Saturday 9th September
Becca was suffering with her second hangover in the space of forty-eight hours. She’d met up with a couple of old school friends last night and had ended up at Patterns. Why had she drunk so much? Her head hurt, her eyes hurt, even her hair hurt. But most of all her knee hurt. Too many gin cocktails coupled with dancing in high heels until the early hours had aggravated her injury…again. If she carried on like this she might never make a full recovery. But it was hard to remain focused on her rehabilitation when she knew her dancing career was over.
Still, she didn’t want to walk with a permanent limp, so she needed to dial down the abuse and let her knee heal, which was why she was sitting in the kitchen with an ice pack balancing on her knee. Two paracetamols and two ibuprofens had dulled the pounding in her head, but she still felt battered.
It wasn’t the best preparation for an interview. But then, she wasn’t even sure she wanted the job. Teaching was certainly an avenue lots of dancers chose after retiring, but they were usually the ones who’d had successful careers and had taken teacher training courses. She hadn’t done any of that. She’d never considered herself the teaching type. On the other hand, she needed a job. And Jodi was desperate for an ally, so Becca had contacted Carolyn Elliot-Wentworth and applied for the position.
She drank another glass of water and forced down a slice of toast, but she knew fresh air would be the only real antidote. A walk up to Preston Park would do her good, plus it would help strengthen her thigh muscles, something the consultant said was necessary to protect her knee from future injury.
Yesterday’s clouds had blown away leaving a lovely September day. It was warm enough that she didn’t need a coat, so she headed away from the marina up towards Victoria Fountain, reacquainting herself with her home town. Once a place filled with cheap housing, hippies and squatters struggling to make a living, Brighton had been transformed into a thriving town full of artists and celebrities.
She upped her pace, fighting the urge to limp. It took a while for the stiffness in her knee to ease, but gradually the pain subsided enough that she could almost ignore it.
Late-night partying wasn’t a new phenomenon. As a dancer, most of her gigs had been in the evening and it would be gone eleven by the time she left the venue. With the buzz of adrenaline flowing, sleep was impossible. So she’d often joined the other dancers and headed off to a club, staggering home in the early hours before collapsing into bed. There wouldn’t even be the luxury of a lie-in the next morning. She’d be up early for class, putting her body through its paces, running through the necessary drills, jumps and turns, always trying to perfect her technique.
She’d learnt early on that you had to love dancing to stick to it. It gave you nothing back in return, no painting to display on a wall, no poem to be printed or sold, nothing other than that single fleeting moment when you felt alive. Dancers endured constant pain, rejection and injury. Not to mention years of intense training, poor salaries and cruelly short careers. And yet she’d never met a dancer who didn’t think they had the best job in the world. That rush of exhilaration, moving your body to express yourself, creating a moment of magic that transported people out of their everyday lives.
And now it was over. She stopped and took a breath, hit by another wave of grief.
Okay, so she might never dance professionally again, but that didn’t mean she had to give up completely, did it? People danced in wheelchairs, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t about to let a couple of dodgy tendons stop her.
It wasn’t long before she reached Preston Park, the site of many a music festival in days gone by, and the place where she’d spent so much of her youth.
She walked through the ornate iron gates, glancing up to see whether the pillars still had lion heads perched on top. They did. She made her way up the long driveway to where the once grand stately home was situated. From the outside, the Starlight Playhouse hadn’t changed. The red brickwork still looked impressive, the array of tall sash windows dominated the view, and the green countryside framing the estate was stunning.
As she neared the building, her mind tumbled back to the summer of 2005 when Jodi had dragged her along to the Friday night youth club. It was a strange venue to host a horde of boisterous teenagers who had little regard for an impressive structure built nearly four hundred years earlier. It was only now that the idea of using a listed building to house a games room and a disco seemed bizarre.
The memories evoked a mixture of emotions. Her teenage years had been mostly happy, filled with love, dance classes, and an idyllic lifestyle by the seaside. She’d never been interested in boys or dating, unlike her cousin, but she could still remember every moment of that first night at the youth club. Most of the kids were hanging around outside, smoking and drinking. Not Becca. She’d wanted to dance, imagining herself starring in The Pussycat Dolls video for ‘Don’t Cha’ rather than hooking up with boys…until she’d met Tom Elliot.
Tom was two years older, drove a scooter and was the most gorgeous creature she’d ever seen. He went to a private boys’ school and was posh, clever, and above all, mysterious. When he’d initially approached her and asked her out, she’d panicked and turned him down, intimidated by his confidence and ease. He’d shrugged and said, ‘That’s a shame,’ and walked off. She’d spent a miserable week regretting saying no and wishing she could turn back time. The following Friday night, he’d approached her again and repeated his offer. This time, she’d said yes.
Of course, he was also the boy who broke her heart nine months later. But she didn’t want to think about that, especially as shortly after her dad had died.
Shaking away the sad memories, she climbed the steps and approached the impressive front door. There was a sign detailing opening hours for the café. She doubted it was still being used as a youth club, but she was curious to see inside.
The open-plan foyer looked the same. The parquet flooring was badly scratched. The dark wooden panelling covering the walls had faded from the sunlight burning through the windows, and the huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling lacked a few bulbs.
Ahead was the main reception, a large desk housing a computer rather than the ancient till that used to sit on top a decade earlier. There was no one manning the desk and no one in sight. Her footsteps echoed up to the high ceiling as she walked across the foyer.
She glanced through the archway leading to where the grand staircase was roped off with a ‘No Entry’ sign. Her mind travelled back to a time when she’d been allowed upstairs to the family’s living quarters. The upstairs had been frozen in time, a representation of centuries past with its ornate furniture, tapestries and family heirlooms. But the downstairs had been dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century – even if it had never quite finished its transition.
She checked her watch. Ten minutes before her interview. She went in search of the café, eager to rest her knee.
Painful memories aside, the Starlight Playhouse was a fantastic place to explore. She remembered Tom telling her the manor house had been used as a collection centre during the First World War. People from the surrounding areas would drop off woollen garments to be sent to France. During the Second World War, the Royal Navy Hospital had evacuated from Southsea and set up medical facilities at the manor. At the end of the war, residency had reverted to the Wentworth family.
She reached the café and became aware of laughter. A woman was seated at one of the wooden tables, seemingly talking to herself, amused by something. Becca looked around, but there was no one else about. The décor hadn’t changed. The red velvet chairs were past their best and the cream walls still had scuff marks depicting the outline of non-existent paintings. But the view from the glass doors leading to the landscaped gardens was as impressive as she’d remembered.
She startled when the swing doors leading to the kitchen burst open. A surly man appeared wearing chef whites. He went over to the woman seated at the table and pointed to a cup. ‘You want refill?’ His voice was deep and thick with an eastern European accent.
The woman looked up, initially baffled, but then smiled. ‘Thank you, Petrit. That would be lovely.’ She pushed her glasses up her nose, but they immediately slid down again.
Becca instantly recognised Carolyn Elliot-Wentworth. The owner of the Starlight Playhouse. More significantly, Tom Elliot’s mother.
Becca had been surprised when Jodi had told her Carolyn was still running the place. Even as a naive sixteen-year-old, she’d realised the woman had issues. Judging by her fumbled attempts to align teacup with saucer, Becca suspected alcohol was still a factor.
Not that she was in a fit state to pass judgement; she’d knocked back enough gin cocktails in the last few months to sink a ship. But her reliance on alcohol was temporary, an aid to easing both the physical and mental anguish caused by surgery and the demise of her career.
But maybe that’s what every alcoholic said in the beginning. No one set out to become addicted. She made a mental note to quit using booze as a crutch.
Once the surly man had disappeared into the kitchen, Becca tentatively approached the woman. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but it’s Carolyn, isn’t it? You probably don’t remember me, I used to come here as a teenager with my cousin.’
The woman looked up. There seemed to be a time delay before she registered Becca’s words. Her head tilted to one side, followed by a frown when her glasses slid off her nose and landed in her lap. Eventually the penny dropped. ‘I know you,’ she said, squinting. ‘You used to come here as a teenager.’
Becca managed a smile. ‘I did, yes. Becca Roberts. How are you, Mrs Elliot-Wentworth?’
The woman waved her hand. ‘Oh, please, call me Carolyn.’ She stood up, leaning against the table for support. Her glasses slid off her lap and fell to the floor. ‘Come closer.’ She peered at Becca, her face morphing into recognition. ‘That’s right. You’re…?’
‘Becca.’
‘That’s right. Becca. Tom’s Becca.’
Becca flinched. She hadn’t been Tom’s Becca for over twelve years.
‘You went off to be a dancer. I remember. Beautiful girl.’ Carolyn cupped Becca’s cheek, her hand somewhat unsteady. ‘Look at your hair!’ she said, flicking one of Becca’s blue-tipped bunches. ‘What brings you here?’
Becca smiled. ‘I’m here about the dance teacher position? Jodi said the current lady’s retiring and you’re looking for a replacement.’
Carolyn looked confused. ‘Who’s Jodi?’
Oh, hell. Please don’t say the woman had forgotten she’d hired her. ‘My cousin, Jodi Simmons? She’s starting work this week as business manager.’
‘Oh, of course! Silly me. Yes, that’s right.’
Relief flooded Becca. ‘She’s really looking forward to working here.’
‘I’m so pleased. And you’re quite right, we do need a replacement for Mrs Morris.’ Carolyn gestured for Becca to sit down. ‘Do take a seat. Are you still dancing?’
Becca’s knee complained as she sat down. ‘Not at the moment. I’ve moved back to Brighton to recover from a knee injury.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. I remember Tom telling me how beautifully you danced.’
Becca flinched.
Needing a distraction, she retrieved Carolyn’s glasses from the floor and handed them to her.
Carolyn looked confused. ‘What are these? Oh, my glasses. I was wondering where they’d got to.’ She put them on. The woman must be late fifties, but she was effortlessly stunning. Slim, high cheekbones, a regal quality to her stance. But there was also a reddening around her cheeks, and her blue eyes were cloudy and bloodshot. ‘Have you taught dance before?’
Becca shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t.’
Carolyn pushed her strawberry-blonde hair away from her face. ‘Qualifications?’
Becca decided honesty was the best policy. ‘Unfortunately not. I’ve only recently discovered that my dancing career is over. This is the first job I’ve applied for.’
Carolyn frowned. ‘Oh, so no references?’
‘Afraid not.’ This wasn’t going well. Becca decided to be proactive. ‘What kind of dancing do you teach here?’
‘Kids’ ballet and adult beginners’ tap.’
Okay, nothing too challenging then. That was a relief. ‘I studied both ballet and tap extensively, so I have the relevant skills, just not in teaching. But I’d be willing to learn.’
Carolyn sighed. ‘It’s not ideal…but the truth is, I’ve been advertising for months and only had two applicants. Neither of them wanted the job.’ She looked around the café, her expression wistful. ‘I know I’ve let the place go, but one day I hope the Starlight Playhouse will become the thriving arts centre I dreamt it might be.’ She sighed. ‘But I can’t do that if there’s no income and the classes provide that. At least, they used to. Numbers have dropped off since Mrs Morris announced she was retiring. Today’s her last day.’
Becca could see the woman was in a fix. And she knew all about trying to hold on to a dream that was rapidly fading. She might not have the relevant teaching experience, but she was positive she could rise to the challenge. After all, they were kids. Adults starting out. How hard could it be? ‘I appreciate taking me on is a risk, but I’m keen to develop my skills and make the transition into teaching.’
Carolyn grabbed her hand. ‘You know what? Let’s give it a go. Why don’t you take this afternoon’s class and we’ll see how you get on?’
Becca started to panic. ‘You mean, like a trial run?’
‘Exactly. If you do okay, the job’s yours.’
Oh, hell. That left her no time to prepare. Still, she’d be a fool to turn it down. ‘Thank you so much for this opportunity, Carolyn. I won’t let you down.’
‘I know you won’t.’ She squeezed Becca’s hand. ‘My son always said you had a good heart.’
Then why did he break it? Becca immediately squashed the thought. It was no longer relevant.
Carolyn moved away from the table. ‘Come into the office. I have paperwork.’
The surly man appeared from the kitchen with a fresh cup of coffee. When he saw Carolyn leaving, he grunted. ‘You no longer want?’
‘Leave it there, Petrit. I’ll be back.’
He dumped it on the table, sloshing liquid into the saucer.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Carolyn said. ‘He’s from Romania.’
Becca wasn’t sure what to make of that. She followed Carolyn into the office, which was situated behind reception.
‘There’s normally someone manning the desk, but Vivienne’s off today.’ Carolyn fumbled over a set of keys, dropping them twice before finding the one required to unlock the door.
The office wasn’t big, and it felt smaller due to the piles of files stacked on the floor. A couch was shoved against one wall and the filing cabinets were crammed full of documents, preventing the drawers from closing. The desk was cluttered with mugs, boxes and papers scattered across the leather top.
‘Where are the timetables?’ Carolyn picked up a stack of papers. ‘I can never find anything.’ She sifted through the documents, discarding them, adding to the mess on the floor. She pointed towards the ancient computer on the desk. ‘Can you use one of those?’
Becca nodded. ‘Yes, but I’m no expert.’
‘Me neither. It’s such a stress. Tom’s tried to teach me, but I still can’t work the ruddy thing. I much prefer pen and paper.’
A chill ran over Becca’s skin. ‘Does Tom visit often?’ No way was she about to take a job if there was a chance she’d see Tom Elliot again. She wasn’t that desperate for work.
‘Not as much as he’d like, or me for that matter. His job keeps him busy.’
Okay, so minimal risk of a chance meeting. She could work with that.
‘He lives in London. He’s a criminal defence barrister.’
He’d achieved his dream then.
Becca watched Carolyn rummage through a desk drawer. ‘Looks like you’ll be glad of the help in the office.’
‘Hmm…what?’ Carolyn looked up. ‘Help in the office? Sadly, no. Vivienne, my front-of-house manager, tries to keep the petty cash up to date, but she doesn’t have enough time to do everything.’
Becca froze. ‘I meant my cousin Jodi.’
Carolyn resumed rummaging. ‘Nothing would please me more than getting some help, but we can’t afford another salary. I can barely cover the cost of the staff we have. Maybe one day, when things pick up.’
Oh, hell. This didn’t bode well. ‘But Jodi’s starting work here this week, remember?’
‘Ah, here it is!’ Carolyn wiped crumbs away from a sheet of paper. ‘The timetable.’ She handed it to Becca. ‘I knew it was here somewhere.’
But Becca was more concerned Carolyn kept forgetting she’d offered her cousin a job. ‘Thanks for this. I’ll take a look. So, about my cousin…?’
But Carolyn had slumped onto the couch, her feet tucked under her, her glasses skew-whiff. She looked exhausted, as though searching for the timetable had siphoned all her energy. Becca was about to repeat her question, when Carolyn yawned and said, ‘The ballet class starts at two,’ before drifting off to sleep.
Becca felt uncomfortable about leaving her unattended. But what was she supposed to do? She removed Carolyn’s glasses and placed them next to her. It was like old times, when she used to help Tom put her to bed.
Closing the door behind her, she went into the café and knocked on the kitchen door.
She had to step back when the doors swung open. ‘What?’ the man said, looking her up and down.
‘Carolyn’s asleep in the office.’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘What you want me to do?’
Helpful. ‘Err…nothing. I just thought I should tell you. Will she be okay?’
He grunted. ‘She always sleep.’ And with that, he let the doors swing shut in her face.
Charming.
Still, she had bigger things to worry about. Like trying her hand at teaching. And whether Carolyn would wake up before the class started.
More importantly, whether Carolyn would remember she’d offered her cousin a job.