Wednesday 11th October
Becca tried to hold her hand steady, which was hard when she was laughing. Even more so, as she didn’t want her pupils to know she was laughing. ‘Okay, cut!’ She lowered her phone, wiping a tear from her eye.
‘Are you laughing?’ Miriam leant against the ballet barre, trying to catch her breath. The barre held firm, a testament to Eddie’s workmanship.
Becca realised they could see her. Damned mirrors. ‘Sorry, but I’m laughing with you not at you, I promise.’ She hoped that was a suitably diplomatic response. ‘It’s looking really good, honestly.’
Wanda pulled a face. ‘Honey, you’re a terrible liar.’
‘I’m not lying. We just need to give the routine more energy.’
‘More energy? I’m dying here.’ Miriam was bright red in the face, the same colour as her tights.
Everyone had been asked to wear red for the evening’s class. Their outfits ranged from Wanda’s blood-red wrap-dress to Cassie’s muted burgundy cardigan. Nick had on a red sports hoodie, and Mi-Sun wore a beautiful traditional Korean Hanbok made of pure silk. The idea of matching outfits had been to promote ‘The Playhouse Tappers’ in a showreel. With such contrasting shades and styles, her master plan had fallen a little short, but they certainly looked colourful.
‘Shall we try again?’ Becca looked at her tappers, none of whom looked particularly enthusiastic about being filmed.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Nick had his arm around Cassie. ‘Will people be impressed by us lot prancing about?’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Becca smiled encouragingly. ‘They’re going to be blown away by you guys.’
‘But we keep making mistakes,’ Cassie said.
‘It doesn’t matter, I can edit the clips later. I’m not planning on showing the whole routine, just a few seconds of dancing with captions to advertise the classes. It’s purely for promotion. I won’t use anything that doesn’t show you at your best. I promise.’
‘And where will this video be shown?’ Miriam’s breathing had returned to normal.
‘Various social media sites. We’re trying to build a following and encourage more people to join the classes.’
‘Who’s we?’ Wanda looked suspicious.
‘My cousin Jodi’s helping me. She’s great with marketing ideas.’ Becca went over to her amp. ‘Shall we try another take?’
The group nodded reluctantly and took up their starting positions.
‘Now, remember. The camera flattens everything so you need to give it ten times more effort to make it look good on film. Don’t worry if it’s not perfect. The key is to smile and look like you’re having fun.’
She was about to press play, when the doors to the dance studio opened and in walked Tom Elliot. He stopped abruptly when he realised a class was in progress.
All eyes turned to look at him. Wanda let out a low whistle.
Becca couldn’t blame her. He made quite an impact standing there dressed in dark suit trousers, no jacket, just a waistcoat over a baby-blue shirt that magnified the colour of his eyes. Eyes that had once transfixed her.
Wanda beckoned him in. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, honey. Come in and join the class.’
Becca didn’t believe for a second he was there to tap-dance. More likely he was checking up on her. She’d managed to avoid him since her altercation with him last week when she’d dropped paint on his car and soaked him with the hosepipe, but she knew her luck was running out.
Co-managing the playhouse was a daunting enough prospect without the added pressure of dealing with Tom Elliot. The man who’d betrayed her. Who’d succumbed to pressure from his dad and ended their relationship when she’d needed him the most. She’d switched from being hopelessly in love, happy and adored – to feeling broken-hearted and utterly miserable. But she was older now and a lot wiser. And no longer under his spell.
She matched his frown. ‘Did you want something? Only we’re in the middle of class.’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing that can’t wait. Apologies for interrupting.’
‘You can interrupt me anytime, honey.’ Wanda’s big laugh filled the room.
‘Wanda, really.’ Miriam shoved her friend. ‘The man’s half your age.’
Wanda grinned. ‘That’s how I like ’em.’
Tom didn’t leave. Why, Becca had no idea. He was a distraction she could do without.
Turning back to the class, she pressed play on her phone. One Republic’s Counting Stars burst from the speakers. ‘Wait for my count…and five, six, seven, eight…step, step, shimmy, shimmy…’
Reflected in the mirrors she could see Tom watching the routine, his frown unrelenting. Seeing him again had caused a host of memories to surface. Her brain had been flooded with images, good and bad. Dragging her from ecstasy to torment, filling her with both resentment and deep-rooted longing. It’d taken her years to get over him. Maybe if she’d met someone else who’d made her feel the way he had, the wound would have healed. But no one had ever come close. And that didn’t make seeing him again any easier.
After a minute of watching her pupils step on each other’s feet and crash into each other, he left the dance studio. Good. She didn’t need him interfering.
‘That’s great, everyone…heel tap…kick ball change…to the left, Mi-Sun…to the left!’ Only Cassie seemed to be coping with the step combination. Becca zoomed in on her feet, hoping for some decent footage. ‘Brilliant! Now, big finish…and cut!’
Five exhausted dancers slumped onto their seats.
Miriam fanned her face. ‘That’s me done.’
Becca went over. ‘That was so much better. I’ve got enough material to make a showreel. Thanks, everyone. See you all next week.’
A good deal of puffing and grunting followed as they packed up and left. She’d have to work on their stamina if they were going to manage a routine that lasted longer than thirty seconds, but she was pleased with their progress.
She changed out of her tap shoes and laced up her rainbow boots, tying her dance hoodie around her middle. After flicking off the lights, she locked the doors behind her.
Despite being eight p.m. on a Wednesday evening, she was unsurprised to find Jodi still working – or to discover her locked in battle with the front-of-house manager.
‘I’m not being unreasonable,’ her cousin said, looking flustered. ‘Leaving personal information on view in reception breaches data protection regulations.’
‘Madam never mentioned any regulations to me.’ Vivienne was being her usual helpful self. ‘You probably made them up.’
‘I assure you, I haven’t made anything up. You’re welcome to read through the regulations yourself. I’ll email you a link to the government website.’
Vivienne looked appalled. ‘I don’t use email.’
‘Then I’ll print off a copy. But from now on, please don’t leave staff contact details lying around in reception. Okay?’
The Woman-in-Black didn’t look happy. She picked up her bag. ‘Goodnight, Ms Simmons. I’ll leave you to lock up. No doubt you’ll do a better job than me.’
Jodi sighed. ‘Not at all, Vivienne. I’m very grateful for your help—’
But the woman had marched out the door, her black coat flapping behind her like bat wings.
Jodi looked dejected. She slumped against the reception desk, her mass of hair twisted into a tight bun. Her gorgeous hair looked better loose, but she was trying to appear more businesslike.
Deciding her cousin needed cheering up, Becca dropped her bag and started singing ‘Ding-dong the witch is dead’ in a high-pitched voice. She danced around the foyer, hopping and twirling, wiggling her bottom.
Jodi’s face broke into a smile. ‘Nutter.’
Becca pirouetted up to her and tapped her on the nose, making her laugh as she sang, ‘Sing it high…sing it low,’ switching to a deep voice.
Jodi’s laughter only stopped when Tom appeared from the office.
The sight of Tom’s confused expression undermined Becca’s composure and she bumped into the leaflet rack nearly toppling it over.
There was a time when her daft antics would have made him laugh. Not anymore.
Oh, well, it was no skin off her nose. Hooking her arm through Jodi’s, she led her cousin away from reception. ‘Some people have no sense of humour,’ she shouted over her shoulder, loud enough for him to hear.
Jodi looked forlorn. ‘He’s been watching me like a hawk all day. Questioning everything I do, like he’s waiting for me to trip up. It’s exhausting.’
Becca wanted to thump him. How dare he treat her cousin like that! ‘Don’t let him get to you. You’re doing a great job. Carolyn wouldn’t have left you in charge otherwise.’
‘Both of us, remember?’
How could she forget? ‘And now it’s three. We’re like the Three Musketeers.’
Jodi looked at her. ‘More like The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.’
‘Charming; which one am I? On second thoughts, don’t answer that.’ Becca squeezed her cousin’s arm. ‘Come on, it’s not that terrible.’
Jodi raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’re you trying to convince, me or you?’
‘Both. Now come and have a drink. I need to revive my courage levels before my battle with Tom-the-Tyrant.’
Jodi managed a smile. ‘Nice name.’
‘I thought so.’
Leon was serving behind the bar. He smiled when he saw Jodi. The smile of a besotted man. Becca thought Jodi might need a gentle nudge in the right direction. Reassurance that she was worthy of a decent guy’s attention.
Becca climbed onto a stool. ‘So, apart from dealing with the tyrant, is everything else okay?’
Jodi sat next to her. ‘Not really. We received a letter today from the council about the community engagement grant. They weren’t impressed following their visit here a couple of weeks ago. They don’t feel enough is being done to meet the terms of the award.’
Becca frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘It’s not. They’re asking for a report evidencing progress. They plan to revisit the playhouse in a few weeks’ time to reassess. If they’re not satisfied enough steps have been taken to rectify the situation the grant will have to be repaid.’
‘Oh, crap. Has Tom seen the letter?’
Jodi nodded. ‘He’s written back asking for more time, explaining the owner’s receiving medical treatment and is indisposed.’
‘Do you think that’ll be enough to stall them?’
Jodi shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s not great as plans go. It feels like we’re letting Carolyn down by not taking action in her absence.’
Becca nodded. ‘I agree. We can’t sit back and do nothing. Any ideas?’
‘Not yet, but I’m working on it.’
‘Good. I’ll put my thinking cap on too.’
Leon finished serving and came over. ‘What can I get you both?’
‘Orange juice for me.’ Becca turned to her cousin. ‘Jodi?’
‘Glass of water, please. And a packet of crisps. I’m starving.’
‘Coming right up.’ Leon ambled off.
Becca helped herself to a few bar nuts. ‘That reminds me, did you know Mum served readymade pizza for dinner last night? When I got home I thought Mrs Busby was going to pass out, she was so shocked. She said she’d never had pizza before.’
Jodi stifled a yawn. ‘I wasn’t there, I had a shift at the restaurant last night.’
‘Oh, right. Do you think that’s odd? I mean, Mum usually cooks a homemade meal.’
Leon placed their drinks down.
‘Thanks, Leon.’ Jodi gave him a shy nod. ‘Maybe Aunty Ruby was tired, or didn’t feel like cooking.’
Becca sipped her orange juice. ‘Maybe. But I was thinking, if I can get Tom-the-Tyrant to agree to my tea dance idea, then I might persuade Mum to come along. Dancing is a proven way of lifting a person’s mood. It might cheer her up a bit. What do you think?’
‘It’s worth a shot. When are you going to speak to Tom?’
‘I suppose there’s no time like the present.’
Leon appeared with a cheese toastie. ‘You need more than crisps,’ he said, handing Jodi the plate. ‘Cappuccino on its way.’
Becca smiled. She was glad someone was looking out for her cousin. ‘Enjoy your toastie,’ she said, nudging Jodi in the ribs. ‘And don’t work too late. You do too many hours.’
Jodi took a bite of toastie. Her expression indicated it was heavenly.
Becca looked at Leon. ‘Tell her, will you?’
He handed Jodi her cappuccino. ‘You know what they say, all work and no play.’
Becca left her cousin in Leon’s capable hands, and went in search of the tyrant.
He was in the office working on his computer. He didn’t look up when she entered.
Taking a deep breath, she sat in the wingback chair, aiming for an air of nonchalance.
He carried on typing. ‘Ever heard of knocking?’
‘Why would I knock? This is my office too, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’
She swivelled in the chair, making it squeak.
It had the desired effect. He stopped typing. ‘Did you want something? I’m busy.’
‘That’s okay, I’m happy to wait.’ She leant back in the chair, making it squeak louder.
He turned to face her. ‘What?’
She gave him her best fake smile. ‘I have an idea for increasing income.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Which is…?’
‘Weekly tea dances.’
If she was expecting rapturous applause it didn’t happen. Why, she wasn’t sure. It was a great idea. It had come to her when she’d stopped to watch a brass quartet playing at the bandstand on the beach at the weekend. An elderly couple had got up to dance and she’d been struck by how charming it was.
Tom remained unimpressed. ‘What’s it got to do with me? Dance classes are your department.’
‘I want to hold them in the grand ballroom.’
He turned back to his laptop. ‘The ballroom’s out of action. The roof needs repairing.’ Negativity radiated off him like an electrical current.
She began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing her legs. ‘I know, so we repair it.’
‘We can’t afford to.’
‘Maybe if we bodge it temporarily we could make it good enough to use.’ Her foot caught on a cable hanging down from the desk, making the desk lamp wobble. She reached out to catch it just as Tom-the-Tyrant turned to look at her.
His eyes darted from the lamp to her. ‘Bodge it?’
She pushed the lamp back onto the desk, annoyed that he made her flustered.
‘This is a stately home we’re talking about, not a garden shed. The repairs need to be carried out by a specialist roofer.’
‘We can’t afford a specialist roofer.’
‘I’m aware of that, which is why we can’t get the work done.’
‘But we wouldn’t need a specialist roofer if we bodge…err…temporarily fix it.’
He looked agitated. ‘The Starlight Playhouse is over four hundred years old. Do you have any idea the damage a rogue builder could cause? Cost aside, this family have been patronising Walker Gibbs for fifty years. My mother would see it as disrespectful to terminate a long-standing relationship, simply because you’ve obtained a cheaper quote.’ He patted his pockets, searching for something. ‘It’s a matter of loyalty.’
‘It’s a matter of affordability.’ She adjusted the lopsided lampshade, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
‘Either way, we don’t have the money.’
The lampshade dropped again. ‘But unless we invest we’ll never be able to generate more income.’
He sighed. ‘So use the dance studio for these…whatever they are.’
‘Tea dances.’ She lifted the lampshade again. ‘And it’s not big enough, or the right space. Ballroom dancing needs a suitable backdrop, and the right atmosphere. We could get a pianist in. It would be a real social event, something to bring people into the playhouse. It might even count towards the grant requirements.’
He shot her a look.
‘Jodi told me about the letter.’ She sat back in the chair. ‘So what do you say?’
He opened his briefcase. ‘No.’
‘Think of the publicity.’
‘No.’
She looked at the man before her. Where was the playful, romantic, sweet seventeen-year-old boy who used to play love songs down the phone to her? He’d been replaced by a grumpy, arrogant, combative man. Tom Elliot might be gorgeous on the outside, but underneath he was a changed person, and not for the better. ‘Jodi thinks it’s a good idea, so that’s two votes against one.’
‘And yet my answer is still no.’ He removed an inhaler from his briefcase.
‘That’s not democratic.’
‘Tough.’ He administered his inhaler.
She stood up, ignoring the fact that he was holding his breath while the drugs kicked in…or maybe relishing the fact that he couldn’t answer back for a few seconds.
She leant on the desk, faking a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘You’re not the only one running the place, you know. And if you think being a bastard towards Jodi and trying to bully us into walking away will work, then think again. We made a promise to Carolyn to keep things going and that’s exactly what we intend to do. And that includes coming up with a plan to ensure we don’t have to repay the council grant.’
It was a bold statement. One that might have had more impact if the lamp hadn’t chosen that moment to topple over. Unwilling to allow her clumsiness to ruin a dramatic exit, she marched over to the door – her anger tapered slightly by the realisation that he still suffered with asthma.
‘Becca…?’
She turned back. ‘What?’
‘The answer’s still no.’
And to think, for a second she’d almost started to feel sorry for him.