by Fay Keenan
Vivian was still looking at the photograph in Holly’s hand, but she glanced at her face when she realised how stock-still her daughter had gone. ‘What is it, Hols?’
‘Can’t you see it?’ Holly replied. ‘I can’t believe I’d forgotten all about him until now. I mean, it’s been thirteen years since I graduated, and I haven’t given him a second thought until now.’
‘So?’ Vivian replied. ‘He was just some bloke you met in London, wasn’t he? I remember you talking about him after he rang you at Christmas. Nice, gentle Yorkshire accent, if I remember correctly. Very polite on the phone.’
‘Very polite in person, too,’ Holly murmured, remembering the sparkling brown eyes, the slightly sweaty palm held by her own and the chaste goodnight kiss. ‘And still is,’ she added unguardedly.
‘What do you mean? I thought you just said you’d forgotten about him. You never mentioned him again. Not to me, anyway.’
‘Er, Mum,’ Holly cursed as she felt her cheeks flaming. ‘The boy in the photograph… he grew up to be Charlie Thorpe.’
Vivian looked quizzical. ‘As in Charlie Thorpe, the new MP? Are you sure?’
Holly traced Charlie’s face in the photograph with a turmeric-stained fingertip. ‘Yup. I didn’t twig before when he came into the shop, but now I’ve seen this photo again it’s all coming back to me.’ To be fair, Charlie’s hairstyle had changed and he’d filled out a bit so that he wasn’t lanky any more, and he’d obviously ditched the glasses, too, but the sparkle in his eyes and that smile were instantly recognisable now she’d seen the photo again. ‘Charlie Thorpe is Lovely Charlie, who looked after me when I had no one to talk to at that conference.’
‘Well then,’ Vivian said. ‘Perhaps that’s something to mention to him if you bump into him again.’
Holly had said to her mother, in passing, that Charlie had come into the shop but not told her the exact nature of their conversation, as she was still a little embarrassed by it all. ‘I doubt he’ll have remembered me anyway,’ she laughed, putting the photograph back into the envelope. ‘After all, it wasn’t until I saw this photo that I realised we’d met before. And he’s probably met loads of women, er, people since then. It’s not even worth bringing it up. I’ll just look like an idiot.’
‘If you say so,’ Vivian raised an eyebrow. ‘But you never know… he might have thought of you all these years as Lovely Holly, just as you thought about him.’
Holly really did laugh, then. ‘Mum, there’s no way I’m ever owning up to that, especially now. And if you breathe a word of this to Dad or Rachel, I’ll burn the whole bloody suitcase!’
Vivian laughed too, well aware of her daughter’s legendary impulsiveness, and in no doubt that she was serious. ‘Fair enough. But perhaps it’s worth keeping that photo somewhere safe. After all, if he ever gets into the Cabinet, you could flog your story to the Daily Mail.’
‘Nothing happened, Mum,’ Holly said. ‘We held hands and he kissed me goodnight. Hardly grounds for an actual kiss-and-tell story, is it?’
‘Oh, the media can make a story out of anything these days,’ Vivian replied. ‘And you never know, it might pay the lease on your shop for a month or two.’
‘I own the place, remember?’ Holly replied. ‘Bricks, mortar, concept and execution, thanks to Grandfather. I don’t think I’ll ever need to sell that story.’
‘Still worth keeping hold of it,’ Vivian said. ‘But I must get back to Dad, anyway. He’s having one of his days.’
‘Is everything all right, Mum?’ Holly was aware that her mother had to deal with her father’s occasional bouts of anxiety and had done a lot to support them both over the years.
‘Oh, you know how he is,’ Vivian replied. ‘He’ll be out the other side by tomorrow morning. It’s just the anniversary of your grandfather’s death that set him off last night. He’ll be back on an even keel soon. He’s worrying about Harry’s latest check-up too, no matter how much Rachel tries to reassure him.’
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ Holly said.
Like many men of his age, Edward Renton internalised most things, resulting in darkish spells, but these were improving with every passing year now that his father, Holly’s grandfather, had passed away. Holly knew there were some things she’d never know about her father’s relationship with his own dad, had resigned herself to that years ago, but it didn’t make her mother’s life any easier.
Rachel was prone to the odd bout of anxiety herself, and Holly kept the encroaching demons at bay with a rigorous routine of yoga and meditation; she knew her mother did her best to keep her father afloat, too.
‘I will.’ Vivian hugged her daughter and then headed back out of the back door. ‘See you soon.’
As her mother left, Holly closed the lid on the suitcase and dragged it into her bedroom. There would be plenty of time later to go through its contents and see what else she’d stashed from her university days.
Placing the photograph of Charlie firmly to the back of her mind, she flipped on the kettle and made a cup of coffee to take back down to the shop to Rachel. She’d get the photo of her friends out later, scan it and upload it to Facebook. Not for the first time, she was thankful that smartphones didn’t exist when she was at university; there were plenty of memories, especially those concerning the sangria, that were best consigned to memory rather than the internet. And as for that sweet remembrance of the tall, awkward boy in London… that was definitely better consigned to the past.
8
After their initial encounter in the shop, Holly’s path didn’t cross with Charlie’s for a few weeks. She’d heard through the grapevine that, like a lot of Members of Parliament, he was spending Monday to Thursday in Westminster every week, with Friday as his constituency day, although she’d spent enough time learning about politics in her teens to know that this was often a moveable feast. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t sought her out on his constituency days, really – she realised he must be absolutely up to his neck in work, establishing himself and setting out his stall as the new MP. All the same, now she’d remembered their one brief evening of history all those years ago, she was curious to encounter him again. Would she be able to talk to him and not mention their previous meeting? He probably wouldn’t even remember her if she did bring it up.
On a sunny Friday afternoon, after a successful day’s sales and a meditation class, Holly was just about to flip the sign on the shop’s door when she was jolted to see Charlie ambling up the High Street. Taking a moment to observe him from the vantage point behind a display of altar candles in her shop window, she noticed that he was rubbing his neck, slipping a hand underneath the collar of his white shirt, which he’d unbuttoned a notch when he’d loosened his tie. His waistcoat was also unbuttoned. Holly smiled to herself. Since Gareth Southgate had worn waistcoats all through the last World Cup tournament, they were having a bit of a resurgence. Obviously Charlie thought he should tap into this. She did have to admit, he wore them rather well. Presumably straight off the train, his laptop bag was slung across his body and his hair was dishevelled. With a start, Holly realised her eyes had followed him all the way down the street, and any minute now he’d pass her shop, then turn off the High Street and into Wells Close, where he lived. The location of his house had become common knowledge since he’d moved in, so she didn’t feel like too much of a stalker by mentally plotting his route home.
As if she had no control over them, Holly found her feet stepping out of the front door of the shop and her eyes inspecting the terracotta pots of rosemary and thyme that adorned the doorway, testing the soil for dryness and rubbing the spiny leaves of the rosemary between her fingers, that suddenly itched for something to do. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, when she sensed Charlie was close enough to talk to, she raised her eyes from the plants and smiled.
‘Hi,’ Charlie said, pausing as he reached Holly, who straightened up and turned around just at the right moment. ‘How are
you?’
‘Not bad, thanks,’ Holly replied, carefully and neutrally, as if this was just any other exchange with any other passing local.
Charlie’s eyes were friendly, and he was smiling, which was definitely a good sign. He obviously didn’t hold grudges.
‘Have you had a good week?’ he said, glancing towards the open shop door as if checking out if there were any other customers still browsing and buying.
‘Oh, same old, same old,’ Holly smiled, flattered that he’d stopped and not just said hello and moved on. ‘I’ve sold a lot of Himalayan salt crystals this week – I think it’s the spring-cleaning vibe that everyone gets this time of year – people are determined to do a bit of polishing of their auras as well as their houses!’
‘And an aura is…?’ Charlie tried, and failed, not to look amused.
‘The light that surrounds you,’ Holly replied. ‘Skilled readers can work out a lot from the colour of your aura – your thoughts, your emotions and your preoccupations.’
‘Really?’ Charlie tried, and once more failed, to affect a more serious expression, and Holly knew he was taking what she said with a rather large pinch of salt, Himalayan or otherwise.
‘Oh yeah,’ she continued, remembering what Mariad O’Flaherty, who owned the shop a couple of doors down from hers and made a living from reading and cleansing auras, had told her the last time they’d had a conversation. ‘A dark one might indicate health issues, or things on your mind, an inability to let go of something, for instance. It’s a good idea to spring-clean it once in a while.’
‘I’m not sure I want to know how you spring-clean an aura!’ Charlie laughed. ‘Although I’m sure the inhabitants of the Palace of Westminster could provide all kinds of shapes and colours that a reader of such things would have a very interesting time with.’
Holly laughed as well. ‘I can’t see them, personally, but if you were ever interested in having yours read, I can refer you to our local practitioner, Mariad.’ She fingered the sprig of rosemary she’d picked from the pot by the shop door. ‘But enough of that. How are you settling in to life as an MP?’
‘Pretty well, thanks,’ Charlie replied, ‘although the weather’s making us all very sleepy. I dread to think what we’ve agreed to this week in the chamber, and all for lack of air conditioning!’
‘If Willowbury gets a new retail park slap in the middle of it, we know who to blame!’ Holly joked. Then she paused, looking at Charlie properly for the first time since he’d stopped. He still had a hand up to his neck, and now he was up close, Holly noticed his shoulders were tensed. ‘Are you OK? Is your neck sore?’
‘Just a little bit,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve not been sleeping too well, and the train was busy on the way back tonight, so three hours from London Paddington crammed against the door did nothing for my neck. I really should get a new desk chair for what passes for an office in London, too.’
‘You should take better care of your back and neck,’ Holly chided. ‘If you hang on a minute, I’ve got some fantastic rosemary and peppermint essential oil. Just get someone to massage it in. It’ll help you sleep, too. Although it sounds like you’re doing enough of that at work!’
‘Er, OK,’ Charlie said.
Holly noted with amusement Charlie’s sudden look of discomfiture that didn’t seem to have anything to do with his professed neck pain. Grinning, she opened the door to her shop. ‘Come in while I dig that oil out.’
As she pushed open the shop door, Holly realised that, much like a lot of her customers, ComIncense seemed to both fascinate and unnerve Charlie. She’d seen it a lot since she’d opened the shop; people were drawn to ComIncense because of its outlandish range of dried herbs, sights and scents, but also terrified that they would do, say or buy something that was wrong or inappropriate, or even break something. Most of the time, she tried to quell these worries with her own friendly presence (it was useful to be approachable to make sales, after all, despite what some of her fellow business owners believed), but for a moment, devilry won with Charlie as she saw him looking around.
‘Of course, the latest thing in relaxation is Shamanic Dolphin Choir music,’ she said as they wandered back through the shop. ‘I’ve sold a lot of CDs of that lately. People find the sixteen-part delphinidae harmonies do wonders for stress.’ She glanced back over her shoulder and was inwardly tickled to see Charlie’s face registering that familiar look of intrigue, discomfort and incomprehension that tended to happen when some of the more reserved clients looked too closely at her stock. ‘Perhaps I can lend you a couple of CDs to try out?’ She paused and pushed her advantage a little, staring into his eyes intently, as if selling Shamanic Dolphin Choir music was her complete raison d’être.
‘Um… yeah, thanks,’ Charlie stammered. ‘Sounds, er, great.’
At his look of stammering incomprehension, Holly burst out laughing, unable to keep up the charade any longer. ‘It would be,’ she smirked. ‘If I hadn’t totally just made it up.’
Charlie, obviously relieved, grinned back. ‘Thank Christ for that. Honestly, you wouldn’t believe the things I’ve had foisted on me to try out since I took this job. I think I can live without the singing dolphins.’
‘Fair enough,’ Holly kept smiling. Turning towards the rack of shelves where she kept her essential oils, she picked up the bottle of rosemary and peppermint infusion. ‘I can mix this with some base oil if you don’t want to faff about with warming up olive oil at home.’
‘That would be great, thanks,’ Charlie replied.
As Holly decanted some of her neutral-scented base oil into a fresh glass bottle and added several drops of the rosemary and peppermint, she was aware of Charlie watching her hands intently. She’d made up this mixture a hundred times, and with cool efficiency she mixed the oils, filled the bottle to the top and then finished it off with a cork stopper. Then, she grabbed her calligraphy pen, wrote the contents and the date on one of her pre-printed ComIncense labels and handed it over to Charlie.
‘Just massage a bit into your neck and shoulders tonight, or, even better, get someone to do it for you, and you will really feel the benefit.’ Was she imagining things, or was Charlie Thorpe actually starting to blush? ‘Did I say something wrong?’ she asked.
‘No, not at all,’ Charlie laughed nervously. ‘It’s just that I don’t really know anyone well enough in Willowbury yet to ask them to get their hands on me!’ Trying to make a joke of it, his laugh faltered.
There was a pause between them, while Charlie stared fixedly at the bottle Holly had just given him and Holly debated within herself.
Eventually, she smiled. ‘I’ll do it for you if you like.’
Charlie’s head snapped back up. ‘Oh, it’s all right, that wasn’t a hint. I’m sure I can see to myself. Oh, Christ…’ At the clearly unintentional innuendo, Charlie really did laugh.
Holly, tickled, joined in. ‘Honestly, I don’t mind. I’ll just close the shop and then we won’t get interrupted. It’s closing time anyway.’ She gestured to the room off the back of the shop. ‘That’s my treatment room. Don’t worry, it’s not as clinical as it sounds. Why don’t you go in and get yourself comfortable and I’ll be with you in a sec. Just slip the top half of your clothes and your shoes off and lie down on the massage bed.’
‘If you’re sure you don’t mind,’ Charlie replied. ‘I thought you needed to take bookings for these sorts of things.’
‘Usually, yes, but for you I’ll make an exception,’ Holly smiled. ‘I’d only be worrying about you if I let you go home with that sore neck.’ She did wonder why she was making a sudden exception and letting Charlie onto her massage table without an appointment, but, she figured, she’d dissect her own reasoning later. She was nothing if not spontaneous.
Charlie smiled. ‘OK, sounds great.’ He ambled towards the small room at the back of the shop while Holly locked the front door.
Turning off the shop floor lights, she went to the counter and scrolled through her
phone for some suitably relaxing music to pipe through to the treatment room. Selecting some middle-of-the-road Celtic relaxation music, not wanting to totally freak Charlie out with something more out there, she lit a lavender incense stick and slotted it into the holder just inset into the doorway of the treatment room.
Opening the door, she couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath as she saw Charlie stretched out on her massage table. Naked to the waist, his white shirt, waistcoat and tie slung over the chair in the corner of the room, his dark, slightly dishevelled hair contrasted with the pale skin of his back. Legs encased in his suit trousers stretched tantalisingly down the table, and his muscular arms were stretched out at his sides. He was turned away from the door, but as she came in, he turned his head and just for a moment, his deep, brown eyes looked sleepily in her direction before he remembered himself. He already looked far more relaxed than when he’d entered the shop, and she hadn’t laid a hand on him yet.
‘Are you comfortable?’ Holly asked, once she’d remembered to breathe again. She’d had a few clients since she’d started the massage part of her business a few weeks back, but none of them had affected her in this way, no matter how gorgeous they were. Harriet Meadows, certainly, hadn’t made her catch her breath when she’d given her a massage. She needed to get a grip. An uncomfortable reminder of how attracted she’d been to him all those years ago worried at her memory, until she resolutely pushed it to one side. That was then, this is now, she thought.
