Friday 13th October
A bang from the landing jolted Becca awake. She stirred slowly, dragging her mind from deep slumber. As she blinked away sleep, bright swirls of orange patterning on the wall came into semi-focus. The yellow plastic clock on the bedside table told her it was gone eight, so she rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom. She had errands to run, but she didn’t need to be at the playhouse until later, so she was relishing the opportunity of a slow start.
In truth, she needed a break from dealing with Tom-the-Tyrant. In addition to being grumpy and stubborn, he was a lot more assertive than he used to be. Arguing made her feel out of her depth. Not to mention clumsy. He made her doubt herself – not that she’d ever let him see that. Standing her ground was a challenge. But gone were the days when she’d follow him around like an obedient puppy, hanging on his every word. She was an adult now. She needed to rid herself of those silly romantic ideals of her teens and get over Tom Elliot once and for all.
Showered and dressed, she headed onto the landing, only to find Mad Maude blocking her path. The cat was sitting on the top stair, her fur expanded, eyeing Becca like she was her next victim.
Determined not to be outwitted, Becca viewed it as a golden opportunity to practise being assertive. If she couldn’t win a battle with a cat, what chance did she have with Tom-the-Tyrant? ‘Move, Maude.’
The cat ignored her.
‘I’ve just been giving myself a talking-to about standing up to bullies. So you’d better budge, because I’m going downstairs whether you like it or not.’
Maude’s response was to bare her teeth.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Taking a deep breath, she edged past, keeping her back to the wall.
Maude waited until the opportune moment before lashing out, leaving a bloody claw mark on Becca’s forearm.
‘Bloody cat!’ Becca ran downstairs, rubbing her arm.
Her mum was in the breakfast room. ‘Morning, sweetheart. Help yourself to cereal and fruit.’ And then she saw her arm. ‘What happened to you? Don’t tell me…Maude?’
‘The one and only.’ Her arm stung like crazy.
‘I’m sorry, love. There’s a packet of antiseptic wipes in the cupboard. Do you need plasters?’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s only a scratch.’ She tried not to feel disgruntled.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’ Her mum balanced the jug she was carrying on the table. ‘I could make scrambled eggs.’
‘I’ll sort myself out, Mum. You have enough to do.’ Becca found the wipes under a pile of napkins. The cupboard was stuffed full of junk, no longer neat and tidy. Another indication that all was not well in the Roberts household. ‘You’re still coming to the tea dance this afternoon, aren’t you?’
‘Of course, love.’ Her mum’s smile was half-hearted. ‘Looking forward to it.’
It didn’t take a mind-reader to work out Ruby Roberts wasn’t overly enamoured by the idea. But how was her mum going to meet new people if she didn’t try new things? And she might enjoy it once she got there.
Cleaning her arm with the wipes, Becca watched her mum tend to Mrs Busby and Dr Mortimer, serving them two helpings of Shredded Wheat. Her mum said if she’d known about their colossal appetites before they’d moved in she’d have doubled the rent.
‘Omelette, Mrs Busby?’
‘Two lightly boiled eggs today, please. White soldiers, not too thick.’ Mrs Busby was wearing a tweed pinafore dress. Very Miss Marple-esque.
Her mum’s jovial tone didn’t waver. ‘What about you, Dr Mortimer?’
‘Full English for me. Need to keep my strength up.’ He patted his bulging stomach.
Her mum returned to the kitchen, her rigid smile the only giveaway she was fraught.
Becca went over to the elderly couple. ‘Do you have any plans this afternoon?’
Mrs Busby peered over the top of her specs. ‘When you get to our age, you rarely make plans.’
Becca smiled. ‘Well, would you both like to come to a tea dance at the Starlight Playhouse?’
Dr Mortimer cupped his ear. ‘What did she say?’ His hearing aid was lying on the table next to his pill bottle.
Mrs Busby leant forwards. ‘Do we want to go to a tea dance this afternoon?’
He looked mystified. ‘What’s one of those?’
‘It’s a social event,’ Becca said, speaking loudly. ‘Ballroom dancing, with afternoon tea served. Nothing formal, just a chance to meet people and socialise. Would you like to come?’
His silver moustache twitched. ‘I had planned to watch a film.’ A cloud of confusion descended on him. ‘Although for the life of me, I can’t remember which one. I can’t seem to stay awake these days. I barely make it through Death in Paradise before nodding off.’ His laughter was tinged with sadness.
‘Maybe some exercise will do you good, William.’ Mrs Busby lowered her voice. ‘His memory isn’t so good. It makes it very hard to go anywhere.’
‘You wouldn’t have to stay long.’ Becca addressed them both, feeling uncomfortable excluding the doctor.
‘What do you think, William?’ Mrs Busby almost shouted. ‘Shall we?’
The doctor tipped his non-existent cap. ‘Only if you can keep up with the old fella?’
Mrs Busby scoffed. ‘Men lined up to dance with me back in the day.’
Becca wasn’t surprised. The old woman was still nimble on her feet well into her eighties. ‘Do you have a favourite dance, Mrs Busby?’
‘The foxtrot. My late husband and I used to whiz around the dance floor.’
Becca laughed. ‘I’ll bet you did. It would be lovely if you would both come this afternoon. Mum’s coming, and I’ll be there too.’
‘Not dressed like that, I hope?’ Mrs Busby’s opinion of Becca’s skinny jeans and off-the-shoulder top with a red bra strap showing wasn’t favourable.
‘I’m heading into Brighton to buy something more suitable,’ Becca said, getting used to the old woman’s disapproval. ‘So will you come?’
Mrs Busby nodded. ‘It’ll do us both good. Don’t you agree, William?’
‘All being well,’ Dr Mortimer added. ‘Nothing’s a certainty when you get to our age.’
She left them to their Shredded Wheat and went to check on her mum.
With the promise of three people guaranteed she was hoping the first tea dance wouldn’t be a complete washout. Fingers crossed a few more people would show up. They’d been advertising on social media, but there hadn’t been much time for word to spread. But if she could take some photos this afternoon, then she could create a few more posts and hopefully build momentum.
Back in the sanctuary of the kitchen, her mum was busy frying sausages and bacon, keeping one eye on the tomatoes sizzling on the grill. Smoke rose from the toaster. The coffee percolator made strange noises. Her mum mumbled incoherently, jabbing the sausages with a fork, as though they’d committed a crime. And then the smoke detector went off.
Her mum looked close to tears. ‘Could this morning get any worse?’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got this.’ Becca ran into the hallway to silence the excruciating squeal of the alarm, before returning to the kitchen to help finish breakfast.
By the time she’d rescued the sausages and bacon, boiled Mrs Busby’s eggs and served it all up, she had some appreciation of what her mum dealt with every day.
When she came back into the kitchen and found her mum slumped against the back door, she handed her a steaming mug of coffee. ‘Go and sit in the sunshine. I’ll clean up in here.’ She cut her mum off before she could protest. ‘Just let me help, okay?’
Her mum obeyed and went into her patio garden.
Becca cleared away the breakfast things, loaded the dishwasher, put on a pile of washing, and dusted and hoovered the entire guest house.
It was therefore a little later than planned before she headed into Brighton. She didn’t mind. She wouldn’t be much of a daughter if she didn’t help around the guest house. She made a mental note to help a bit more.
It was another glorious October day. Windy on the seafront, but trailing off as she headed deeper into the narrow lanes in search of an outfit for her first tea dance. Brighton had endless fascinating shops. She wandered around the North Laine area, buying a pretty mauve scarf for her mum and a silver belt for Jodi, which she hoped might go with the cute black dress her mum had got her cousin last Christmas. For herself she chose a midnight-blue Fifties dress from Tuff Tarts, combining it with a pale pink petticoat and matching neck scarf. Very retro. Perfect for the tea dance.
She ambled through Kensington Gardens, stopping to watch a guy in period dress riding a penny-farthing. As she watched him perform to the gathering crowd, she spotted numerous posters advertising Brighton’s Annual Arts Festival.
Intrigued, she went over and read the details.
There were several events taking place, including a new play at the Rialto and two music recitals, one at the Brighton Centre and a classical offering at the Pavilion. There was also an open-house arts exhibition. She remembered visiting one a few years back with her mum. It had seemed surreal walking into a stranger’s home and looking at their work, but the event had been hugely successful and generated an influx of visitors to the town.
An idea popped into her head.
She looked at the date. Twenty-fifth of November. That was six weeks away. Would that be enough time to pull something together? It was too good an opportunity to pass up on. They’d be fools not to take part.
With her mind already buzzing with ideas, she headed for the playhouse, pleased to note that her knee didn’t twinge once during the forty-minute walk. She was making progress. She might even venture onto the dance floor this afternoon.
Her enthusiasm took a minor dent when she raced up the steps leading to the playhouse and almost ran smack into Eddie.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said, reaching out to catch her. ‘We have a problem.’
And her morning had been going so well. ‘What kind of problem?’
‘Vivienne’s refusing to hand over the key to the ballroom. She says it’s not safe to use and won’t relent until Master Thomas instructs her otherwise.’
Becca sighed. Flaming woman. ‘And where is Master Thomas?’ she said, resisting the urge to call him a few other names.
‘Last I saw he was in the office.’
Well, she’d be having words with Master Thomas. ‘Thanks for the heads-up, Eddie.’
‘Good luck,’ he called after her as she ran off.
Tom-the-Tyrant was in the office frowning at his laptop. He seemed to do a lot of frowning. His blond hair was tousled and the sleeves of his lilac shirt were rolled up. Why he insisted on wearing a waistcoat, she didn’t know. Anyone would think he was working at the Old Bailey, not a rundown arts centre.
Jodi was also there, studiously working away. It wasn’t exactly a companionable silence. The atmosphere at the abattoir had been warmer.
She marched over and stood by the desk, her good mood morphing into annoyance. No way was he going to ignore her. ‘We can do this the hard way or the easy way,’ she said. ‘But either way, we’re using the ballroom this afternoon for the tea dance.’
He swivelled in his chair to look at her. ‘Good morning to you too.’
She held out her hand. ‘I’d like the key to the ballroom, please.’
His baby-blues dipped to her hand and then up to her face. ‘I don’t have it.’
‘But you can get it. So ask Vivienne to hand it over.’ She leant on the desk, feigning an assertiveness she didn’t feel. ‘This is the easy way, in case you hadn’t realised.’
He sighed. ‘Be reasonable.’
‘I’m being perfectly reasonable.’ She straightened. ‘If there was a valid reason why we couldn’t use the ballroom then I wouldn’t be pushing this. But the surveyor reported that structurally the room is safe. If the weather was bad and the roof was leaking, I’d be the first to agree we couldn’t use it, but it hasn’t rained for days. So can you please ask Vivienne to unlock the room.’
‘And what happens next week if it rains?’
‘Then we relocate to the dance studio. But for today I’d like to use the ballroom. That way I can take photos and promote the event, which will hopefully increase attendance and enable us to raise the money necessary to fix the roof. As you agreed.’
Jodi made an odd noise, like a stifled laugh.
If Tom noticed, he chose to ignore it. ‘Technically, I didn’t agree. You stormed off before we’d finished arguing.’
‘But you did agree to the idea of fundraising?’ She gave him a questioning look. ‘And we can’t increase income unless we bring in—’
‘—more users, yeah, I get it.’ He made her wait a good few seconds. ‘Fine.’
Fine? He was agreeing? ‘Right. Well, good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?’
Jodi mumbled, ‘Quit while you’re ahead.’
She had a point…but Becca wasn’t done.
She perched on the edge of the desk, causing him to raise an eyebrow. ‘Was there something else?’
‘I have an idea about how we can improve community engagement.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, joy.’
She ignored his sarcasm. ‘Are you aware there’s an arts festival taking place in Brighton at the end of next month?’
He shook his head. ‘No, should I?’
‘There are posters all over town. It looks like a massive event. I think we should take part.’ Her declaration wasn’t met with the immediate enthusiasm she’d hoped for.
He leant back in his chair. ‘Take part how exactly?’
She hopped off the desk, needing to express herself. ‘Think about it. The Starlight Playhouse would be the perfect backdrop for displaying local artists’ work. Not to mention a great way to promote the venue. We could host a few exhibitions and use the theatre to put on a dance showcase. It would give my pupils a goal to work towards, and show the council we’re committed to meeting the terms of the grant. What do you say?’
He gave her a loaded look. ‘How much will it cost?’
Killjoy. ‘Well…I don’t know. I’ve only just had the idea.’
He rested his arms on the desk. ‘So you want us to commit to putting on a huge event, incorporating all areas of the playhouse, with no idea of the costs involved?’
Smartarse. She turned to her cousin. ‘I’m sure Jodi will help me draw up a proposal.’
‘Well, until she does, the answer’s no. Anything else?’
Her face felt hot. ‘No.’
‘Good. I’ll ask Vivienne to unlock the ballroom.’ He got up and walked over to the door. ‘Coming?’
She wasn’t sure who’d won the battle.
When he tapped his watch, and said, ‘I haven’t got all day,’ she followed him out.
So much for not behaving like an obedient puppy.