Thursday 12th October
Tom was struggling to concentrate. The Starlight Playhouse was eerily quiet. Only a couple of visitors in the café kept the place from being completely deserted. There were no dance classes or art lessons taking place, nothing that required his attention, and yet his mind refused to stay focused on his pre-sentence report.
He leant back in the office chair, stretching out his back. Jodi was sitting at the other desk, her face tense as her eyes darted from the receipts laid out in front of her to the spreadsheet on the computer. Unlike him, she didn’t seem to be struggling to concentrate.
Which was a puzzle. The Jodi he’d known had been skittish and wired. The joker, who’d held court with her outrageous pranks, never knowing when to rein it in, or when to apply the brakes before plunging off a cliff at a hundred miles per hour.
Looking at her now you’d never guess she was the same person. Even her appearance was contained. Her mass of hair was tamed into submission. Her clothes were grey and understated. She was no longer the court jester. Now it was like she craved invisibility.
A rap on the door interrupted his thoughts.
Vivienne marched in looking annoyed.
Jodi didn’t notice. Or if she did, she chose to ignore her.
Vivienne coughed loudly. ‘I received your note,’ she said, screwing up the Post-it-Note and throwing it in the waste paper bin. ‘You wanted to see me?’
Jodi looked up. ‘I did, yes. I’m trying to make sense of the petty cash system.’
Vivienne frowned. ‘Why? I look after the petty cash.’
Jodi nodded. ‘I know, but it’s my job to reconcile the accounts. Carolyn said you run a float system?’
Vivienne lifted her chin. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
Jodi opened her notebook. ‘Where do you log the expenditure?’
Vivienne rolled her eyes. ‘Petty cash is for incidentals. Stamps, stationery, consumables and such.’
‘All items that should be recorded in the accounts.’
‘Madam never—’
‘…required receipts. Yes, so you keep saying.’ Jodi handed Vivienne a receipt book. ‘From now on I’d like all expenditure recorded in this book and receipts kept.’
Vivienne frowned. ‘I look after the petty cash system.’
‘And this is how I’d like you to manage the system going forwards.’
Vivienne looked at Tom, hoping for an ally. ‘Master Thomas? Will you please explain to Ms Simmons that the current system is perfectly adequate.’
He wasn’t sure it was. Keeping receipts didn’t sound like an unreasonable ask. The finances weren’t in great shape, which was why he’d recently engaged the services of an accountant. But maybe he needed to check with the professionals first before wading into the argument.
‘Carry on as you were, Vivienne. I’ll speak to the accountant and get back to you.’
Vivienne relaxed. ‘Thank you, Master Thomas.’ She gave Jodi a smug look and left the office.
He could feel Jodi’s stare boring into the side of his head. ‘I’m not about to piss off a long-standing member of staff just because you have a different way of doing things.’
‘So even though I’ve studied finance and I’m in regular contact with the accountant discussing these matters you still don’t trust my judgement?’
He looked at her. ‘You want me to trust you?’
The look on her face told him he’d struck a nerve.
Tough. His mother might believe she’d changed, but as far as he was concerned the jury was still out.
Talking of juries, he needed to get back to his pre-sentence report. He turned back to his laptop, but the door opened again.
Petrit appeared holding a piece of paper. ‘What is this?’
Jodi glanced up. ‘It’s a timesheet, Petrit.’
‘I already give you timesheet.’
‘There were errors on the previous one.’
‘What errors?’ His face darkened, contrasting with his chef whites.
Jodi flipped through her notepad. ‘Monday 2nd October you arrived for work at eight-forty-five not eight a.m. as stated on your timesheet. Tuesday 3rd October you arrived at eight-fifty. Thursday 5th October it was nine-ten. I have them all listed. Shall I go on?’
‘You spy on me?’
‘I’m simply pointing out that the times listed on your previous timesheet weren’t correct.’ Jodi turned back to her computer. ‘When I receive a completed timesheet with the correct start times I’ll ensure your wages are paid into your account.’
Tom wasn’t sure what Petrit would have done if he hadn’t been sitting there. As it was, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Jodi flinched.
Tom could see she was unnerved. He wasn’t her biggest fan, but she didn’t deserve to be treated like that.
He got up and left the office, closing the door behind him. He could do with a break.
Part of him wanted to go after Petrit and have words. The other part of him wanted to stay well out of it. He had enough on his plate. He didn’t need the hassle of dealing with disgruntled staff too. But maybe that’s what he’d signed up for by taking over the place.
Needing to clear his head, he went through the French doors into the sunshine. It was a gorgeous autumn day. The view down to the lake was stunning. The sun bounced off the reds and golds in the trees, creating a warm glow that reflected off the water.
He continued down the pathway and under the stone arch. The gardens looked lush and green, the foliage turning in colour, not yet ready to tumble. The house might be in desperate need of repair, but the gardens weren’t. The pathway snaked through the trees and down to the bridge. He stood on the brow and looked over the edge, hoping the sight of running water might ease the tightness in his chest.
Why had he thought returning to the playhouse would make his life less stressful? If anything, it was making things worse.
His first week had been riddled with problems. It had started when he’d dropped his mother off at the rehab centre and she’d told him it was time for him to make amends with his father. He hadn’t even known they were still in contact. It was a miracle he hadn’t crashed the car. Consequently, it hadn’t been the touching send-off he’d planned. He’d driven off angry, only regretting not saying a proper goodbye when he’d arrived back at the playhouse, grumpy and wheezing.
And then Izzy had called. A tearful phone call telling him she hadn’t moved out of the flat and her parents had frozen her allowance again – something they regularly did when her partying got out of hand. He didn’t like the idea of making her homeless, but completion on the sale was due next week. When he’d pointed this out, he’d been accused of being unreasonable, selfish and uncaring. How the situation was his fault, he wasn’t sure. So, she was still in the flat, ignoring his calls, and refusing to move out.
On top of this, his asthma was getting worse. Aggravated by trying to manage the damp playhouse and deal with two nemeses from his past. So much for reducing his stress levels. He was at breaking point.
Seeing Becca again had caused a reaction like a flame being ignited. His temper, usually in check, had exploded, hurtling him into full-blown rage. His behaviour hadn’t been exactly gentlemanly and he was ashamed. But all the grief and guilt he’d repressed over the years had surfaced like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him. Seeing her again physically hurt, like someone had cracked open his chest with a tyre iron. And it wasn’t like he could walk away. He was forced to interact with her on a daily basis and pretend he was okay. Well, he wasn’t okay.
He crossed the bridge and walked around the lake, searching for a sense of calm. He used to spend a lot of time out here as a kid. With no siblings, he was used to his own company, entertaining himself, except when his cousins had visited. He’d enjoyed riding his bike around the grounds, camping out under the stars, or staying in the treehouse.
His dad had built the treehouse during a brief period when his mother’s drinking had been under control. Calling it a treehouse was an understatement. It was a two-storey construction with a wood burner and electric generator, the precursor to glamping. They’d enjoyed one summer filled with barbecues and family parties before his mother had fallen off the wagon again.
After that the treehouse remained unused… Well, until his teens, when he’d discovered an entirely different use for it. But his breathing wasn’t up to thinking about nights spent rolling around the lumpy airbed with Becca Roberts.
Most of his teenage years had revolved around caring for his mother. And he’d been fine with that, despite its hardship. He’d had a few mates, but it wasn’t until he’d met Becca and Jodi that life suddenly became a lot more interesting. They’d balanced out the pain of seeing his mother pissed or hungover all the time, bringing laughter and fun into his life. He remembered their first summer together, hanging out on the beach, at the open-air cinema, ice-skating at the Cube and going to raves at Black Rock. They’d introduced him to a side of Brighton he hadn’t known existed.
He stopped to admire Eddie’s handiwork. The shrubs were trimmed back, and the trees cut to equal height. He crossed the expanse of grass towards the house, looking up at the ornate structure with its impressive architecture and multitude of windows. It was a surreal feeling, knowing this was his home. He loved the place, but it wasn’t without its challenges. He supposed it was like being in a long-term marriage, you had to take the good with the bad, for better and for worse.
Sunlight glinted off the art studio windows. The doors were open. Eddie was up a ladder. Becca appeared, shielding her eyes from the sun. A third person joined her, a man carrying a clipboard. The man was sketching something, showing Becca his drawings.
Tom headed over. ‘What’s going on?’ he said, his tone terser than intended.
Becca’s smile was tight. ‘This is Tom Elliot, the man I was telling you about. His mother owns the playhouse.’ She was wearing chunky ankle boots over lime-green leggings and a short black dress. Her blue-blonde hair was tucked behind her ears, revealing asymmetric earrings the same colour as her tights.
The guy held out his hand. ‘Marcus Forbes, Forbes and Daughter Roofing. Good to meet you.’
Tom shook the guy’s hand, before turning to Becca. ‘Can I have a word?’
‘Certainly.’ She smiled at the roofing guy. ‘Excuse us, Marcus. I won’t be a moment.’ She sashayed down the steps, mesmerising poor Marcus, who had no idea he’d unwittingly stepped into a minefield.
She waited at the bottom, her arms folded, her stance switching to fight mode.
Tom followed. ‘Care to explain what’s going on?’
‘I’m getting a quote to fix the roof.’
Just as he suspected. ‘We discussed this and agreed a specialist roofer was needed.’
She leant against the wall. ‘No, we argued and you tried to overrule me.’
‘Either way, you should’ve consulted me before arranging a site visit.’
She inspected her orange nails. ‘You would’ve only said no. I wanted to find out for myself what the options were.’
He rubbed his chest. ‘There are no options. We need a specialist roofer.’
She shook her head, making her earrings swing. ‘Forbes and Daughter are a reputable firm who specialise in period buildings. They might not be Walker Gibbs, but they come highly recommended.’
‘By whom?’
She avoided eye contact. ‘Toptrades.’
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Are you serious?’
She pushed away from the wall. ‘Look, before you blow a gasket, just listen to reason. Despite what you think, I did take on board what you said, and Marcus agrees that using a company like Walker Gibbs to replace the damaged roof would be sensible.’
He lifted his hands to the sky. ‘Thank you.’
‘However, Marcus is quoting for a temporary fix, not replacing the whole roof. A decent repair should last a few years, which will allow enough time for fundraising. More significantly, it means we can use the art studio and the ballroom for functions, and try to appease the council. Something that currently isn’t possible.’
‘How much?’
‘Approximately two grand.’
He stepped away. ‘For a temporary fix?’
Her hands went to her hips. ‘Look, it’s a great space, but it’s not getting used. If we can fix the leak, then we’ll get more people hiring it.’
‘We can’t afford two grand.’
‘I know, but Marcus is offering a repayment schedule.’
He was distracted by a floral scent emanating from her. ‘It’s too risky. The answer’s no.’
Her gaze narrowed. ‘Because we can’t afford it, or because you don’t think a temporary fix is a good idea?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, it matters.’ She advanced on him. ‘Jodi and I are working our arses off trying to improve bookings and advertise this place, and if you’re going to block every idea we have just to be bloody-minded, then things are never going to improve, are they?’
He tried not to look at her glossy lips. ‘I’m not being bloody-minded.’
She looked incredulous. ‘Are you for real?’
‘Fine. I’m not against the temporary fix idea…providing the company checks out, and not just on…whatever that site is called—’
‘Toptrades.’
‘Right.’ He backed away. She was a distraction he could do without. ‘Even then we still can’t afford it.’
She paced, dragging his eyes from her lips down to her shapely legs. ‘If Jodi and I can raise the money needed, will you agree to get the work done?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Not good enough.’ In one swift movement, she was in his face, her blue eyes pinning him with a glare. ‘Yes, or no?’
For crying out loud. ‘Yes.’ Anything to get her off his case. And besides, the likelihood of her being able to fundraise in eight weeks was highly unlikely.
‘Good, because we have our first tea dance arranged for tomorrow afternoon.’ She hopped up the steps and sashayed away.
‘Not in the ballroom?’ he called after her.
She didn’t answer and kept walking, swinging her hips in hypnotic fashion.
He tried again. ‘The ballroom is out of use, Becca. The roof leaks.’
‘Only when it rains!’ She spun around, dazzling him with a smile. ‘The forecast says no rain, so we’re fine.’ And with that, she ran over to Marcus.
He stood there, wheezing, unable to chase her down.
Eddie appeared next to him. ‘She’s a breath of fresh air, isn’t she?’
Tom turned to look at him. That wasn’t the description he’d use.