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Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. Epilogue
  58. Author’s Note
  59. Acknowledgments
  60. More from Fay Keenan
  61. About the Author
  62. About Boldwood Books

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 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.