Charlie looked back at the helicopter lowering itself to the ground. There was nobody else on that hillside. Only Fearne, and Oliver.
As she stared back at the phone—she couldn’t answer, she couldn’t—another message appeared at the top of the screen from Berty. The full message didn’t show, just the first line.
Also, I can’t help wondering if you’re still looking for—
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day eighteen sober
You know what we didn’t think about when we decided Charlie and I could cohabit? The laundry.
There’s just…lingerie. Everywhere. I’ve only ever lived with women who I’veseenin the lingerie before it’s hanging from the washing line in the garden or draped over the radiator in the bathroom. It’s totally different when you see the lingeriefirst. Your brain starts trying to fill in the gaps.
What a ridiculous email this is. It’s one a.m., relatedly. I’m going to sleep.
Night,
Charlie Jones
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day eighteen sober (cont.)
The less said about last night’s email the better. Who knew I could be that embarrassing when stone-cold sober?
I want to write about exploring Ormer. That’s a much more worthwhile topic. I got up early on Saturday and Sunday, heading out to explore sandy coves and caves dripping with stalactites, woodland where the leaves are already beginning to turn golden. Yesterday I grabbed Red as she brought a herd of tourists up to the farm shop as part of her new tour route, and grilled her for a location to visit today, while the shop’s closed.
She started coming up with ideas, but Galoshes shushed her—she shouldn’t be telling me too much when I’m not a “local,” apparently. After a brief pause for me to assure a tourist that hewasallowed to look at the cabbages (Galoshes has a real thing about people touching the stock), I asked what one needs to do to become a local. After all, Red has only been here for a couple of months and is still staying up at Rosie and Marly’s B&B.
“You just have to stick around,” Toby piped up from the till. “That’s literally it.”
Red flinched. She has developed a strange aversion to Toby lately. Charlie and I have discussed it, and apparently Charlie’s broached the topic with Red in case there’s something worrying there, but Red insists that she has no problem with Toby. She just…never looks directly at him anymore. Toby, on the other hand, spends an enormous amount of his time gazing at Red. It’s on our list of staff issues to resolve—we’ve started amending the shift pattern because if you leave the two of them alone together the shop becomes deathly silent and very uncomfortable.
Red was saved from interacting with Toby by the arrival of Doc Laurry with a tray of cacao and chestnut macarons. This time I wasn’t about to miss out—I was reaching for one before he even started speaking. Galoshes, meanwhile, was examining the tray with horror.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Tree bark and something or other, I’ll bet.”
“Charlie asked me to bring in some samples?” Doc said, with an unconcerned smile.
“Did she now!” Galoshes said.
The biscuit was ridiculously delicious. The sort of thing you’d get in an expensive restaurant with a teaspoonful of salted-something ice cream on top. (Charlie’s right, we have to sell these.)
“Galoshes has never been a fan of my concoctions. I believe she considers them”—Doc consulted Galoshes—“uppity?”
“Look, no offense, Doc, but we’re a farm shop,” Galoshes said. “We’re here to sell good food to local people. Not pretentious biscuits to nobby tourists.”
A passing tourist with a basket full of pickles looked a little startled at this. I pulled Galoshes aside, away from the main shop floor.
“Please, Galoshes, trust us on this one. The changes Charlie and I have made so far, even just the layout, the way stock is labeled, the decor—we’re making considerably more money for the shop this week than last. Red bringing tourists up here on the tour has helped a lot, too. We’reup. Don’t you want to be up?”
“Charlie is so obsessed with the tourists,” Galoshes snapped. “She keeps changing everything around without telling me, and I can never find anything anymore for real customers.”
I could relate to this—Charlie and I aren’t exactly communicating about plans, and I often feel on the back foot when I walk into the shop in the morning. It isn’t helping.
