who she wouldn’t want to touch with a bargepole, and it would be just her luck to be lumbered with some of Willowbury’s less savoury residents as clients. But who knew, perhaps some would give it a go.
As she was finishing the page, she couldn’t help wondering what Charlie Thorpe would look like with his shirt off on her massage table but quickly squashed that idea; after the way he’d reacted to her and her shop, she couldn’t imagine him crossing the threshold anytime soon.
4
Charlie had been under no illusions that he was going to have a tricky time when he took on the Willowbury and Stavenham parliamentary seat. It wasn’t just that Hugo Fitzgerald had been cordially loathed by his constituents (although enough of them had kept voting him in, year after year, to give him a very comfortable majority), but also, in comparison, he’d be seen initially as nothing more than a wet-behind-the-ears career politician. He was resigned to the fact that it would take at least five years to gain their trust – a Westminster parliamentary term, in fact – and probably twenty before he was regarded as a local in this most Somerset of Somerset villages. Yet again, he wondered why he’d said yes. He was a Yorkshireman by birth, and felt like a fish out of water down in the West Country, even though he’d often visited when he’d had a girlfriend who lived in the area. The Mendip Hills were no substitute for the Yorkshire Moors, he felt; too smooth, too green, not angular enough for his tastes.
Exiting Holly Renton’s ridiculously named shop, still smarting from her casual dismissal of his effectiveness, or lack thereof, he’d wandered back up Willowbury High Street, noticing, properly, for the first time, just what kind of stock in trade this place had. When he’d been offered the seat after Hugo’s death, he’d imagined Willowbury to be a kind of tea shops and gourmet ploughman’s’ lunches patch; wealthy, middle-class and churchgoing constituents, whose main concerns were where the new motorway junction was going to be built and whose view was going to be ruined by the next new housing development.
While Willowbury wasn’t exactly inner-city Leeds, where he’d cut his teeth campaigning as a candidate in a seat that hadn’t been held by his party in nearly forty years, it wasn’t what he’d been expecting either. For a start, the preponderance of what might be called New Age establishments (although he’d been warned that this was not a moniker that the traders themselves much cared for) was rather more akin to Totnes, the place in Devon where he’d spent holidays as a child.
There was no getting away from it, he thought as he wandered back up the rather steep High Street. Everywhere you looked in Willowbury was a crystal, a mural or a shop selling spiritual how-to guides. And this was one of the major towns in his constituency. While not himself a religious man, Charlie had grown up as a kind of fair-weather Christian; church on Christmas and Easter Days, a carol service every year and a Remembrance Parade as a Scout. This kind of earth-based, alternative spirituality took some getting used to. And get used to it, he must, he supposed. He looked down at the toy voodoo doll Holly had given him and grimaced.
‘Morning, m’lord!’ A broad, rather mocking voice, rich with the vowels of the county, broke into his thoughts. ‘And how are you on this very fine day?’
Charlie’s head snapped up and he came face to face with Miles Fairbrother, who considered himself a local wit, as well as the owner of the town’s bakery.
‘Charlie’ll do fine,’ Charlie replied, smiling gamely at the master baker. ‘I’m not in the House of Lords just yet.’
‘Only a matter of time, I’m sure,’ Miles winked.
‘So, how’s business, Miles?’ Charlie asked, keen to practise his small talk. Press the flesh, Charlie, no matter how unattractive or annoying it is.
‘Not bad, not bad,’ Miles said. ‘’Course, I’m not sellin’ quite so many scones as I used to, given what happened to your predecessor, but at least the gluten-free bread’s starting to shift. That’s a fad that seems to be sticking.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Charlie replied. ‘I must pop in and try some when I’m a bit more settled in.’ He was slightly surprised at how easily the platitudes could come when talking to someone like Miles. Privately, he thought that he’d rather get gluten-free bread from anyone other than Miles, even if he was a local businessman.
‘On the house for the local MP,’ Miles said. ‘At least, your first one will be. Never know when I might need a favour.’
Charlie suppressed a grimace. He had no idea what Hugo’s dealings with the baker had been, but instinctively he knew he probably shouldn’t go too far to find out. ‘That’s very kind of you, Miles, but I like to support the businesses in my constituency.’
Miles held up a hand. ‘I’m joking, of course. Me, personally, I’m glad you’ve taken over, but there are some round here who’ll be harder to please.’
‘I think I’ve already encountered one of them,’ Charlie said, glancing unthinkingly back towards ComIncense.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about her,’ Miles said. ‘She and her sister are always on their high horse about something. Doesn’t know how good she’s got it, living here, with that shop smack in the middle of the High Street.’
Charlie, kicking himself mentally for speaking carelessly to Miles, of all people, smiled. ‘Oh, it was nothing like that, honestly. Anyway, I’d best get on. It was nice to see you, Miles.’
‘Nice to see you too, m’lord,’ Miles winked again and strode off back to the bakery, which was at the bottom of the High Street. The Fairbrothers had been the town bakers for five generations, and Charlie already knew that Miles held sway on the town council and the Chamber of Commerce. He was also a significant donor to Charlie’s local party funds. Much as he’d instinctively disliked the man, he was one that he definitely had to keep on side if he was to get anywhere politically.
Looking at his watch, Charlie cursed as he realised he was going to be late for the first of several appointments at his constituency office. He was due to start at twelve, and he’d not read through the briefing notes his ever-efficient agent had emailed him the night before. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through his appointments list and, with a stab of dismay, concluded he was going to be holed up in the office until well after six o’clock that evening. The life of a rural MP, he thought, was not exactly a sleepy one. Resolving to grab a quick takeaway coffee from the Costa machine at the newsagents, he hurried towards his office.
As he let himself back in through the door, he couldn’t help reflecting once again on his meeting with Holly Renton in her shop. Something was niggling at him; something about her he just couldn’t place. He couldn’t help thinking he’d met her somewhere before.
5
Holly closed the shop after a relatively successful day’s trading and headed up the stairs to the flat she lived in above the shop. Having bought the freehold of the building with her inheritance, she had taken time to make both the shop and her home exactly as she wanted them to be, and she even had the benefit of a small, enclosed garden at the back of the property, where she would sit out sometimes, and, in good weather, lead the odd meditation or yoga session. A haven of peace and serenity, the garden was footed by a large, ancient horse chestnut tree, which Holly occasionally called in the local tree surgeon to prune, and under whose boughs she could conduct her meditations and sit and read in the warmer months.
Tonight, though, she needed to get inside and feed the mewing
