Saturday 4th November
Becca suspected her mum was hiding. Ever since the disaster with her hair, she’d taken to disappearing whenever Eddie appeared. Last night Becca had found her in the cleaning cupboard crouched behind the vacuum, waiting until Eddie had gone to bed before emerging. It would be funny, if it wasn’t putting a spanner in Becca’s efforts to matchmake. Both she and Jodi had agreed that her mum and Eddie would make a great couple. But that wasn’t going to happen if her mum kept vanishing like Harry-bleeding-Potter.
Unable to find her mum inside the guest house, Becca went into the garden. The hanging baskets had wilted, but the shrubs were still going strong, protected from the coastal winds by the surrounding wall. In the height of summer, it was glorious out here. Not so much on a blustery November day.
A flash of polka dots revealed her mum’s hiding place under the archway.
Becca headed over, careful to avoid Maude who was creeping along the wall primed to pounce. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Like you don’t know.’ Her mum pulled a face, sounding like a petulant teenager. ‘Has Eddie left yet?’
‘He left ages ago. And your hair isn’t that bad.’
Her mum pushed back the hood of her spotted rain mac. ‘I look like the Wicked Witch of the East!’
She was right. The dead-black colour had faded. It was now moss-green. ‘You’re right, it’s a disaster.’
Her mum looked disgruntled. ‘What happened to lying to protect my feelings?’
‘I’m not that good an actress.’ She kissed her mum’s cold cheek. ‘I have a ballet class this afternoon so I can’t do anything today, but on Monday we’re going to book an appointment at the hairdresser’s. No more home dye kits, okay?’
‘I can’t afford salon prices.’
‘I’m paying for your hair, no arguments,’ Becca said, trying to sound stern. ‘You’ve spent the entire week avoiding everybody and you didn’t come to the tea dance yesterday despite promising me you would, so action is needed.’
Her mum looked sullen. ‘The ballet costumes won’t make themselves.’
‘I said I’d help with those.’ Becca shivered, her teal jumper-dress and purple tights no match for the biting wind. ‘I don’t expect you to make them on your own.’
‘It’s easier if I do them myself. The sewing room isn’t big enough for two, and three weeks isn’t long to get them made.’
Like Becca didn’t know. The showcase was rapidly approaching and there was loads still to be done. And no money. She was hugely grateful her mum had offered to make the ballet costumes, but she didn’t want her to miss out on having a social life in the process.
Talking of which… ‘Jodi and I have been discussing the future of the guest house.’
Her mum sighed. ‘Not this again. I know you both mean well, but I’m fine. Bad hair, aside. It’s just mid-life blues. Nothing for you girls to worry about.’
‘But we do worry. We want to see you happy. Not running yourself into the ground.’
‘Honestly, love—’
‘Just hear me out. If you don’t like our idea, we won’t mention it again.’
Her mum’s green hair fluttered in the breeze. ‘Fine. What’s your idea?’
Becca took a breath, preparing for her sales pitch. ‘How would you feel about converting the guest house into four rental apartments? Two upstairs and two down. Jodi and I spoke to a local estate agent, who said the rental income from four apartments would be higher than you’re currently getting renting out individual rooms, which is seasonal and not guaranteed income. Plus, you’ll save heaps of dosh not having to cater for the guests. Think about it. No more running around after people, no more feeling tied to the business. You’d be able to travel and take holidays. And the best bit is you already have tenants for two of the apartments. Jodi and I would share one, and Eddie’s keen to rent the other.’
Her mum’s lifted eyebrow was lost in a sea of mouldy green. ‘You spoke to Eddie about this?’
‘Not in any detail. But we wanted to sound out the idea to see if it had legs. So what do you think?’ Becca desperately wanted her mum to be happy, and this might be a way of achieving that.
Her mum sighed. ‘I appreciate you girls trying to help, and it sounds great, but it’s not possible. Not while Mrs Busby and Dr Mortimer are still here.’
Becca had anticipated this. ‘Mrs Busby and Dr M have been getting a good deal for a long time. They’re crafty enough to look after themselves. And it’s not like they’ll be out on the streets tomorrow. You could always offer them one of the apartments. They could sign up for meals-on-wheels, or something.’
Her mum frowned. ‘What about Daddy’s dream? You hated the idea of selling up when I suggested it before.’
‘I know, but this way we get to keep his dream alive.’ She took her mum’s hand. ‘More importantly, we get to focus on Mummy’s dream. Managing all this…’ She gestured to the potting sheds next to the summerhouse. ‘It’s not what you want, is it? Be honest.’
Her mum shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘It’s time to do what’s right for you.’ She tucked her mum’s green hair behind her ears, hoping it might soften the effect. It didn’t. ‘Will you think about it?’
Her mum nodded.
‘Good. Now, I’ve got to go. I’m checking out a potential artist for the showcase, and I need to catch up with Tom later.’ She ran over to the kitchen door.
‘You’re spending a lot of time with Tom Elliot,’ her mum called after her. ‘You be careful.’
The mention of Tom’s name caused an involuntary flinch. Becca turned back. ‘It’s a business meeting, nothing more.’
‘Sure about that?’ Her mum tried to look serious – an impossibility with green hair. ‘You’re not falling for him again, are you? Remember what happened last time?’
How could she forget? ‘That was twelve years ago. He was a boy then. He’s a man now. He’s…changed. Not that I’m interested, it’s just, I don’t think it would be fair not to acknowledge that.’
Her mum came over. ‘Has he changed? He accused Jodi of stealing.’
‘That was before. He knows Jodi didn’t take the money. He’s trying his best to protect her.’ It felt odd defending Tom. She’d despised him for so long.
Her mum sighed. ‘Fair enough. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again. Be on your guard, okay?’
‘I will.’ Dropping her guard around Tom wasn’t a mistake she was likely to make. ‘Now come inside Elphaba…before a tornado strikes and a house lands on your head.’
Laughing, her mum followed her inside. ‘Daft thing.’
Grabbing her worn leather biker jacket, Becca left the guest house, her mum’s words ringing in her ears. She didn’t need anyone reminding her of how Tom had treated her. She had the scars to prove it. But when people didn’t give Jodi a second chance she was quick to complain. The same rules had to apply to Tom. And it wasn’t like she was falling for him again. She just didn’t hate him anymore.
The thought stayed with her as she headed towards the marina near Kemptown.
Becca stopped to check the map on her phone, trying to locate the artist’s warehouse. She wanted to pop in and introduce herself in the hope he might be interested exhibiting at the showcase. But as she wandered through the streets checking directions, she was distracted by the sight of a guy standing outside the Black Dove pub.
He was leaning against the wall, wearing faded jeans, Timberland boots and a Harrington jacket. Coupled with his wavy blond hair and startling blue eyes, he looked like a male model. Only, he wasn’t. Not unless he’d changed profession in the last twenty-four hours.
What was Tom doing outside a pub? He never used to drink. He’d said watching his mother had put him off. Still, it was no concern of hers. He could do what he liked.
She was about to walk off, when something stopped her. It was the expression on his face. He looked…lonely. Like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. As painful as it had been to be ‘outed’ by his father last weekend, she imagined it couldn’t have been fun for him either.
She hadn’t seen him much this week. And when she had, he’d been either refereeing a disagreement between Jodi and Vivienne, or shut away in the office staring at his laptop. And now here he was, looking dejected and lost.
Her brain told her to leave him be and focus on dealing with her own issues.
Her heart had other ideas.
Sighing, she headed over. Visiting the abstract artist could wait.
‘No suit?’ she said. ‘Have you ruined all your formalwear attempting DIY?’
He jolted at the sound of her voice. And then he grinned. ‘This is me trying to relax.’
She avoided looking at his dimples. ‘How’s that working out for you?’
He shrugged. ‘No idea.’
She zipped up her jacket. ‘How did the meeting go with George yesterday? Did he sign up for the showcase?’
Tom scrolled through his phone. ‘I have photos.’
She leant closer so she could see the screen. He smelt faintly of beer. He showed her three pictures of ice sculptures, only they weren’t made of ice. The first one was a large irregular-shaped chandelier. The second was a set of twisted icicles, and the final one was…
‘It’s the soul,’ he said, as if sensing her confusion.
She looked at him. ‘The soul?’
‘He was a bit peculiar.’
She frowned. ‘Define peculiar.’
‘Big holes in his earlobes, piercings in his neck and tattoos covering his face.’ He glanced at her purple and turquoise boots. ‘You’d have got on fine with him.’
Becca’s hands went to her hips. ‘I’d forgotten what a heathen you are.’
He flicked one of her bunches. ‘Miss Blue Hair.’
She stepped away, one eyebrow raised. He was teasing her? ‘How much have you had to drink?’
He held up three fingers. ‘Two beers.’
She couldn’t help laughing. ‘How many pieces will George be exhibiting at the showcase? What size space does he need?’
Tom rubbed the back of his neck. ‘When he started using words like concept I lost the will to live. I said you’d ring him Monday to finalise details.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. It’s probably safer that way. Do you need help getting back to the playhouse?’
‘I’m not that drunk.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘But I need to eat. I’m hungry.’ He hesitated. ‘Fancy joining me? Not a date or anything. Just…eating.’
The sensible option would be to go home. A tipsy Tom was strangely endearing. But maybe time spent away from the pressures of the playhouse would help improve their fragile working relationship. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Chips on the pier?’
She laughed. ‘How very touristy of you.’
He shrugged. ‘The fresh air helps my breathing.’
She couldn’t argue with that. ‘The pier, it is.’
They headed for the marina and crossed the road to where the Palace Pier dominated the skyline. The flags on the turrets flapped manically as the wind blew across the huge illuminated construction. The iron legs beneath held firm against the battering of the lively sea. Seagulls circled above searching for discarded food.
They walked past the dodgems, the carousel, and the bright yellow helter-skelter, watching families enjoying a day out, unfazed by a lack of sunshine. The salty air mingled with the smell of hot doughnuts and sickly sweet candyfloss.
As they queued for food, she glanced at the stalls selling Brighton rock, Slush Puppies and ice cream. The acrid scent of vinegar hovered in the air, until the wind changed direction and it disappeared.
Tom opened his wallet. ‘Marcus Forbes will be arriving at the playhouse on Wednesday to fix the roof.’
He spoke so fast she wondered if she’d heard him correctly. ‘Marcus Forbes? But we have no money. We can’t afford to pay him.’
‘I wanted you to know in case I’m not back from court when he shows up.’ Tom moved forward when the queue shifted.
She caught up with him. ‘How will we pay him?’
‘Let me worry about that.’ He reached the front of the queue and put in his order, refusing her attempts to pay for her own chips. He handed her a napkin. ‘Tomato sauce?’
‘No, thanks. And stop changing the subject. You can’t drop a bombshell like that and not expect me to ask questions. Does this have something to do with the council grant?’
He nodded. ‘I received a letter this morning. They’ve refused my request for an extension. Unless they receive a detailed report by the end of the month, the grant will have to be repaid.’
‘Oh, crap. And we don’t have the money to repay the grant, do we?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope.’
At some point since reluctantly accepting the dance teacher job, Becca had become emotionally attached to the playhouse. She’d gone from associating the place with sad memories, to realising how fantastic it was. The possibilities for a thriving community arts centre were endless. And now it was under threat. ‘So how come we’re getting the roof fixed?’
‘I realised you were right. Unless we take action, the playhouse will fall into receivership. We can’t risk putting on a huge event and hoping it doesn’t rain. If the showcase isn’t a success, it’s game over.’
She couldn’t agree more. ‘But that doesn’t answer my question about how we’re going to pay for the roof fix? Has Marcus agreed to an instalment schedule?’
‘Something like that.’ He collected their food and headed for a quiet shelter on the west side of the pier opposite Ivor’s Tarot Reading cart. ‘Have you had any more thoughts about dancing at the showcase?’
She sat next to him. ‘So you get to ask questions, but I can’t?’
He tucked into his chips. ‘It would be a shame if you didn’t dance.’
She gave up trying to talk about the roof. She’d try again when he was sober.
Instead, she considered his question. Ever since he’d put the notion in her head she’d been toying with the idea. She missed dancing. Teaching was more rewarding than she’d imagined, but it didn’t replace the rush of performing. The longer she left it, the harder it would be to return. Her knee was feeling stronger and she’d been religiously doing her exercises every day, so maybe it was time to test herself.
‘I’m considering it,’ she said, not wanting to fully commit until she knew it was possible and she’d conquered the self-doubts filling her head.
He smiled. ‘I’m glad.’ There was a softness in his expression she hadn’t seen for twelve years. The impact created a tightness in her chest…and she wasn’t the one with asthma.
She popped a chip in her mouth, a welcome distraction from thinking about the man next to her.
‘I saw Jodi’s poster designs this week,’ he said, licking ketchup from his fingers. ‘Are you starting classes for people with disabilities?’
She dragged her gaze away from his mouth. ‘It’s an idea Jodi and I came up with to engage with hard-to-reach groups within the community. One of the ballet mums has multiple sclerosis. I did some research, and apparently, dance can alleviate all manner of physical symptoms. It’s proven to help with mobility and mental health issues.’
She’d always known dance improved posture and breathing, but it was when Rosie had told her that since being diagnosed she felt invisible that Becca decided it would be worth exploring. She liked the idea of helping people take back control of their bodies and discover a new way of expressing themselves.
‘Plus, it’s another box ticked in terms of meeting the council grant requirements.’
Tom smiled. ‘Sounds like a great idea. Let me know how I can support you.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
Maybe she’d suggest meetings away from the playhouse more often. Out in the open, against a backdrop of the swirling sea and bracing wind, he was more pliable than normal. Less uptight…but then he was half-cut.
‘We’re also thinking about dementia-friendly screenings once the cinema is in better shape.’ She’d got the idea from Dr Mortimer, who struggled to watch a film in one sitting these days. ‘We figured if we created a relaxed environment and scheduled in regular breaks throughout the films it might prove popular with the older community.’ She was surprised to find him watching her. ‘What?’
‘Mum would love that.’ He looked doe-eyed and boyish. His blond curls danced around his face, softening the hard contours. He was slumped next to her, his hair unruly, his eyes glistening in the dull shelter lighting. This was a very different Tom to the man in a grey suit.
She swallowed awkwardly. ‘Yes, well…hopefully the council will too.’
He was still watching her, the heat of his body keeping her warm.
She should move. She ate another chip instead. ‘Do you want to play a game?’
He grinned. Not just any grin. Every feature on his perfect face joined together in an assault to produce the most wicked, mischievous smirk she’d ever seen.
She tried for a look of admonishment. ‘Not that kind of game.’
His expression eased into laughter. ‘I always used to beat you at the slots.’
‘But I always won at Dancing Stage.’
‘It was hardly a level playing field.’
They’d spent many a Saturday afternoon at the amusement arcades battling over the games. It was nice to be reminded of something fun. ‘Do you remember playing guess the backstory?’
He laughed. ‘I do, yeah.’
She turned to look at the queue for Ivor’s Tarot Reading, momentarily bereft because she wasn’t gazing at Tom’s face anymore. A woman in her thirties was fiddling with her mobile looking unsettled. Careful not to be overheard, she leant closer so she could whisper in Tom’s ear. ‘Boyfriend issues.’
He snorted. ‘Too easy.’
‘You didn’t let me finish… She met him on Tinder. He responded to her search for a romantic man who likes Chihuahuas and enjoys the earlier works of Phil Collins.’
His laughter caused a few heads to turn. ‘Did she find him, the man of her dreams?’
‘No. A bald man with a limp and an unhealthy interest in Leyton Orient contacted her.’ She overrode his laughter. ‘He might not have been ideal, but he was kind and attentive and turned out to be hopelessly romantic, buying her flowers, posh dinners and lavishing her with gifts—’
‘Too good to be true.’
She sighed. ‘Thank you for pre-empting my phenomenal climax.’
He turned sharply. ‘You have phenomenal climaxes?’
It was her turn to laugh.
‘Shush,’ he said. ‘Climax quietly, will you?’
She tried to ignore the flare of heat surging through her belly. ‘Are you going to let me finish?’
‘Of course, a gentleman always allows a lady to finish first.’
She tried to reason the shudder rolling through her was a result of her laughter and nothing else. But it was too late to stop her mind tumbling back twelve years.
In the first few months of them dating the subject of sex had never arisen. Yet it had still been an issue. Little looks between them, stopping kissing because things had got a bit heated. An intensity to their cuddling, which left them both short of breath.
It finally happened the weekend of one of Fat Boy Slim’s infamous beach parties. That afternoon spent in the confines of a shabby two-man tent, fumbling around and making a right hash of trying to lose their virginity, had altered their relationship in a way she could never have envisaged.
It hadn’t been great the first time; in fact, it had been embarrassing and painful. She remembered crying afterwards, afraid he’d dump her because she’d been rubbish. But Tom had been so lovely. He’d stroked her hair and kissed her repeatedly, telling her how much he loved her. When she’d finally calmed down, he’d held her close, drawing patterns on her back with his finger and making her guess what he was writing. He’d wanted to know where she was most ticklish and made her give a score out of ten for every place he tried, until he found the spot that made her squeal so much she had to push him away.
They’d ended up laughing and messing about, rolling about the tent making the airbed wobble, until the inevitable happened. The second time was much less awkward; she hadn’t felt quite so detached. She’d even managed to open her eyes at one point, mesmerised by the way Tom’s face contorted as he collapsed on top of her.
Once the shyness and reserve was out of the way there was no holding back. His bedroom, outdoors at Preston Park, in the treehouse in the grounds of the playhouse. Whenever the opportunity arose, they did it. There was no pressure, no planning and no guilt. Things would start out as they always had, Tom would kiss her, touch her face, or do something as innocent as brushing the hair from her eyes and that would be it. They’d stop, look at each other, and then almost knock each other out as they came together.
She’d assumed – wrongly as it turned out – that sex would always be that special.
It never had been again.
The sound of Tom’s voice brought her back to the present. He’d binned their empty chip bags and returned to the shelter. ‘You were saying?’
‘Oh, right…well, unfortunately the bloke turned out to be a conman. He talked her into borrowing money for him and disappeared, leaving her with a huge debt and nothing but Leyton Orient goalkeeping gloves.’
He laughed and settled in next to her.
‘She’s sent him several texts, but he’s not replied, which is why she keeps staring at her phone.’
Tom glanced over at the woman. ‘Maybe he’ll have a change of heart, realise he loves her and return her money.’
‘Or maybe she’ll see sense and shop his sorry arse to the cops.’ She didn’t bother shushing him when he laughed.
‘You’re good at this game,’ he said, leaning closer, his thigh resting against hers. ‘Tell me another one. Do the man next to her.’ She found herself drawn to Tom’s partially opened mouth. His eyes glistened, but they were tired. The effects of alcohol were waning, clearly.
‘I’d rather do the guy sitting next to me.’
Tom groaned and closed his eyes. ‘Now that’s depressing.’
‘You want to hear this, or not?’
He opened one eye. ‘Go ahead, how bad could it be?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Well, the guy next to me has it all—’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘This is my story, remember?’ When he mimed zipping his mouth shut, she continued. ‘Thank you. As I was saying, the guy next to me has it all. He’s…handsome, intelligent and hardworking. He’s a criminal barrister, who helps his mother maintain the family’s ancestral manor—’
‘Sounds like an idiot.’
‘But he does have his failings.’
‘Naturally.’
‘For a start he has a habit of interrupting.’ Her glare made him smile. ‘But his main problem is that his stress levels are through the roof and that has a detrimental impact on his breathing—’ She placed a finger over his lips when he made to interrupt. Their eyes locked and for a moment, everything around them seemed to still. The noise of the arcades faded away. The blustery wind died down. The lights above dimmed. The feel of Tom’s warm breath tickling her skin caused a hitch in her breathing. She removed her finger.
His face was so close, their noses were almost touching. ‘And how would you suggest he lowers his stress levels?’
She swallowed. ‘Well, for a start, he could wear jeans more often.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Jeans?’
She nodded. ‘He’s much more relaxed when he wears jeans.’
Not to mention sexy.
And playful.
Oh, hell.