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?’