Saturday 23rd September
‘You cannot exclude my child,’ the woman said, squaring up to Becca. ‘You have no right. I’m paying you to teach my kid to dance, not inflict this rubbish on them. It’s not even dancing.’ She gestured to where the kids were balancing beanbags on their feet, trying to flick them up and catch them standing on one foot.
‘You’re right. It’s not, but—’
‘If I wanted my kid to mess around playing games, I’d do it at home. I wouldn’t pay some jumped-up freak to do it for me.’
Freak? That was a new one.
The woman jabbed a finger. ‘Get on with teaching them to dance and don’t tell my kid he can’t join in, you hear me?’
Becca was conflicted. Part of her wanted to give in, especially as the other parents were nodding in agreement, supporting the woman’s grievance. But she knew she had to make a stand. If she didn’t, things would never improve. She couldn’t spend every Saturday morning shouting until she was hoarse. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t agree to that.’
The woman looked incredulous. ‘Excuse me?’ She turned to the other parents. ‘We’re paying for you to teach our kids ballet, right? Nothing else.’
A few mothers nodded in agreement.
‘So get teaching, or we’re gone.’ The woman folded her arms, ultimatum delivered.
Becca could feel the burn of numerous eyes on her. She was a pathetic excuse for a teacher. But she was trying her best to remedy that. She was at a crossroads where she needed to make a decision. Give in, or stand her ground.
There was no real dilemma. She’d rather risk losing half the kids than give in to their bullying parents. Having said that, she’d be a fool if she didn’t try to win them over. Without any pupils, she wouldn’t have a class. Or income. And Carolyn was relying on her to help improve the fortunes of the playhouse. She had to try and turn the situation around.
She gestured to the kids, who were oblivious to the heated discussion taking place by the piano. ‘If these kids are serious about making it as a dancer, then they need to learn the art of listening.’ And discipline, she added silently, something that was also currently lacking. ‘Until we reach a point where I’m convinced every child understands that if they don’t listen they can’t join in with the class, then I can’t move forward with more complex activities.’
Becca had spent the last two weeks trawling through numerous videos and articles, and quizzing her mum about teaching. Her mum’s message had been clear. There was absolutely no point in teaching her students about adagio, fouette, jeté or pirouettes, if they didn’t listen. If you didn’t listen, you couldn’t learn. So, much to the horror of the parents, she’d begun today’s class by announcing that from now on there would be rules, and if those rules were broken, there would be consequences.
‘Mrs Morris never had a problem with our kids,’ the woman said, urged on by the other mothers. ‘Maybe you’re not cut out to be a teacher.’
This was entirely possible. But it was Becca’s class, and she needed to develop her own way of teaching. And that didn’t include spending the entire hour shouting and being ignored. If the parents didn’t like it, tough.
‘I’m sorry you don’t agree with my approach.’ Becca feigned a confidence she didn’t feel, trying to hide her shaking hands. ‘It goes without saying that I’d love for your children to remain in my class.’ She looked at the parents, some of whom avoided eye contact. ‘But I honestly feel this is the best approach. However, the decision is entirely yours. If you’d prefer to try a different class elsewhere, then that’s your prerogative. I’ll refund you this term’s money.’
They hadn’t expected that. There was a murmur as the mothers huddled together, discussing what to do next.
Becca had no idea how Carolyn would feel about refunding the fees. She was taking a big risk, but it was the only way she could wrestle control of the situation.
She spotted Ben and Phoebe’s mother standing to one side. When Rosie smiled and discreetly gave her a thumbs-up, her panic levels lowered. The woman would probably never realise how much that single show of support meant.
The ringleader approached with the verdict. ‘I’m taking my kids to someone who knows what they’re doing. They’re good kids. I don’t appreciate you treating them like they’re not. I’ll expect a cheque in the post. I want a full refund, you hear me?’ The woman yelled at her three kids, and then dragged them from the room.
Becca waited to see who else would follow. Two other mothers scuttled out, heads down, their kids in tow. That left five kids from the original class and two new starters. It had been three, but one mother left before the class started, unimpressed by the state of the dance studio. Oh, well, you couldn’t win them all.
As the door banged shut behind them, Rosie came over. ‘That must have been hard. But you did the right thing.’
Becca sighed. ‘I hope you’re right.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Take it from me – children need boundaries. And they need to learn the consequences of pushing those boundaries. I’m more than happy for you to discipline my kids. Anything that makes my life at home easier.’ There was a sadness to her expression, which lifted as quickly as it had arrived. ‘Just out of interest, why are you getting them to juggle beanbags?’
‘It helps improve balance,’ Becca said, watching the kids flipping up the beanbags trying to stay upright. ‘If you watch Lionel Messi playing football, or Roger Federer on the tennis court, they could literally be falling over and yet somehow still make the shot. It’s what sets them apart. And it’s the same with dance. Balance is the most fundamental attribute a dancer needs.’
‘I never realised. Maybe I should take it up myself.’ Rosie gestured to her walking stick, which until that moment Becca hadn’t noticed. ‘I always wanted to dance, but never learnt as a child. It’s too late now, I’m forever falling over.’
Becca didn’t want to pry, but her reaction must have given her away.
‘Multiple sclerosis.’
Becca flinched. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Rosie didn’t look more than early thirties. She was slim, with a lovely open smile and wavy brown hair that fell around her shoulders. Life could be so unfair.
‘It flares up every now and then. Doesn’t make dealing with two energetic kids any easier. Luckily, I have Dan to help me, my other half. He’s a saint.’
And Becca had thought dealing with a ruptured Achilles and severed patellar tendon was hard? She vowed never to moan about her injuries again.
Rosie nodded to the kids. ‘Can I give you a word of advice?’
‘Please do. You might’ve noticed I’m new to this.’
‘Kids need discipline, you’re right. They also need a lot of encouragement. Good behaviour should always be praised.’
She touched Rosie’s hand. ‘Thank you, I’ll remember that.’ Becca turned to the class. ‘Excellent work, kids. You’ve done really well today.’ She was rewarded with a few beaming smiles.
Rosie smiled. ‘See? You’ll have them eating out of your hands in no time.’
Becca could only hope.
Despite the first forty-five minutes of the class being torture, the last section flew by. The kids seemed to enjoy the balance games and there was definitely less crying than the previous two weeks. It was too soon to believe progress was being made, but she’d be lying if she didn’t feel relieved that the more ‘vocal’ mothers had quit the class.
A few of the kids said goodbye as they left the dance studio. Rosie’s kids even gave her a wave. Maybe she was starting to win them over? She hoped so. For Carolyn’s sake, if nothing else.
Becca decided she needed to address the state of the dance studio with Carolyn. All the advertising in the world wouldn’t improve numbers if the décor put people off.
She pulled on a pair of joggers over her dance tights and zipped up her hoodie, ensuring she kept her muscles warm. Her knee felt pretty good today, but her Achilles was tight. The scar was itching, something that happened on occasion.
She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Freak, one of the women had said. It seemed a little harsh. She’d toned down her clothing for the classes, opting for traditional ballet attire instead of her modern dance gear, removing all jewellery and keeping her nails neutral.
That just left her hair, which although still blonde with blue ends, was neatly twisted into a knot at the base of her neck. For her, it was positively conservative. What else could she do? It wasn’t like her tattoo or bellybutton ring were on show.
She flicked off the light and locked the door.
It shouldn’t matter what she looked like. She should be judged on her performance, not her appearance. Not that she was glowing in that department either. But at least she could do something about that. Changing how she looked was not an option. It was who she was.
She passed through reception and knocked on the office door.
No answer.
She tried the handle in case Jodi was wearing her headphones. Her cousin wasn’t expected to work on a Saturday, but she’d offered to do a few hours ahead of her shift at the restaurant later. Carolyn had a habit of talking to herself, so Jodi had started wearing headphones to block out the noise.
The door was unlocked, but Jodi wasn’t at her desk. Becca was about to leave, when she realised Carolyn was asleep on the sofa. She was curled up, one arm flung off the side, her head at a strange angle.
Becca went over and removed Carolyn’s shoes. She lifted her head and placed a cushion underneath, trying to make her more comfortable. The sofa was too small for her tall frame, but there was nothing Becca could do about that. The woman smelt of booze. The office keys were clutched in her hand.
She slid the keys from Carolyn’s hand, intending to give them to Jodi when she saw her.
When she stood up, she noticed the wall safe was open. She couldn’t imagine that had been intentional. Carolyn had probably got distracted halfway through a task, as so often happened.
She went over and shut the door. The office looked much tidier now. Jodi had spent her first week filing, shredding and finding homes for various things. She’d always known her cousin would impress. She’d just needed someone to take a chance on her. And now Carolyn had.
Shutting the office door, she headed down the corridor towards the café. A couple of creative types wearing tie-dye overalls were enjoying a brew; other than that, the place was deserted. The Starlight Playhouse boasted an art studio, a small cinema, a theatre and a grand ballroom, and yet all the rooms lay empty, unused, failing to generate any income. It was a travesty. And a waste too. This place could be a thriving arts centre if it was in better shape.
As Carolyn wasn’t in a fit state to discuss the repairs, she decided to ask Eddie Moriantez instead. She’d seen him fixing a door hinge and sanding down a splintered bench seat this week.
Before she could track down the handy groundsman, she heard heated voices. As she rounded the bend, she saw her cousin locked in battle with the front-of-house manager.
‘You’re being unreasonable,’ Jodi said. ‘Why won’t you give it to me?’
‘Madam may trust you, but I don’t.’ The woman lifted her chin, looking down on Jodi like she was something attached to the bottom of her heeled court.
Becca wanted to thump her.
‘Until I receive express authority from madam, I will not comply with your request.’
‘What is it you think I’m going to do?’ Jodi looked perplexed. ‘Open an offshore account? I’m just asking for the password to QuickBooks.’
‘If madam wanted you to have access, she’d have given you the password.’
‘Carolyn isn’t feeling well,’ Jodi replied. ‘She’s lying down. I don’t want to disturb her.’
Becca caught sight of Eddie coming through the French doors. He was carrying a toolbox.
As much as she wanted to stay and defend her cousin, she’d learnt over the years that Jodi didn’t appreciate people wading in to help her. Confident her cousin was more than a match for Vivienne, she left Jodi to continue her battle and went after the groundsman.
She caught up with him as he reached the ballroom. She hadn’t been inside since returning to Brighton – the door had always been locked – but the sight that greeted her was no less impressive than it had been twelve years earlier when Tom had shown her around.
She squashed the image of Tom that popped into her head. Nothing good would come from reminiscing.
The grand ballroom was huge with wooden parquet flooring and a high ceiling painted in the style of the renaissance artists. Angels were depicted in full flight, armed with crossbows, flying between the clouds, the moon and the stars.
The walls were painted white, decorated with intricate carvings adorned with gold leaf. At the far end, a grand fireplace sat beneath a gigantic mirror. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling, ornate and fragile. A grand piano sat in the corner, hidden underneath a dustsheet.
It was breathtaking. A stunning space, waiting to be filled with royalty and nobility. It was only as she walked further into the room that its beauty became overshadowed by disrepair. Paint peeled away from the artwork on the ceiling. Cracked plaster hung from the walls. Several panes of glass were cracked. The chairs, once plush and ornamental, looked tired and worn.
Eddie was up a ladder inspecting the water-stained ceiling.
Careful not to make him jump, she approached. ‘Eddie? Do you have a moment?’
He glanced down. ‘Hey there, Becca. How was ballet class today? It sounded lively from outside.’
She’d warmed to the groundsman the instant she’d met him. He had kind eyes and was always cheerful. Next to the sombre front-of-house manager and grumpy chef, he was a breath of fresh air. ‘Less disastrous than last week. It’s a work in progress.’
‘You’ll get there. Nothing worth achieving is ever easy.’
‘That’s just the sort of thing my mum would say.’
He laughed. ‘Sounds like a woman worth listening to.’ He aimed his torch at the ceiling. The shake of his head indicated all was not well. ‘Did you want me for something?’
‘It’s about the dance studio. What are the chances of you fixing it up a bit?’
He sighed. ‘It’s on the list, but so are lots of other jobs.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s not enough budget to get all the work done.’
‘But income will only increase if we get more people using the facilities. The state of the dance studio is putting people off. Is there really no way you can bump it up the pecking order?’
He shone his light on the ceiling. ‘See that? There’s a leak in the roof, which is affecting this room and the art studio next door. If we don’t get it seen to there’s a risk the whole lot will fall down.’
‘Oh.’
He climbed down the ladder and fetched a drill from his toolbox. ‘In terms of priority, this takes precedence. Sorry.’
‘Fair enough. I thought it was worth asking.’
‘What are you doing in here?’ The sound of Vivienne’s voice made Becca jump. She turned to see the woman marching towards her, her heels clicking on the flooring like rapid gunfire. Against the white walls, her black flapper dress seemed even more sinister than normal.
‘I was talking to Eddie.’ Although why Becca had to justify herself, she wasn’t sure.
‘This room is off limits. You’re not authorised to be in here. Kindly leave.’
Eddie climbed up the ladder. ‘Steady on, Vivienne. She was only asking about repairing the dance studio.’
Vivienne ignored him and glared at Becca. ‘The running and upkeep of this establishment is no concern of yours. You’re engaged to deliver two dance classes per week. Nothing more. Kindly know your place.’
Know your place? Well, that told her.
Becca glanced up at Eddie, who shrugged as if to say, ‘What can you do?’
Not a lot, it would appear. ‘Apologies, Vivienne. I was trying to help.’
‘Madam doesn’t need your interference…’ And then she froze, her eyes widening as though she’d seen an alien. ‘What are you doing with the office keys?’
Becca glanced down. She’d almost forgotten about them.
Before she could answer, Vivienne snatched them from her. ‘I’ll take those.’ There was a definite accusation in her tone. Although quite what Becca had done, she didn’t know. ‘That will be all, Miss Roberts.’ The woman gestured to the door.
Becca was being dismissed like a naughty chambermaid caught stealing from the minibar.
No wonder Jodi referred to her as the Woman-in-Black.
Vivienne King was positively evil.