you said you wanted us to have a baby.’
‘And I do! But I’m not ready for kids yet.’
Gemma pushed him away. ‘But you’ll never be ready, will you, Dominic? That’s the problem.’ She turned away as the kettle began to boil. ‘I’ll get the tea.’
‘Don’t be like that, babes.’ Dominic kissed her unresponsive cheek and sat down as Gemma set their cups on the table. ‘I do want a kid, eventually. Once I’m not touring so much.’
‘But you’re always touring! You never stop.’
‘Well,’ he pointed out reasonably, ‘tonight was our last show until September. So we have all summer to talk about it.’
She regarded him sceptically over the rim of her mug. ‘Really? You promise you’ll think about us having a baby, at least?’
He nodded. ‘I promise. And I thought about what you said about helping Mum out, too. I’ve decided I’ll do it. I’m going back to Mansfield Hall.’ He met her eyes. ‘And you’re going with me.’
On Saturday, Holly woke to find Alex’s side of the bed empty. She sat up, blinking in the early morning light that slanted through the blinds, and stretched.
She heard the shower running. Alex had come in late last night; she remembered him reaching for her, sharing a few urgent, whisky-flavoured kisses before they made love. Then he’d rolled over and fallen asleep.
He emerged from the shower, his hair damp and a towel wrapped around his waist. He bent forward to kiss the top of her head. ‘Good morning, darling.’
‘Morning,’ she mumbled, and yawned. ‘You came in late last night.’
‘Yes, sorry. A few of us went on to Mahiki.’
Holly pressed her lips together but said nothing. She had no doubt that Camilla had gone right along with him.
‘After this morning’s surgery,’ he added, ‘I thought we might spend the afternoon together. Have lunch in the country, perhaps.’
‘That sounds great.’ Holly wrapped her arms around her legs. ‘We never see each other anymore.’
‘Summer’s nearly here,’ he reminded her as he pulled on a shirt, ‘so the House won’t be sitting. Which means,’ he added as he pulled on his trousers and tucked in his shirt, ‘more time for us. No more late Mondays, no more PMQs on Wednesday…’
‘PMQs?’
‘Prime Minister’s Questions.’ Alex adjusted the knot of his tie and studied his reflection in the mirror. ‘We have the chance to grill the PM every Wednesday on whatever topics we choose. Terribly nerve-wracking the first time you do it.’
‘Like the first time you have sex?’
‘Exactly. But much less fun.’ He leaned down to kiss her. ‘I’ll meet you in Barnet later. Love you.’
‘Love you.’
As she popped two slices of bread into the toaster and brewed a pot of coffee a few minutes later, Holly switched on Radio 1. Maybe she and Alex could find a festival after lunch. There was always a festival on somewhere.
She buttered her toast with a generous hand and took a bite, savouring her moment of carbohydrate bliss. She’d wear jeans, she decided; nice dark-washed ones, not the ratty faded ones; and her new booties with the spiky heels.
And she’d top it off with her ‘Up the Monarchy’s Arse’ t-shirt, the one Dominic Heath had given her when she’d interviewed him last year, and her old Chanel jacket with three-quarter sleeves. Chic, trendy – perfect!
Holly finished the last of her toast and licked the butter and jam from her fingers with satisfaction, then headed to the bedroom closet with a smug smile on her face.
Not only would she and Alex have a brilliant afternoon together; she’d look so fabulous that he’d forget all about quid pro quo and habeas corpus… and Camilla Shawcross.
And she’d make Alex fall in love with her all over again.
It was nearly twelve-thirty, and still Alex hadn’t emerged from his constituency office on the high street. Holly frowned and thrummed her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. Where was he? She was starving.
Damn his constituents and their concerns. Didn’t they know that Alex Barrington had a life of his own? Didn’t they think that he might like to sleep in on a Saturday and spend the day with his girlfriend, lazing on the sofa reading the papers and watching rubbish TV? Did they think he liked to get up early and listen to them drone on about their petty little issues?
And, she wondered with narrowed eyes, why were so many of Alex’s constituents young, attractive women? What were they really doing in there?
Holly was just on the verge of slamming out of the car to stalk up the pavement and into the building across the street, when the doors finally opened.
At last! All her annoyance melted away as Alex emerged, looking gorgeous in his navy suit and yellow tie, smiling back warmly over his shoulder at someone.
Holly let out a little sigh of pleasure. He was handsome. He was sexy. And he was hers.
And – her smile froze – he was not alone.
The recipient of Alex’s warm smile was Camilla Shawcross, Conservative MP and all-around perfect woman. She wore a pencil skirt, a royal-blue silk charmeuse blouse, and kitten heels.
What the devil was she doing here?
Holly glanced down at her jeans and her ‘Up the Monarchy’s Arse’ T-shirt with misgivings. Suddenly her outfit didn’t seem nearly as chic or iconoclastic as it had done this morning.
Compared to Camilla, she looked like something the cat had dragged in… and spat back out, like a regurgitated hairball.
She slid down, very slowly, behind the wheel. Perhaps she could keep a low profile until Camilla said goodbye and left.
But no… damn it, Alex had just spotted her. He waved and said something to Camilla, who glanced in Holly’s direction with a bright, false smile.
Shit. There was nothing for it now but to get out of the car and go and say hello to Ms Shawcross.
‘Holly, there you are,’ Alex called out as she emerged from the car and crossed the street to join them. He leaned forward to give her a brief kiss. ‘You remember Camilla, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’ How could I not remember someone who always makes me feel underdressed and overly stupid? She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Hello, Camilla.’
‘Miss James,’ Camilla murmured, eyeing her outfit with a raised brow as she returned a limp handshake and a pained smile.
‘I
