The Summer Theatre by the Sea

by Tracy Corbett

  TRACY CORBETT

  THE SUMMER THEATRE BY THE SEA

  Published by AVON

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2018

  Copyright © Tracy Corbett 2017

  Tracy Corbett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008221935

  Version 2017-12-06

  For my other family,

  The Quince Players

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Isolde Players Present

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  Also by Tracy Corbett:

  About the Publisher

  The Isolde Players present

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  by

  William Shakespeare

  The characters in the play:

  Hippolyta (Queen of the Amazons) – Glenda Graham

  Hermia (in love with Lysander) and Peaseblossom – Lauren Saunders

  Lysander (loved by Hermia), Philostrate and Pyramus – Daniel Austin

  Demetrius (suitor of Hermia) and Thisbe – Nate Jones

  Helena (in love with Demetrius), Snout and Wall – Paul Naylor

  Oberon (King of the Fairies), Egeus and Snug – Barney Hubble

  Titania (Queen of the Fairies) – Sylvia Johns

  Puck (servant to Oberon) – Kayleigh Wilson

  Nick Bottom (a weaver), Theseus and Mustardseed – Tony Saunders

  Moth and Cobweb (fairies) – Freddie and Florence Saunders

  Directed by Jonathan Myers

  Backstage crew – Quentin and Vincent Graham

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thursday, 5 May

  With a certain amount of apprehension, Charlotte Saunders watched her boss adjust the front of his pale-pink tie, his matching silk handkerchief folded into the pocket of his pinstriped suit jacket.

  ‘He said you assaulted him.’

  Charlotte felt her indignation rise another notch. ‘I did no such thing.’ Why was she getting the third degree? It should be Dodgy Roger in here getting it in the neck, not her.

  Lawrence raised a knowing eyebrow. It was a trait she’d become familiar with. It usually preceded a right royal bollocking. Fortunately for her, she’d rarely been on the receiving end of one of his rants. She was his protégé; the grad student he’d spotted at an exhibition and taken a chance on. She couldn’t believe her luck when he’d offered her a position with his high-flying design company – a position most designers twice her age would kill for – and now it was under threat, all thanks to Dodgy Roger.

  ‘It was hardly assault, Lawrence.’ She felt her cheeks colour. ‘I tapped him on the forehead with my notebook. He was asleep on the job.’ As she’d already told him.

  Lawrence reacted with a disappointed tut. ‘He also said you called him a moron.’

  She cringed. Not exactly her finest moment.

  ‘A poor choice of words, I admit, but I was upset.’ Charlotte straightened in her chair, wishing she’d stopped off to buy painkillers on her way over. The pounding in her head was getting worse. She wasn’t sure whether it was the same headache as yesterday, or a new one.

  When it came to using CAD, SketchUp or Photoshop, she was an expert – all those late nights studying and unpaid internships had culminated in a first-class honours degree in Interior Design. But nowhere amongst space planning and selecting soft furnishings had it covered dealing with Neanderthal workmen who knew they could get away with murder because the boss was family and the young designer they’d been assigned to work with was still trying to prove herself in a highly competitive industry.

  Lawrence’s other eyebrow joined the one already raised. ‘And stupid.’

  Well, he was. Who else would paint emulsion over acrylic? ‘I may have been a little harsh, but Roger blatantly ignored my instructions. The radiator pipes weren’t sunk into the plasterboard and he failed to replace the cracked ceramic Verona basin.’

  Lawrence sighed. He got up from behind his large leather-topped desk, flicking away the tiniest smidgeon of dust from the lapel of his jacket. ‘That’s as may be, but we need to work as a team here at Quality Interiors. Power through such negativity and stop spilling each other’s beers.’

  She failed to understand his meaning.

  He perched on the corner of his desk. ‘Bottom line, we can’t afford to lose this client or risk damaging the company’s reputation by engaging in a lawsuit. The negative publicity would ruin us. And there’s no popularity in poverty.’

  Was he misquoting The Wolf of Wall Street? He must spend his evenings reading 101 Greatest Ever Sales Quotes. Glancing down, she spotted the button on her suit jacket was undone and quickly fastened it. ‘I agree.’

  ‘The client has complained and it’s a legitimate complaint. The job doesn’t meet the spec. It’s over budget and it’s late. I need to be seen taking action.’ He smiled, the white of his teeth jarring with his sun-baked, all-year-round tan.

  Thank goodness, they were on the same page … Crikey, he had her using clichés now. ‘Quite rightly.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way, Charlie.’ He rested his hands in his lap.

  She hated it when he shortened her name … although right at that moment she certainly felt like a right ‘charlie’.

  Noticing her reflection in the glass cabinet, she tucked a wayward dark curl behind her ear, her natural waves defying the straighteners yet again. Not helpful whe
n trying to present a polished exterior. Why was she worrying about her appearance? Focus, woman.

  ‘A company is known by the people it keeps.’ He walked over to the cabinet housing his many accolades. ‘Short-term pain, long-term gain, as they say. A sacrifice for the good of the firm.’ He picked up one of his industry awards and rubbed away a mark before placing it back on the shelf. ‘It’s not what I want to do, believe me, but my hand has been forced.’

  And about time too. Lawrence Falk ran a hugely successful and profitable firm. They had a six-month waiting list for sales visits alone and their work regularly featured in all the top design magazines, so why he allowed such an incompetent man to damage that prestigious reputation, she didn’t know. Surely family ties weren’t worth that much? They certainly weren’t in her family. But then she rarely saw her family, so that might be why. Their move to Cornwall seven years earlier, coupled with her long working hours and demanding job, had hampered any attempts to maintain a close relationship. It was something that never ceased to sadden her. But she couldn’t think about that right now, she had more important things to worry about. ‘I appreciate it’s a difficult situation, but I’m sure your sister will understand … eventually.’

  Lawrence turned to her. ‘What’s my sister got to do with this?’

  Charlotte mirrored his frown. ‘I imagine she won’t take kindly to you firing her husband.’

  Lawrence held her gaze, his voice as smooth as his perfectly styled hair. ‘Who said I was firing Roger?’

  A chill of foreboding crept into her shoulders, tightening the muscles around the base of her neck. God, her head hurt. ‘Well, you did … didn’t you? Someone has to be accountable and all that. I assumed we were talking about Roger?’

  Lawrence gave her an insincere smile. ‘You know, Charlie, when you assume, you make an “ass” out of “u” and “me”.’

  She tried to see past the latest cliché and comprehend his meaning. Her fingers fiddled with the button on her jacket. ‘Wh … what are you saying?’

  He opened his hands, another perfected ‘trust me, I’m about to fleece you’ gesture. ‘This pains me more than it does you, Charlie …’

  She doubted that.

  ‘… but I have to let you go. You’re an amazing designer, but this client is too influential to ignore.’

  Ringing in her ears delayed the meaning of his words filtering through to her brain. For a moment, she just sat there, stunned. ‘But … but why? It wasn’t me who messed up. There was nothing wrong with my designs or my surveyor’s measurements. This was down to poor workmanship, nothing else.’ The walls seemed to be closing in on her. Her dream job was slipping from her clasp.

  ‘You took your eye off the ball.’

  She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, trying to keep her composure. ‘I was juggling three jobs, Lawrence. I couldn’t be there every second to babysit. And I shouldn’t have to.’

  He gave a half-hearted nod. ‘But at the end of the day, it’s your responsibility to ensure the job is delivered on time and to brief. It’s your client, your job, your head on the block when it goes tits-up.’ Removing a ruler from his drawer, he measured the gaps between his trophies, adjusting any that didn’t meet his exacting standards. Standards she’d been drawn to, feeling they matched her own desire for perfection. ‘I’m sorry, love, but it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.’

  She stood up, no longer able to contain her frustration. ‘So, Roger gets away with yet another piss-poor job? No matter what he costs the firm, you let him off … again.’ The urge to topple over his trophies was overwhelming, but her brain alerted her to the fact that trashing the boss’s office would not strengthen her defence.

  Lawrence shrugged. ‘Don’t be a sore loser, honey. Victory goes to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake. You know that.’

  What on earth was he on about? ‘Sorry, I don’t follow?’

  He pointed at her with the ruler. ‘You vandalised the shower screen.’

  ‘Hardly vandalised …’

  ‘The entire ceiling needs replastering. That was you, right, not Roger?’ He asked the question in such a way that it was obvious he already knew the answer.

  Technically, it was true: she had slammed the shower-screen door so hard it had shattered, but only because Roger had drilled through a water pipe and then tried to cover it up with gaffer tape. When she’d peeled away the protective covering, water had spurted from the wall, soaking her jacket and skirt. Squealing from the shock of cold water hitting her midriff, she’d slipped backwards, her legs had parted company and the small slit in the back of her skirt had ripped all the way up to her bottom. She’d had to negotiate the Tube journey home with her jacket tied around her middle, trying not to flash her knickers to the other commuters. Talk about humiliating.

  Lawrence sighed. ‘Look, take some time off. Lie low for a while. Maybe we can look at rehiring you in a few months’ time. But for now, I have to let you go. The company can’t afford to fight this.’ He dropped the ruler in the drawer, closing it with an ‘I’m done’ thud.

  Tears threatened to surface. ‘So that’s it? You’re firing me?’ Her voice caught. ‘This is so unfair.’

  Lawrence opened his office door. ‘Life is unfair, honey.’

  She had no recollection of driving home. Her head thumped with a rhythm that made it hard to form coherent thoughts. She’d been fired? Sacked? Thrown under the bus so Lawrence could protect his family? It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t her fault … well, not entirely. Surely Dodgy Roger should be held accountable too? Why should he be allowed to get away with such ineptitude whilst she lost her career, something she’d fought for and worked so hard for all these years, giving up spending time with her friends, her family, just so she could achieve her dream of becoming a designer? What had it all been for?

  By the time she’d parked up in the underground car park and made her way to the lift, indignation had switched to fury. She jabbed at the lift button. Lawrence couldn’t do this to her. It amounted to unfair dismissal. Ethan would agree with her, he’d support her. Together they would raise a grievance, challenge her dismissal …

  So it was something of a shock to walk into the plush apartment in Kingston upon Thames that she shared with her boyfriend of four years to discover him packing a suitcase.

  Confusion was the first emotion to hit. Why was Ethan at home on a Thursday? It wasn’t even lunchtime. Did he have a business trip planned? But then why wasn’t it logged on their shared calendar? Their iPads were synchronized for real-time updates, so even if it was a last-minute booking, she’d know about it.

  The look on Ethan’s face gave further cause for alarm. ‘What are you doing home?’ His tone was surprisingly accusatory.

  Part of her wondered if she’d caught him having an affair. Was she about to discover a woman hiding in the wardrobe? No, that wasn’t possible … mostly because the wardrobes were disturbingly empty.

  Ethan was holding a suit-carrier bag. He threw it onto the bed, as if ridding himself of an incriminating weapon. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  She hadn’t been expecting him either.

  Her brain was still trying to compute what her eyes were telling her. Clothes lying on the bed. Wardrobe doors open. Empty hanging rails. Two large suitcases sitting on the floor, their wheels denting the thick pile beneath. If Ethan didn’t move them soon, they’d permanently mark the carpet. Her brain was deflecting again.

  ‘I’ve been fired.’ Saying the words aloud made the reality of her situation even more painful. She’d lost her job. No, not lost. It had been stolen. She’d been unfairly cut loose, the sacrificial lamb, tossed onto the scrapheap as though she didn’t matter. But if she expected Ethan to be as upset as she was, she was woefully disappointed. He looked annoyed. Although, somehow, she sensed this wasn’t due to injustice on her behalf. ‘Fired?… Why?’

  Ignoring his question, she focused on what was happening in the bedroom that she’d shared with her p
artner for nearly two years, a room with subtle lighting, a king-sized bed and designer fitted wardrobes … which were currently empty.

  She looked at Ethan. He wasn’t dressed in his usual work suit with Tom Ford shirt and tie, he was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. His dark-blond hair had been cut since this morning – another appointment not recorded on their calendar.

  The pounding in her head increased. ‘Why are you packing? What’s going on here?’

  He stepped forward as if about to speak, but something flickered across his face. Irritation? Guilt? Panic?

  She waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. ‘Ethan …?’

  He drew his shoulders back, showing off the full extent of his six-foot height. Even in heels, she didn’t reach his chin. He swallowed awkwardly. ‘Okay, there’s no easy way to say this.’

  She took off her suit jacket, suddenly feeling hot. He still hadn’t spoken. ‘Ethan?’

  He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve accepted a job in Paris.’

  The words tumbled out in such a rush that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. ‘Paris …?’ Nope, her brain still wasn’t catching on. Nothing he was saying made any sense. ‘I don’t understand. What job in Paris?’

  He shrugged. ‘It all came about quite suddenly.’

  ‘What, since this morning?’ It was no good, she had to move the suitcase before it ruined the carpet. Slipping off her Carvela courts, she tilted the suitcase against the bed. Blimey, how much stuff was he taking with him? ‘We ate breakfast together. We discussed our plans for the day. You didn’t think to mention you were off to Paris?’