by Fay Keenan
As if he could read her thoughts, having demolished his own food, Arthur came padding out to the balcony and sprang up onto the other bistro chair, settling down on the cushion to take in the early-evening sun’s rays.
While not a compulsive phone checker, Holly had her mobile at the side of her dinner plate to hear from Rachel about Harry’s afternoon check-up. On cue, her phone pinged. Heart thumping, Holly swiped the screen, hoping that the news from the hospital would be good. Harry seemed to be having a settled few months and was remarkably stoical about the huge amount of medications he had to take every day, but she still breathed a sigh of relief when she read Rachel’s update. Harry’s lung function had been as expected, and his meds hadn’t been increased, so that was a definite win. Texting back a quick reply, Holly relaxed into her chair and finished her dinner. If nothing else, Harry’s condition had taught her to take each day and count each blessing as they came. Who knew what tomorrow, or the next day, might bring?
While she had her phone open, Holly decided to check to see if anyone had signed up for a massage, now that the online booking had gone live on ComIncense’s website. Since she’d have to offer the massages after ComIncense had closed for business, given that most of the time she was on her own at work, she didn’t intend to take more than one or two bookings a week. Tapping through to the admin pages on her site, she smiled to see that there had been a fair bit of interest. But, just as quickly, her heart sank when she saw the name of the person who’d made the first booking. Of all the people she wouldn’t have wanted to get her hands on, she had to be the worst. Oh well, Holly thought, at least I’ll have the chance to practise on her, and she’ll certainly tell me if I’m no good.
Swiping the screen to confirm the booking for tomorrow and send an automatic confirmation email, Holly stood up again and took her plate back through to the kitchen. She’d better spend the evening mugging up on some of the techniques she’d learned on her massage course, to make sure she did the best job she could on her first paying client. What a shame, though, that it had to be Rachel’s irritating next-door neighbour, Harriet Meadows. With more bark than a Jack Russell, the woman barely kept quiet long enough to relax and enjoy anything, let alone a massage.
If nothing else, having her on the table might help Rachel’s stress levels a little, since Harriet had a tendency to complain about everything, from the height of the fence in Rachel’s back garden to the sound of Harry playing out with his little friends in the summer.
Holly grinned to herself as she put her mind to the kind of massage that would best suit Harriet the Harridan and found she was quite looking forward to trying out some of her firmer techniques.
6
At around eleven o’clock the next day, Charlie decided he’d had enough of unpacking, both in his new home, which was a charming town house a stone’s throw from the High Street, and in his new office, which he’d virtually had to gut to make it more to his tastes. When he’d walked into the door of what had been Hugo Fitzgerald’s erstwhile office, he’d imagined, for one terrible moment, that he’d be confronted with the corpse of the MP, still face down in the scones. Cursing himself for his childishness, he’d been only slightly less horrified when he’d realised the MP and his constituency agent, who’d retired when his boss had died, hadn’t exactly been experts at filing. He’d spent the next eight hours sorting out the box files and papers on subjects as diverse as the much-disputed Willowbury bypass (thirty-five years at least in the discussion) and a complaint from a resident of the High Street that one of the shop owners was sunbathing nude on the flat roof of their establishment during their lunch hour. Given Willowbury’s long tradition of embracing all things alternative in terms of lifestyle, religion, spirituality and music, Charlie wasn’t as surprised by this complaint as he could have been.
When nine-tenths of the paperwork had gone the way of his brand new office shredder, and he’d relocated the rest into relabelled box files, he decided it was time for a break before his constituency agent came in for a meeting. Assured by the chairman of his local branch of the party when he gained the seat that Tom Fielding would be an excellent candidate to fill the role of party liaison and constituency agent, especially for a rookie MP, Charlie hoped that Tom would be able to brief him on what the really important issues were in Willowbury and Stavenham. He’d met Tom briefly after he’d moved in and had already established a good working relationship with the man, who, being in his late fifties, was the kind of authority figure it was useful to have on your team.
Charlie could have made a coffee from the jar of instant he’d found stashed away in the kitchen area of the office, but when he’d opened the lid, a moth had flown out, so he decided to get some fresh air before his morning meeting with Tom and head over to one of the cafes on the High Street he’d spotted when he’d dropped in on ComIncense. Locking the door, he pocketed the key and headed up the road.
As he wandered back along the row of the weird, wonderful and decidedly wacky shops that lined Willowbury High Street, the variety made him smile, as it did every time he walked this way. There was a bookshop called Vale Volumes most of whose titles in the window seemed to focus on either spiritual healing or the search for King Arthur; a musical instrument shop, which, from the looks of it, didn’t stock anything that was instantly recognisable to Charlie as anything that might be found in an orchestra; a shop front full of crystals of various sizes all glinting in the sunshine; and an artisan handmade candle shop with wax creations of all kinds. Added to that, was a brightly painted shop front emblazoned with ‘Fae Floristry’ and bedecked with all kinds of blooms, local and more exotic.
Charlie’s back stiffened as he found his footsteps drawing closer to ComIncense Health and Well-being, where he’d encountered Holly Renton yesterday. A prickle of embarrassment and irritation prodded at the back of his neck as he recalled her casual dismissal of him – both before she’d been aware of his presence in the shop and, even if she had blushed a bit, after. He wasn’t sure what was worse, really: indifference to politics or firm opinions, forcefully held. He was sure he’d come across plenty of both in this new job.
Drawing level with the door of ComIncense, he found himself pausing to look at the window display. A mixture of tall altar candles, sparkling crystals of all colours and hues that caught the light and the odd sprig of dried herbs, it looked exotic and inviting, and Charlie had to admit that Holly had an eye for the enticing. If he had the slightest clue what any of the items in her shop window actually did, he was sure he’d be sold on them. As it was, he couldn’t imagine having use for any of them in his life, even if the comedy voodoo doll was funny.
Suddenly aware he might be seen to be loitering, and definitely not wanting to be caught, Charlie quickened his pace again, but not before he caught sight of Holly again, with her back to the window, hair in the same unruly updo that was escaping in tendrils down her shoulder blades almost to her waist, atop a ladder and pulling down one of the large apothecary’s jars that resided behind the counter in a tall dresser. She had the kind of hair he longed to touch, and he was astonished to feel that prickle of irritation he’d felt turning to something else altogether as he allowed himself another moment to watch her. There was something so familiar about the curve of her shoulders, the gentle sweep of that long back into her waist… why did he feel as though he’d encountered her before?
Shaking his head, he tore his eyes back to the High Street, in search of the coffee shop he knew was up the top of the town somewhere.
Picking up his pace, he was tickled to find, on entering Willowbury’s number-one coffee establishment (as dictated by the sign in the window, at least), that even the hot beverages in this place had a twist of the alternative about them. Among the Americanos, lattes and flat whites that could be found anywhere was a smattering of exotic twists from all around the world, from Turkish to Egyptian to Vietnamese blends and varieties. Charlie wondered wryly whether air miles were factored into the costs.
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‘Morning, sir!’ A cheery voice greeted him as he walked up to the counter. The owner of the voice, a man who Charlie judged to be in his late thirties, and from his name badge was called Jack, gestured to the menu behind him. ‘What can I get you?’
Charlie glanced up at the menu boards and then back at the barista. ‘Just a flat white, thanks.’
‘We’ve got a promotion on the fair-trade South-west Guatemalan beans this week if you’d like to give them a go,’ Jack responded. ‘A hint of chocolate and almond. Goes down beautifully with one of our amaretto croissants, if you’d like one.’
‘Sounds great, thank you,’ Charlie replied.
Five minutes later he was chowing down on a flaky, amaretto-soaked croissant and trying to identify the alleged flavour notes in the coffee. He’d taken a seat by the window, so he could gaze out at the High Street, which was showing more signs of life now than when he’d headed to his office earlier that morning.
Even on a workaday Tuesday, he was surprised to see the more unusual inhabitants of Willowbury out in force. He was jolted to see a woman in nun’s robes standing by a cool box of what appeared to be wrapped sandwiches, which had a sign propped against it reading ‘Free lunch for the homeless’. There were one or two people taking advantage of this gentle charity and being handed a sandwich and a bottle of water with a calm and gentle smile by the nun. He had no idea that Willowbury had an issue with the homeless, although, he figured, perhaps with its proximity to both the Strawberry Line cycle track and the more major towns of Wells and Taunton, both tourist traps, it became more of a magnet during the summer months. He made a note on his phone to add that to his list of enquiries for Tom Fielding when they met later on. Some members of his party were positively medieval when it came to their attitudes to the homeless; Charlie wasn’t one of them. He believed in supporting people until they no longer needed to be supported, and if homelessness was an issue here, he needed to know about it.
‘How are you settling in?’ The barista’s voice broke into Charlie’s thoughts, bringing him back into the moment. Jack was wiping a recently vacated table near to where Charlie was sitting in the window, and Charlie turned his head slightly to reply.
‘Well, thank you. I’m sorry I haven’t popped in more officially yet, but I’ve been up to my ears in paperwork.’
‘I can imagine,’ Jack grinned. ‘Your predecessor didn’t strike me as the most organised of folks. Spent more time in the bars in Westminster than in the chamber, by all accounts!’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ Charlie said wryly. ‘Although his filing did leave a lot to be desired.’
‘Happen to come across any paperwork concerning that proposed new motorway junction?’ Jack asked, ultra-casually, as he continued to clear up the table. ‘Rumour has it that Hugo Fitzgerald took rather a large cut of the profits from the farmer who sold the land it’s being built on in return for pushing it through under the new, more relaxed planning laws.’ Jack shook his head. ‘Although it’s on hold now, of course.’
Ignoring Jack’s obvious fishing for grubby specifics, Charlie raised an eyebrow. ‘On hold?’
‘Yup.’ Jack’s eyes twinkled. ‘Apparently, when the archaeological dig was scheduled, it turned up artefacts of specific historical interest to the town. Until the site can be fully excavated, there won’t be a new junction going through there.’
Charlie raised his eyes skywards. He was rapidly finding out that Willowbury was full of oddities – some good and some rather less so. ‘That seems quite a coincidence,’ he said.
‘Well, you know how it is,’ Jack said, flinging his damp towel over his shoulder. ‘It’s amazing what turns up when you least expect it. I mean, who knew there was an old Roman encampment right where the proposed junction was going to go? Not to mention possible proof that King Arthur really might have existed.’ His eyes twinkled again.
‘King Arthur as well?’ Charlie smiled into his coffee. ‘This place is full of surprises.’ Finishing up his croissant and his coffee, he glanced at his watch and realised that Tom would be waiting at the office in a few minutes. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said as he took his plate and mug back to the counter.
‘No problem. See you again soon,’ Jack replied. ‘This place is a hub for local gossip, so if you need the low-down on any of the local rumblings, feel free to ask. I’m the soul of indiscretion, as is my Twitter feed!’
Charlie laughed. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
Strolling back out of the coffee shop, he shook his head. Small-town living was going to take some getting used to, he thought, especially in a town as out there as Willowbury. But something told him he was going to like it.
7
That same afternoon, Holly was taking a lunch break while Rachel kept an eye on the shop for half an hour, when their mother came through the back door of the flat with something large and bulky in her hands. As she waved off Holly’s offer of help, she headed into the living room and placed the object, which was a little dusty, on Holly’s coffee table in front of the sofa.
‘Your dad and I were having a bit of a clear-out of the eaves cupboards, and we thought you might like to have this.’ She gestured to the coffee table. ‘We took a quick look inside and it seemed to be most of your university stuff.’
Holly laughed as she flipped the catches on the old-fashioned blue suitcase. ‘I hope you didn’t find anything too incriminating in there!’ The suitcase smelt a little musty from well over a decade in her parents’ attic cupboards, but as she turned it over and flipped the rusting silver catches, opening the lid, she gasped. There, inside the case, was the contents of her university bedroom, complete with essays, posters and even the old college handbook from her first year.
‘Bloody hell,’ Holly said. ‘I had no idea you’d kept this stuff.’ Pulling out a blue cardboard document wallet, she scanned through one of her English Literature essays and shuddered. ‘I can’t believe I ever got my degree with work like this.’ Holly had graduated with a more than respectable upper second-class honours degree in English and Politics from the University of York, and as she riffled through the papers and pictures that were still neatly packed into folders and envelopes after thirteen years in her parents’ attic, she was assailed by memories of people, places and experiences she’d not thought about in years. Alongside the posters of classic films – Star Wars, Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet and Bladerunner, was a copy of the college handbook, a programme from a play she’d acted in during her first year and a stack of photocopied journal articles on the Romantic poets.
As she opened a large, manila envelope, an equally large stack of photographs was revealed. Some of the snaps took her back instantly; the photograph of her dearest friends from university, taken after they’d laughed themselves weak watching an episode of Desperate Housewives late one night while drinking sangria mixed in a storage box from The Works, reawakened a lot of good memories. Pictures of a couple of boyfriends from uni evoked some slightly different feelings.
Nights out, nights in, famous sights, all were captured on disposable cameras and sent to actual film processing places to develop. Somehow, that seemed to make the memories more precious, despite the poor quality of the images. While Facebook meant that she’d reconnected with quite a lot of her university friends, it was still nice to see pictures of them all as they once were. One particular shot that made her smile was their recreation of an iconic scene from Friends, with each of them looking around the door frame of one of their hall’s bedrooms.
Reaching for another pile of photographs, she furrowed her brow, trying to remember when they were taken. They were mostly of London landmarks, and many were blurry and out of focus. She couldn’t remember ever going to London when she was at university, as it was quite a trek from York, and for a moment she was confused. Were these her photographs or had she picked up someone else’s when she’d cleared out her room for the last time? Goodness knows things were very hectic at the end of that last summ
er term, and she and her friends were always leaving stuff in each other’s rooms. But as she flipped through them, she was brought up short by a very familiar face and her heart started to flutter as the spreading brushstrokes of recognition filtered across the blank page of her memory. Something she’d forgotten about. Someone she’d forgotten about. For nearly a decade and a half. As the brushstrokes joined together, her heart started to hammer. It couldn’t be… could it?
‘Oh my God…’ she muttered. There, standing by the sign for Great Portland Street Underground station, dressed in a badly fitting maroon blazer and a pair of fawn chinos, tie askew and looking as though he’d had a drink or two, either that or the photo had been taken after a very late night, was someone with a very familiar smile. Very familiar indeed.
Vivian Renton looked over her daughter’s shoulder and grinned. ‘That must have been taken when you went to that student conference,’ she said. ‘I remember you talking about some bloke you’d met there. What was his name?’
As Holly gazed at the picture, it all came back to her. Fifteen years ago, in her first year at university, she’d been a student delegate at a political conference in the capital. She’d been of a slightly different political persuasion back then than she was now, and far less sure of herself and her beliefs. Feeling like a fish out of water, she’d been flattered and charmed when a lanky, slightly geeky young man from Leeds University had started to talk to her and had shown her around, sticking by her side for the day’s conference and then into the evening event, which was being held at a Leicester Square nightclub. Happy to have someone to talk to, she’d been too shy to kiss him for more than a moment on the dance floor, but when he had rather haltingly asked to hold her hand as he walked her back to her hotel at the end of the night, she’d accepted. She remembered taking the picture of him at Great Portland Street, and smiling herself at his huge, attractive smile. He’d seen her back to the hotel, kissed her on the cheek and they’d swapped home phone numbers. Jolted rather more by him than she’d realised, Holly had been surprised when he’d called her at home during the Christmas holidays, but by then she was seeing someone else, so she’d drawn a line and not seen him again.
