The Weekender. Fay Keenan
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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 ball of ginger fur that was weaving in and out of her ankles on the way up the stairs.
‘Arthur!’ She chided as the cat skittered in front of her again. ‘If I break my neck on these steps, you’ll only have me to eat, and I’m not sure you’ll enjoy that.’
Arthur turned at the sound of her voice, gave her a withering look and then bounded ahead to the kitchen, to where his bowls resided in the corner. Giving a hungry yowl, he sprung up on his hind legs and dug his claws playfully into the back of Holly’s knees as she pulled down the cat food from the cupboard.
‘Is it any wonder I can’t wear short skirts, with you lacerating my legs at every opportunity?’ Holly reached down and gave the cat a playful tap on the nose. She filled his bowl with food and then, mission accomplished, Arthur turned his back and began to devour his dinner.
Turning her mind to her encounter with Charlie Thorpe as she prepared her own food, Holly was irritated to feel another blush creeping up her cheeks. It hadn’t exactly been her finest hour, she conceded, although she’d never been one to hide her true feelings. Her father always said that she and Rachel would have made the perfect child if combined; Rachel was diplomatic, and perhaps a little too self-effacing, whereas Holly spoke her mind at every available opportunity, and had done since she was knee high to a grasshopper. Her mouth had got her into hot water more than once in her youth, and while she’d learned to think before she spoke most of the time these days, she was still prone to being more honest than was good for her when she was rattled or irritated.
And Charlie Thorpe had rattled her before she’d even met him. Perhaps it had been a little unfair to write him off before he’d had the chance to settle into Willowbury, but she trusted her gut, and her gut was telling her that having a new MP wouldn’t make a scrap of difference to her, or, more importantly, to Harry.
But what if she was wrong? What if Charlie was being sincere in his desire to make a positive difference in Willowbury? Or was is possible that Holly was just being distracted by the fact he was rather good-looking, in that classic tall, dark and handsome kind of way.
‘Stop it,’ Holly said.
Arthur looked up from his bowl, where he was making short work of his Whiskas.
‘Not you, gorgeous,’ Holly added hastily.
The cat gave her another look and got back to his food.
Holly sighed as she grabbed the jar of linguine from the back of her kitchen counter and slapped some into her pasta pan. There was no point in continuing to think about Charlie Thorpe. She’d probably never cross paths with him again. After all, she couldn’t remember Hugo Fitzgerald ever bothering to visit her shop when he’d been alive, and he’d been the MP for over twenty years. Why should Charlie be any different? Willowbury and Stavenham was a cushy number, and all he really had to do was show his face a bit and kiss a few babies and he’d be guaranteed the seat until he retired.
A few minutes later, having sautéed the contents of her vegetable drawer and thrown in a few of the herbs she’d gathered fresh from the raised bed in her garden, Holly grated some of the Cheddar Gorge Cheese Company’s finest mature Cheddar over her dinner and settled down on the balcony overlooking her garden, where she’d placed a small bistro table and two chairs: one for her, she’d joked to Rachel when she’d bought it, and