The Weekender Read online

  Charlie grinned at her, oddly charmed by her forthrightness. ‘Then I hope between now and the next general election, I might be able to change your mind!’

  Holly smiled back. ‘Been there, done that, did some student conferences!’ she countered. ‘I found I wasn’t too keen on the company, after a while.’

  Charlie felt a sudden rush of recognition at her words. Now that she’d dropped her guard, and he’d spent a little time talking to her, he couldn’t help thinking that she looked like someone he’d known a long time ago… for one night only. But it couldn’t be her. The girl he knew had been sensibly dressed in an on-the-knee, neutral suit; party colours and party line, he thought wryly. Nineteen years old, with subtle lipstick and strawberry-blonde hair cut in a sensible bob. But then, he supposed, it was a decade and a half ago. Anything more adventurous would have been unexpected, especially in that context. He was sure, looking back on it, that his sartorial choices would have been just as suspect.

  ‘I can’t say I blame you,’ Charlie replied gamely, trying to shrug off the sense of déjà vu that Holly had suddenly evoked. ‘I intend to spend as much time in the constituency as I can. Westminster can be a bit of a bubble, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what you all say when you get appointed,’ Holly said, with a slight edge to her voice. ‘I bet even Hugo Fitzgerald was an idealist twenty-five years ago. Shame he never really got anything done around here!’

  ‘We’re not all lazy fat cats, you know,’ Charlie replied, a little more sharply than he’d intended. ‘Some of us go into politics for the right reasons.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Holly replied. ‘But you’ll forgive me if I say time will tell on that.’

  ‘I hope I’ll be able to show you,’ Charlie said. There was a pause, which he took as his cue to leave. ‘Take care, Holly.’

  ‘You too,’ Holly said brightly, gesturing to the door. ‘I look forward to you proving me otherwise.’

  Charlie, feeling more unsettled with the encounter than he had so far with any of the other shop owners, walked to the door. He suspected that he’d have a long way to go to demonstrate his worth as an MP to Holly; strangely, however, he found himself wanting to do so, if only to prove her wrong.

  3

  ‘Who was that?’ Rachel came carefully down the steep stairs from Holly’s flat to the shop floor carrying two mugs and a teapot on a wooden tray. ‘Looked fit from behind, whoever he was.’

  Holly shook her head. ‘You should get out more.’ Taking the mug from the tray once Rachel had poured some tea into it, she sipped the strong, re-energising tea.

  ‘So, who was it?’

  Holly felt her cheeks warm a little as she recalled the slightly awkward encounter. ‘That was Charlie Thorpe, the new MP for Willowbury and Stavenham.’

  ‘Wow, really? I hope he didn’t hear you slagging him off,’ Rachel grinned. ‘I mean, that would have been… awkward.’ She paused, catching sight of her sister’s expression. ‘He heard you, didn’t he?’

  Holly grinned. ‘From the way he couldn’t wait to get out of here, I assume he did!’ She took another gulp of her tea. ‘I don’t care. He needs to know that some of us aren’t just going to give him the easy ride that Hugo Fitzgerald had. He’s going to have to work to represent us.’

  ‘Oh, hark at you!’ Rachel teased. ‘Sounds like he’s bringing out your militant side already. Not that it needs any encouragement, of course.’ Holly had taken part in several high-profile Green Party demonstrations over the years, and was known as a bit of a rabble-rouser, as well as a keen supporter of local Green initiatives. She’d organised several litter picks and recycling runs in the town since taking on the shop and was known to wince every time she saw a discarded plastic bag or bottle blowing in the breeze. An ethical eater, her love of a good bacon sandwich meant she couldn’t quite become fully vegetarian, but she tried to source her food as locally and organically as possible. Outside, in the small courtyard behind the shop, she had a raised bed that was packed full of aromatics and herbs, which she cooked fresh when she could and dried and stored in jars for the winter months.

  ‘I just don’t like seeing someone getting something for nothing,’ Holly muttered.

  ‘What, you mean like we did?’ Rachel reminded Holly gently. They’d been the joint beneficiaries of their paternal grandfather’s will; the money had been in trust until they both reached adulthood. While their father had initially raised an eyebrow about Holly’s business venture, he couldn’t dispute the fact that the shop made money, however improbably, and he was justifiably proud of the path she’d taken. Rachel, the more conventional sister, had put most of hers into buying a home for herself and Harry after her divorce.

  ‘That was different,’ Holly said. ‘Grandfather made a weird decision, but one we’ve really tried to make the best of. After all, I don’t think you’ll find Mum and Dad complaining that we’re not running to them every five seconds for money!’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Rachel agreed. ‘Although, for all of my looking on the bright side, as you call it, there’s not enough money in the world to get Harry new lungs, or in the trust to fund the drugs he needs privately.’ She shook her head.

  ‘We’ll get there,’ Holly said softly, looking over at where Harry was now playing. ‘The government and the drug companies will see sense eventually, the way the issue keeps being highlighted by campaigners and the media. You have to keep believing it, sis.’

  ‘I know.’ Rachel drank the rest of her tea. ‘I’ve got to go. Harry’s got a check-up at the hospital. We’re going to make an afternoon of it and grab an early dinner in Bristol if it all runs to time.’ Gesturing to Harry, she took the toddler’s hand and, after kissing her sister goodbye, she headed out of the door of the shop.

  Holly’s heart ached as they left. She wished there was something else she could do, but even if she sold the shop and the two sisters pooled their resources, it still wouldn’t be enough. Since Rachel had got divorced a couple of years ago, the main responsibility for caring for Harry had become hers alone, with her ex-husband having moved to Singapore for his career. Rachel and Harry were financially provided for well enough by him, but that wasn’t the same as having someone to share the ups and downs of having a child with a serious illness day to day. Thus, the two sisters had grown closer, to the extent that they saw each other most days now they both lived in Willowbury.

  Reluctantly, Holly’s thoughts wandered back to the visitor she’d just had; perhaps Charlie Thorpe would be able to help, after all. Then again, after he’d heard her opinion about him jumping into his dead colleague’s seat, she wondered if he’d be willing to listen to her anyway.

  Sighing, she changed the background music and settled in for an afternoon of retail. She’d recently taken a massage course, which she was considering offering to customers, but she hadn’t yet been brave enough to advertise it in the shop. Perhaps it was time to take the plunge.

  Taking a deep breath, she logged into ComIncense’s website and created a new page, titled ‘Holistic Massage Therapy’ and filled out a few details. Printing out a copy to put in the window of the shop, she wondered if anyone in Willowbury would let her loose on their back, shoulders or even feet. She could think of a few people 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 hi
m 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 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 m
ore 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 one for Arthur. Now she was over thirty, she wondered how much of a joke that actually was, these days. Was she doomed to grow older and more eccentric, until she became the tie-dyed kaftan-wearing, wild-haired stereotype of a Willowbury alternative-health business owner? Just her and Arthur, for ever more?