Starlight on the Palace Pier

by Tracy Corbett

  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.

  Chapter Fourteen

  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.’