with the sight of the demonstration and thoughts of Holly that all of that useful advice had fled from his brain.
‘Mr Thorpe, as the recent publicity for this cause shows, you and your constituents have a lot to gain if an agreement is reached. Do you have any comment on that?’
Charlie opened his mouth, but not for the first time in front of a microphone, didn’t have the first clue how to respond. The chanting behind him grew in intensity, with one voice standing out above all others; a voice that split Charlie’s heart the second he recognised it.
‘I wouldn’t bother asking him,’ the voice taunted. ‘He’s not got any answers.’
Charlie glanced briefly away from the reporter’s questioning gaze and his eyes locked with the speaker’s. Eyes flashing with challenge, hair bedecked with yellow ribbons, Holly looked as formidable an opponent as he’d ever encountered across the benches inside the House. How awful it was to be on the opposite side to her. It felt wrong, all wrong.
The reporter caught his glance and turned towards Holly, motioning for the camera operator to do the same. ‘Am I right in thinking that this is one of your constituents, Mr Thorpe?’
Charlie tore his gaze back to the reporter, uncomfortably aware that he still didn’t quite know what he was going to say. ‘That’s correct, Ruth, yes. But at this present time I have no comment on the progress of the discussions. Regrettably, I have to step away from the issue.’ Cursing how pathetically formal he sounded, reminding him of the very first on-camera interview he’d ever given, he also knew that his words would provoke nothing but derision from the assembled campaigners. He was just another politician going back on his word; saying one thing one day and then taking it back another.
‘So, you are unable to give your support for an issue that you asked a question about recently at Prime Minister’s Question Time?’
‘I have no further comment,’ Charlie said hopelessly, feeling his stomach sink at how incredibly lame that response sounded.
He glanced over the reporter’s shoulder to see Holly had stopped chanting and had her gaze fixed firmly upon him. His face felt hot as he remembered the way they’d parted, back in Willowbury, and he found that he couldn’t focus on what the reporter was now asking him.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said quietly. ‘I have a job to get to.’ Realising that this was not exactly the way he’d been taught in media training to end an interview, he forced a smile. ‘I’m sure the issue will be resolved soon.’
Turning away as the reporter gave him the obligatory thank you, he chanced a glance back at Holly, who was still looking in his direction, eyes narrowed, face unreadable. For one aching, desperate moment, he wanted to throw caution to the wind and run to her, to gather her up in his arms and tell her it was all going to be all right, but he knew he couldn’t; he couldn’t risk discrediting her cause, and his career, any further.
Ducking his head to avoid more interrogations from the assorted media representatives, he hurried towards the Members’ Entrance and through the gate, back inside the Westminster bubble and temporary safety.
42
Charlie did, inevitably, catch up with Holly’s appearance on the Channel 4 news that evening. Still hiding out in his office, the thought of going back to his poky rented flat was too depressing to contemplate until security chucked him out. He wasn’t even sure what time that would be. He replayed Cathy English’s interview with Holly several times, hating himself more and more when he could see, repeatedly, the passion and fervour in Holly’s eyes for the cause. Why hadn’t he stood up to the Secretary of State when he’d had the chance? Why hadn’t he pushed harder to lobby her when he’d had the perfect opportunity in the office that day?
He knew why; pragmatism had won out over passion. Cora Mellish hadn’t been in touch since that meeting; she’d probably just filed it under minor irritations, scratched the itch and moved on. He, on the other hand, felt that his credibility had been eroded. Since Holly had told the media that he’d taken a step away from the campaign, he’d felt a chill wind blowing. Colleagues who’d previously bid him a cheery hello seemed to be avoiding him in the corridors, and he seemed to be becoming that thing all politicians were accused of: someone who valued his position more than his principles.
Gloomily, he slid the bar on the video back to the beginning of Holly’s interview again, wanting to torture himself one more time with it. As he was about to lose himself in her voice for the umpteenth time, his brooding was interrupted by the shrill ring of his mobile. Heart lurching, still hoping that it might be Holly on the other end, he swiped without looking at the caller’s ID.
‘Hello, Mr Thorpe,’ a voice on the other end said when he’d identified himself. ‘This is Peter Eddington from the news website AllFeed here. Do you have any comment on the story that’s about to break that you put pressure on a vulnerable constituent to sleep with you in exchange for political help?’
‘Wh-what?’ Charlie was instantly alert. ‘Where has this come from?’
‘I can’t reveal my sources, as you well know by now,’ Eddington replied. ‘Just wanted to see if I could add your version of events to the story before it goes live on the site tonight.’