Starlight on the Palace Pier

by Tracy Corbett

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Friday 10th November

  Jodi was exhausted. She’d spent the entire morning on the phone trying to secure sponsorship for the showcase without much success. Most of the companies didn’t want to hand over hard cash, but some had offered their services to support the event. She supposed that was something. Income was still zilch, but at least she had extra manpower available.

  She added the names to the list and ticked off the need to find additional bar staff and theatre ushers. It hadn’t been a totally unproductive morning.

  Needing to stretch her legs, she got up from her desk and picked up her notebook. She was about to leave the office when she backtracked and checked her desk drawer was locked.

  Ever since the theft she’d been paranoid about covering her arse. Tom had changed the safe combination, which hadn’t surprised her, but she wished he hadn’t told her the new code. He said it would look more incriminating if he didn’t give it to her. Like he didn’t trust her and that would only invite more suspicion. She could see his point. But it didn’t make dealing with the likes of Vivienne and Petrit any easier.

  Checking no one was watching, she removed the key from its hiding place under the spider plant and dumped her rucksack in the drawer, along with her treasured copy of The Art of War. She’d taken to reading passages daily in the hope it would improve her warfare tactics for handling the terrible twosome. Locking the drawer, she replaced the key in its hiding place. Until the cloud of suspicion had lifted she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Closing the office door behind her, she turned and almost bumped into the Woman-in-Black. ‘Crikey, Vivienne. You made me jump.’

  Vivienne’s eyes nar
rowed. ‘Have I caught you doing something untoward, Miss Simmons?’

  It would be so easy to react, but Jodi needed to pick her battles. Retaliating would only give her nemesis further ammunition. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Vivienne.’ She tried to move past, but the woman wasn’t budging.

  ‘But you do have a criminal record for theft?’

  Jodi flinched. ‘Keep your voice down.’ A middle-aged couple had arrived for the tea dance and were making their way through the foyer. She didn’t want them overhearing.

  ‘I’m not saying anything that isn’t true.’

  ‘No, but this is a public area. It’s not appropriate to talk openly about private matters relating to staff.’ Remaining professional and delivering a consistent message was all Jodi could do to counteract Vivienne’s allegations. ‘If you’d like another copy of the policy relating to data protection, I’ll happily supply you with one. If not, please refrain from mentioning this in the public areas again.’

  ‘And let you get away with it? Why should I?’ Vivienne raised her chin, her black hair showing flecks of grey. ‘It’s outrageous that you’re allowed to continue working here. If I had my way, the police would be called and you’d be in prison. Locked up for committing another crime.’

  How Jodi kept her temper she didn’t know. Only an acute sense of injustice kept her from walking out. ‘If you have a grievance, Vivienne, put it in writing. Becca and Tom will deal with it.’

  ‘They won’t do anything. You’ve got them fooled with your voodoo witchcraft. Not me.’ Vivienne jabbed her chest. ‘I know what your sort are like.’

  ‘My sort?’ The instant the words left her mouth, she regretted reacting. The conceited look on Vivienne’s face was galling to witness. The woman knew she’d struck a nerve.

  Jodi took the only sensible option and retreated from the battle. Vivienne wanted her to lose the plot and hang herself. No way was she giving her the satisfaction.

  ‘I’ll also send you a copy of Discrimination in the Workplace, Vivienne. It’s clear you need a better understanding of the subject.’ Jodi walked off, trying to cover the shake in her hands. Awful, horrible, ignorant woman.

  ‘The only thing I need to understand is why you haven’t been fired,’ Vivienne called after her. ‘Or sent back to prison.’

  Jodi’s eyes burned from the effort of trying not to cry. She wouldn’t succumb to Vivienne’s bullying. Although how much more she could take, she didn’t know.

  It had been three weeks since the theft and two weeks since Harvey Elliot had dropped his bombshell. Tom had called everyone into the office the following week and apologised for his father’s behaviour. But it hadn’t stopped Vivienne’s campaign to get rid of her. Tom had been at pains to point out that Becca didn’t have a criminal record and his father’s accusation had been unsubstantiated. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for her.

  The shame had been almost unbearable. She’d stared at the floor the entire time, too humiliated to look anyone in the eye. Especially Leon.

  Tom had said all the right things, talked about respect and privacy and the need to investigate before jumping to conclusions. But it hadn’t stopped the daily abuse.

  Aunty Ruby had told her she needed to ride out the storm, and she was trying, but it wasn’t easy.

  Jodi headed through the bar, but there was no sign of Leon. Not that he would have acknowledged her. Gone were the days when he’d make her a drink and leave her a little gift.

  Shaking off the disappointment, she found Petrit in the kitchen, rolling out pastry.

  Tom had offered to accompany her when she needed to talk to the surly chef and it was a tempting offer, but if Petrit knew he unnerved her, it would only encourage him. He had enough of a chip on his shoulder as it was.

  With no supervision, Petrit had been allowed to come and go as he’d pleased, smoke wherever he wanted, and never be taken to task for his rudeness. According to Eddie, Carolyn hadn’t been present enough to notice his behaviour, or if she had, she hadn’t had the energy to deal with it. But they couldn’t afford to keep turning a blind eye. The Starlight Playhouse was in serious financial trouble. Unless they pulled together and worked as a team, the place would close. And that would be a huge loss to the community.

  Petrit looked up when she entered the kitchen. ‘What you want, thief?’ He’d taken to greeting her this way every time she spoke to him. No doubt he was hoping she’d eventually cave under the pressure and quit. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘I’ve repeatedly asked you to use more respectful language, Petrit.’

  ‘Why? You steal money.’

  She held her ground. ‘The matter is being investigated. Until we know the outcome, you need to stop making accusations.’ She felt like a stuck record, repeating the same request every day, only for her authority to be continually flouted.

  He grumbled something under his breath.

  Ignoring him, she focused on work-related matters. ‘The showcase is in two weeks. I’ve asked you several times to come up with catering requirements for the event. Have you done this?’

  He banged the worktop with the rolling pin. ‘You come in here, telling me what to do. Not your place!’

  ‘It’s a simple question. Yes, or no?’

  ‘No!’

  Her instinct was to back away, but she stayed firm. ‘In that case, I’ll contact Buddies Café and accept their kind offer to provide catering for the event. We would’ve preferred to use in-house facilities, but clearly that’s not possible. I’ll be noting your behaviour in your personnel file.’

  He began shouting in Romanian – although the word ‘thief’ remained in English.

  Jodi made a hasty escape in case he lost it completely and threw the rolling pin at her. She backtracked through the empty bar, wishing she still had Leon’s support. What she wouldn’t give to look over and see his reassuring smile. But she had to deal with this on her own now. And that saddened her more than she wanted to admit.

  She’d almost reached reception when she heard Tom’s voice. ‘This is Jodi Simmons,’ he said. ‘One of the co-managers I was telling you about.’

  She ground to a halt and turned to face them. Charging about the place was hardly professional.

  ‘Elaine and Stewart are here to discuss exhibiting at the showcase,’ he said, approaching.

  Jodi mustered a welcoming smile. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Elaine makes pottery and Stewart is an abstract artist.’ Tom turned to the couple. ‘Jodi’s organising the event. She’s the one with the business expertise. We’re very lucky to have her working at the Starlight Playhouse.’

  Jodi shook their hands, hoping her palm wasn’t clammy. ‘Lovely to meet you both.’

  Tom touched Jodi’s elbow. ‘Do you know where their work will be exhibited?’

  ‘I’ve allocated the foyer for the paintings,’ she said, gesturing to the space around them. ‘And the art studio for the pottery. It’s a bigger space, and the exhibits will be more protected from passing footfall.’

  ‘As you can see, Jodi has everything organised.’ Tom pointed behind the couple. ‘If you’d like to come this way, I’ll show you the art studio. The roof is currently being repaired, so I’ll need to check it’s safe to enter first.’

  Tom glanced back and gave Jodi a thumbs-up. His smile was so genuine it almost made up for the horror of dealing with Petrit and Vivienne. Almost.

  She watched him lead the couple towards the art studio.

  Having calmed down from her run-in with Petrit, she made her way to the grand ballroom for the tea dance. She wasn’t overly keen on ballroom dancing – she didn’t know a waltz from a quickstep, but Becca needed her. Her cousin had supported her throughout the tough times, so it was time to repay the favour.

  As she opened the ballroom door, Jodi was greeted by the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra crooning softly in the background. He was periodically drowned out by bursts of drilling from above. The roof repair team were working
directly overhead.

  She half expected to see plaster falling from the ceiling, but there were no signs of damage.

  The room was chilly, but light from the chandeliers bounced off the white and gold décor making the room glow. The large mirrors made the room seem bigger, creating multiple reflections around the room.

  Becca was standing on a chair addressing those gathered for the tea dance. She was wearing an electric blue Fifties swing dress with red Mary Jane shoes. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, secured with a blue ribbon, the same shade as her hair. She looked both cute and sexy. A look Jodi had never managed to pull off.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see a few new faces,’ Becca said, the petticoats beneath her skirt swishing as she moved. ‘Thank you for attending the Starlight Playhouse weekly tea dance.’ She clapped, encouraging everyone to join in.

  Jodi felt self-conscious in her dull grey work suit and plain shirt. Especially as there were still faint tomato stains visible under the bright lighting. She wished she’d brought a change of outfit. Everyone else had made an effort.

  ‘This afternoon we’re going to focus on the social foxtrot,’ her cousin said, radiating a confidence Jodi envied. ‘This is a dance-hall classic and is particularly well suited to a crowded room. It’s also easier to learn than the traditional ballroom foxtrot.’

  Aunty Ruby stood close by, her green hair partially hidden under a black scarf. She was wearing a black dress with matching tights looking scarily like Vivienne. Thankfully, her aunty was nothing like the evil front-of-house manager. Her choice of clothing was probably an attempt to blend into the background. Jodi could empathise; it was a tactic she adopted herself.

  Becca looked eagerly at the group. ‘Before we start, I have some exciting news. On the twenty-fifth of this month, the Starlight Playhouse will be participating in the Brighton Arts Festival. We have numerous performances and exhibitions planned, but the event will conclude with a communal dance. It would be fantastic if you were able to join in.’

  Mrs Busby raised her hand. She was wearing her best pale green pinafore dress. ‘Are you asking us to perform?’