Книга - Starlight on the Palace Pier: The very best kind of romance for the Christmas season in 2018

Starlight on the Palace Pier: The very best kind of romance for the Christmas season in 2018
Tracy Corbett


‘Heart-warming and inspiring, Tracy Corbett has written a book to fall in love with.’ Rosanna LeySpend your holiday on Brighton pier…After an injury derails her dream of becoming a professional dancer, Becca Roberts heads home to Brighton in search of a fresh start.And, when a dance teacher position becomes available at the Starlight Playhouse, it seems like her stars are finally aligning. The crumbling old building might need a bit of TLC (and a lick of paint!), but Becca is more than up to the challenge.That is until Becca’s first love, and first heartbreak, waltzes into the Starlight Playhouse. With Tom around, Becca realises that life by the sea might not be as simple as she thought…Fall in love on Palace Pier in this feel-good romantic comedy, perfect for fans of Debbie Johnson and Jill Mansell.









STARLIGHT ON THE PALACE PIER

TRACY CORBETT








Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Tracy Corbett 2018

Cover design © dmeacham design 2018

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock (http://www.Shutterstock.com)

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 ebook 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 © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008299477

Version: 2018-08-29


For my Mum & Dad,

who have just celebrated their 60


Wedding Anniversary!


Table of Contents

Cover (#u6301842f-8f67-5273-ab32-eb7f6a8dd5cd)

Title Page (#u2fea9592-3a57-5168-8d0f-1ca4485e1304)

Copyright (#ub9fa2388-fef0-5b58-9008-9a25c3ede067)

Dedication (#ud2792a9d-7c35-5cc2-a68c-3ddd720e5f71)

Chapter One (#u11e94471-03f1-56cc-819c-a609421971b5)

Chapter Two (#ud809abf9-3da6-5138-9ab4-723f7cd19ef3)

Chapter Three (#uce4fe555-e828-59d7-bdf2-c84671205c43)

Chapter Four (#ud6684cf5-53f4-59d4-8a29-943e0cd201da)

Chapter Five (#u16c7a43a-e3ca-52cd-8b86-c4ccfe504119)



Chapter Six (#u2a030e0d-0691-5a34-968d-74ec87848178)



Chapter Seven (#u7a6cc8d7-5daa-5302-9a67-1081aafc32b5)



Chapter Eight (#u86e1be68-c140-5ec4-8996-8eb31ed1c16c)



Chapter Nine (#u6c5240e1-c4c6-5969-b5f3-dee975a30151)



Chapter Ten (#uc791b050-7cfd-5dc9-b08e-1d0fd0db6b9c)



Chapter Eleven (#ubba5d1d4-8df8-5e9c-af00-81d35f226f9d)



Chapter Twelve (#ue24e4ce2-2f0d-5957-be94-421a1694c531)



Chapter Thirteen (#ucc3c5edf-bfc0-57f6-b896-9b1470222c04)



Chapter Fourteen (#u87ce9cf2-5bb2-59c0-a3cc-b53d002dd858)



Chapter Fifteen (#u2c964f2e-c966-5626-8387-603e7293852c)



Chapter Sixteen (#udcfa00f2-5cee-5885-b339-98f68ed296a1)



Chapter Seventeen (#u112cde8e-9e82-5554-86fd-3bba4e1015f4)



Chapter Eighteen (#u833f3d97-0474-5c67-8b05-9aa1de56400c)



Chapter Nineteen (#u71bf7af4-a8cc-5102-96da-1184032b7e82)



Chapter Twenty (#u84a28fca-f70f-56fd-abe9-53fd6f2959e2)



Chapter Twenty-One (#ufd2c8121-be78-5d3c-8505-6af74174537f)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#uf31e1ca0-d0b7-5d9b-b81d-c541edd1aed4)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#u26d0242f-448e-5a19-a533-a4f163341a1f)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#u06b98fc6-e903-597c-8714-0eeb6a14a6e1)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#ua4acee8c-3788-565b-a43f-49f5ad8ce3cc)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#u557dd790-37a1-5d3d-86de-53cf3a9ddaea)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u04011eda-b2dd-5788-81d8-bbc2890282b2)



Chapter Twenty-Eight (#ufc4bcfb2-09c1-59b9-a33e-24f25b3878d7)



Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u66195650-f6c1-5f32-8002-1a3ff764dbdc)



Chapter Thirty (#uac3661f2-632e-578f-91c0-ddc72dba8ed3)



Chapter Thirty-One (#uc3d6b637-64a4-5acb-8e3e-b61e818eebc7)



Chapter Thirty-Two (#u983cbfde-9793-5390-a13a-064415690045)



Acknowledgements (#u4ecce97a-74b3-5c80-962d-2280f6c0bf62)

Keep Reading … (#u17c8373e-ad47-5c33-9f9a-7061581b1aaf)



About the Author (#u14cda8a6-dbe0-5bd7-8388-a33cc0133173)



By the Same Author (#u60a35659-3de2-5d07-a6ab-d513ff3aa587)



About the Publisher (#u29bd1170-52f4-5da3-b056-3c225279eb71)




Chapter One (#u2ab0cc04-b5fa-5698-9f30-3595ee54622b)


Thursday 7th September

Becca Roberts got off the bus outside the grand Queens Hotel and made her way along the promenade towards Ruby’s Guest House, the place she called home. The sea breeze increased as the English Channel came into view, choppy and grey, chucking waves of foam over the harbour wall. Wispy clouds obscured the sun, but that didn’t detract from the spectacular view. No matter where she’d lived, or travelled to since moving away to attend dance college, Brighton always appealed, whatever the weather.

She stopped to rub her knee. Waking up with a raging hangover had killed any desire to do her strengthening exercises today. Her physio wouldn’t be happy. He also wouldn’t approve of her hobbling down the road weighed down by a lumpy rucksack and dragging a heavy suitcase, but needs must.

And anyway, she was used to pain. Injury was an occupational hazard for a dancer. At some point, everything in your body would hurt. But this latest injury wasn’t a niggle that could be cured by massage, painkillers and ice. And that was something she was still struggling to get her head around.

The sight of her mum’s bright yellow front door cheered her a little. Ruby’s Guest House was a three-storey Georgian townhouse situated in the Artists’ Quarter, bang smack between the old burnt-out West Pier and the replacement Palace Pier. The ‘Vacancies’ sign creaked in the breeze as she approached. God, she’d missed this place.

Despite ringing the bell twice and knocking, no one answered. She tried the door, unsurprised to find it open. Her mum had been known to leave a key in it overnight.

‘Anyone home?’ she called out, carrying her suitcase over the threshold. ‘Mum?’

Still no answer. She spotted a Post-it Note stuck to the mirror hanging in the hallway.

In the kitchen prepping lunch. You’re in the Seventies Suite! Come and find me when you’re settled. Mum. x

Becca smiled. The Seventies Suite was her favourite. She dragged her suitcase upstairs and down the landing. As she opened the bedroom door, she was hit by bright swirls of orange patterning on the wall and a lime-green duvet cover with a multitude of cushions strewn about the bed. A lava lamp sat on top of a chunky bedside cabinet, next to a yellow plastic clock. The room glowed, helped by the orange curtains and huge sash window.

She couldn’t help laughing as she kicked off her shoes and jumped onto the queen-sized divan. She’d spent many a night lying on this bed during her teenage years, gossiping with her cousin about boys… Well, one boy.

Themed rooms had been her dad’s idea. He’d spent six years designing and constructing the different spaces, researching and sourcing suitable décor and putting his carpentry skills to use before dropping dead of a heart attack aged forty-six. It had seemed so cruel that after all his hard work, he hadn’t lived long enough to complete the project and enjoy it.

Shaking away the sadness, she rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom, enjoying the feel of the deep-pile rug beneath her feet. Like the bedroom, the en suite was styled to reflect the Seventies, including a pampas bath suite and psychedelic tiling. She noticed a large crack in the shower screen and made a mental note to tell her mum. Ruby’s Guest House was normally in tip-top condition, something her dad had always insisted on.

After a quick shower, in the hope it might ease her hangover, she slung on a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting crop top and headed for the stairs.

All the bedroom doors were closed, except for the one leading to the sewing room. She stuck her head around the door, eager to admire her mum’s latest work-in-progress. But instead of the usual collection of haberdashery neatly displayed on the shelving, she was greeted with mayhem and clutter. Rolls of material lay on the floor, two partially dressed mannequins were shoved against the wall and various boxes of ribbons and accessories obscured the floor. The place was a mess.

Strange. Her mum was usually such a stickler for a tidy workspace.

Her pondering was cut short by a sharp pain shooting up the back of her leg. She spun around, knowing full well what…or rather whom…she was about to encounter. True enough, Mad Maude was on the attack. The devil incarnate. Satan with fur.

She swiped at the cat, but her reflexes were too slow to outwit her nemesis. Maude’s orange fur expanded as she clawed at her enemy’s leg. Why her mum put up with such a psychotic animal, she didn’t know. Surely it couldn’t be good for business? But then, Maude didn’t pick on anyone else. It was only Becca she had a vendetta against.

Grabbing Maude by the collar, she prised the cat away, knowing she only had seconds to make her escape. Chucking Maude onto the beanbag, she hobbled for the door, slamming it behind her and holding on to the handle. For all she knew, the damn cat could open doors.

Various screeching noises could be heard from the other side. Becca waited until it had gone quiet before she let go and limped downstairs. Bloody cat.

She was so distracted, she nearly knocked into an elderly woman heading into the dining room. ‘Goodness, where’s the fire?’ the old woman said, looking alarmed.

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you,’ which was hardly surprising; the woman was barely four feet tall. Okay, bit of an exaggeration. But she was tiny. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Of course I am.’ The woman sounded indignant. ‘How frail do you think I am?’

Becca figured this was a trick question, so refrained from answering. ‘It was my fault entirely. I was escaping Mad Maude. I’m not a fan of cats,’ she added, feeling an explanation was required. ‘Particularly not ones with a personality disorder.’

The woman laughed. ‘In that case, you’re forgiven. I’m familiar with Maude’s antics. You must be Ruby’s daughter? She mentioned you were arriving. Delighted to meet you.’

The woman’s eyes travelled the length of Becca’s body, taking in her ripped jeans, leopard-print nails, big hoop earrings and blue-tipped peroxide hair. Her expression indicated disapproval.

Becca fought back a smile. As outfits went, this was conservative. She held out her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Becca.’

‘Mrs Busby.’ The woman tutted at the sight of Becca’s black bra visible beneath her white top. Her mum had often mentioned the old woman during their phone calls. She sounded like quite a character.

The woman held out her arm and nodded towards the dining room. ‘Shall we?’

Becca had never escorted anyone into lunch before.

Oh, well. Always a first time for everything.

She led the old woman through the doorway, expecting to find the room bustling with guests and chatter, but instead found the sparse conservatory empty apart from one elderly gentleman seated at a table. He was wearing a smart blazer.

When they entered, he rose from his chair and pretended to tip his non-existent hat. ‘Good afternoon, Milady. And how are we this fine lunchtime?’

Mrs Busby responded with a dainty curtsey. ‘I’m very well, thank you, Dr Mortimer.’

He held out a chair for her. ‘Allow me.’

Becca felt like she’d been transported to a bygone era.

‘And who do we have here?’ The elderly gentleman subjected Becca to the same once-over Mrs Busby had given her. His reaction seemed far more approving.

‘Ruby’s daughter,’ Mrs Busby answered. ‘She’s moved into the guest house and doesn’t like cats.’ Her voice lowered to a whisper as though Becca wasn’t standing there. ‘I think she might be one of those hipster types, but she has nice manners, so I think we can overlook her other foibles.’ The woman pointed to Becca’s bellybutton ring, poking out from beneath her top.

Foibles? Becca was too amused to be offended. She’d never been called a ‘hipster’ before.

Before she could respond, the double doors leading to the kitchen opened and her mum appeared looking hot and flustered, carrying a tray of freshly baked rolls. Her dark hair had streaks of grey in it and she’d lost weight over the summer, but her face brightened on seeing her daughter. ‘Becca, love. You’re here.’ She looked around for somewhere to dump the tray, balancing it on one of the empty tables. ‘Good journey?’

‘Not bad, thanks.’

Becca was enveloped in a big hug. Ruby Roberts smelt of warm yeast mixed in with fabric conditioner.

God, she’d missed her mum. ‘Where’s Jodi? Is she home?’

‘She’s gone for an interview. She’ll be back soon.’

‘An interview? God, I hope she gets it.’ Part of the appeal of moving back home was the chance to reconnect with her cousin, who also lived at the guest house.

Her mum tugged on Becca’s hand when it became clear Mrs Busby was eavesdropping. ‘Come through to the kitchen,’ she said, ignoring her guest’s disgruntled expression. ‘Be with you in a moment, Mrs Busby. Coffee coming up, Dr M.’

The doctor saluted. ‘Excellent. Got quite a thirst on me today.’

Her mum mumbled, ‘Nothing new there then,’ and led Becca away from prying eyes.

The kitchen at Ruby’s Guest House was an impressive open-plan room styled with large pieces of vintage French furniture. The ceiling was high and beamed, with fitted skylights to let in light, even on a dreary day. So it was something of a shock to discover pots and pans piled in the sink and baking produce strewn across the table.

Becca assessed the marked paintwork and grease-stained oven. ‘Is everything okay, Mum?’ The place was a far cry from its usual immaculate state. But then, she hadn’t been home for three years. Her mum had always insisted on visiting her in London, claiming she didn’t want her daughter incurring any unnecessary expenditure. But now she wondered if there’d been an ulterior motive.

Her mum turned and smiled. ‘Absolutely peachy.’ There was something a little forced about her jovial tone. ‘Lunchtime is always a tad crazy.’ Which was odd, as there only appeared to be two guests. ‘But enough about me. How did it go with the consultant? What did he say?’

Becca sighed. She’d been dreading this conversation. ‘He said the surgery was successful. The patellar tendon has been reattached and he’s pleased with the mobility I’ve been able to regain through physio.’

‘Well, that’s great…isn’t it?’ Her mum was astute enough to sense a but coming.

‘On top of an already weakened Achilles, I won’t be able to dance again…not professionally, anyway.’ Somehow saying the words aloud made them feel more real and she was hit by a wave of grief.

Even before Becca had visited the consultant, she’d known this would be the likely outcome. There was no way her body could endure the daily slog of classes and performances required to continue dancing, but despite this reasoning, her reaction to hearing the verdict had reduced her to a blubbering wreck.

Her mum pulled her into a hug. ‘Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.’

Becca savoured the moment. It’d been a long time since anyone had held her. She hadn’t realised how much she’d needed it. ‘It’s not like he didn’t warn me. I guess I was hoping for a miracle. Stupid, huh?’

‘Not stupid at all.’ Her mum rubbed her back. ‘Dancing is your life, your dream – of course you don’t want it to end.’

‘Let’s face it, it’s not like I had much of a career to lose. Working in clubs and on cruise ships is hardly performing at the Folies-Bergère.’ Tears threatened again, so she stepped away from her mum’s embrace and perched on a kitchen stool.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so much – it was the end of what might have been. All those years of auditions, rejections and doing her utmost to make it as a dancer had counted for nothing. She’d never got to experience the thrill of performing to sell-out arenas like her flatmates had done, touring with Take That or Kylie. Her one highlight had been starring in a pop video for a rap artist she couldn’t remember the name of.

She didn’t have the right body shape for ballet and her singing voice wasn’t good enough for musical theatre, so regular work was hard to come by. But she’d never given up, and despite being told ‘no’ ninety per cent of the time, she’d developed a thick skin and given it her all while hoping for that big break.

Her mum’s frown didn’t let up. ‘You’re a beautiful dancer and don’t ever think otherwise. It’s a tough business, but you did your best and that’s all that matters.’

She loved her mum’s positivity, but she felt too raw to be rational. ‘Doesn’t matter now. It’s over.’

Her mum looked pained. ‘So what are you going to do?’

That was the million-dollar question. What the hell was she going to do? ‘I have no idea.’

Life after dance was always going to be hard, but in hindsight, she should have come up with a contingency plan. Both her flatmates had combined dancing with studying for degrees, but Becca had barely scraped through GCSEs. Maybe she would have done better at school if her life hadn’t been turned upside down so cruelly. But the combination of her dad dying and getting her heart broken at sixteen had made focusing on school impossible.

Her mum rubbed her forehead, leaving a smudge of flour. ‘What about pursuing a career away from dance? You’ve tried a few things over the years.’

‘I’m not sure cleaning up after goats at London Zoo, or selling newspapers at Waterloo station count as viable career options.’

Most dancers took other jobs at some point during their careers, but she’d had more than her fair share of ‘filler jobs’, reluctant to commit to anything long-term in case her big break was just around the corner.

Her mum smiled. ‘Whatever you decide, you have my support – you know that. Take your time, lick your wounds and when you’re ready, get back out there. You’ve got a lot to offer; you just need to find a new dream.’

A new dream? Her mum made it sound so simple. What could possibly replace the buzz of performing? Dancing was a drug. It was all she’d ever been good at.

They were interrupted by Dr Mortimer yelling from the dining room. ‘I’m ready for my coffee, Mrs Roberts!’

‘Be with you in a tick!’ Her mum rolled her eyes. ‘Bloody man.’

Becca hopped off the stool. ‘Talking of dreams, what’s with the sewing room? I thought you had plans to open it up for guests?’

Her mum filled the cafetière. ‘I did, but there’s not much point when I only have two people staying. And besides, I enjoy sewing. I decided it was better to keep the space for myself.’

Becca loaded up the tea tray. ‘Fair enough, but there’s still quite a lot of refurb to be done on the guest house and you’re not—’

‘If you dare say “getting any younger” I’ll throttle you.’ Her mum’s gaze narrowed.

Becca held up her hands in mock surrender. ‘I was going to say…you won’t be able to finish the other rooms if you don’t bring in enough income.’

Her mum went over to the hob, rubbing the small of her back. ‘Yes, well, my plans have been put on hold for a while. Like I said, with only two guests it seems pointless to furnish extra rooms when there’s no demand.’

Becca wondered what was going on. The guest house boasted nine rooms, all with en suite facilities and separate living areas. It was situated in a prime location on the seafront. And although there were still two rooms unfurnished, the place was normally full, even during the winter months. ‘But without extra rooms, you won’t be able to expand if demand picks up.’

‘The Carpenter’s Room and the Floral Suite are available.’

‘Which are both single rooms. You need at least another double.’ Becca filled the kettle, trying to be useful. ‘What’s going on? Is there something wrong?’

‘There’s nothing wrong.’ Her mum was a terrible liar.

She tried again. ‘Are you having money problems? Is that it?’

Her mum turned to face her. ‘I’m fine, sweetheart. Really. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’

Becca recognised the expression on her mum’s face; it was the one she wore herself when trying to convince the world she was okay about her dance career being over. A brave façade concealing the pain lying beneath. Well, she wasn’t fine. And neither, it seemed, was her mother.

But further delving would have to wait, as her cousin appeared in the kitchen. Becca rushed over and threw her arms around her. ‘It’s so good to see you!’

Jodi hugged her back, and then pulled away. ‘What the boggin’ hell have you done to your hair?’

Becca grinned. ‘Like it?’

Her cousin studied Becca’s blue-tipped hair tied into high bunches. ‘On anyone else it would look bonkers. On you it looks ridiculously cool…even if you do resemble a Smurf.’

Becca laughed. ‘Talking of hair.’ She fluffed up Jodi’s mass of black curls. ‘What happened to the cornrows?’

‘Too high-maintenance. I decided it was time to embrace the ’fro.’

‘I like it. It’s bang on trend.’

Jodi laughed. ‘Listen to you, Gok Wan.’

‘When you’re stuck working in a newsagent’s booth at Waterloo station all day there’s not much else to do other than flick through magazines. The natural look is in, you’ll be pleased to know.’

Jodi laughed. ‘Yippee, fashionable, at last.’

Becca slipped her arm through Jodi’s. ‘I hope you don’t have plans tonight, because we have some serious catching up to do. You up for a night on the town?’

Jodi raised an eyebrow. ‘Does the Pope wear a silly hat?’

Becca laughed. ‘Excellent. I was thinking the Gin Tub. They have a tasting event.’

‘Sounds suitably inebriating. I could do with getting obliterated.’

Becca gave her a questioning look. ‘Didn’t the interview go well?’ She knew her cousin’s efforts to find a job were proving hard work.

‘Actually, it went okay. But it’s only a temporary position. I should hear tomorrow.’

They were interrupted by a screech. Maude had appeared and leapt into the air when the steam from the oven startled her.

Jodi intercepted and grabbed the cat, dangling her in front of Becca. ‘Fancy a cuddle?’ she said, enjoying an opportunity to tease her cousin.

Becca backed away. ‘No, thanks.’

‘She’s just being friendly.’ Jodi stroked the cat’s orange fur.

‘I’m serious, Jodi. Don’t you dare let her go. She’s out to get me.’

Jodi looked down at Maude. ‘Is Becca being a tinsy-winsy bit paranoid?’

When Jodi pretended to throw the cat, Becca ran over and hid behind her mum. ‘Mum, tell her!’

‘I’m not getting involved,’ her mum said, laughing. ‘Honestly, it’s like having a pair of teenagers in the house again. Give Maude to me,’ she said, taking the cat. ‘Now, will you troublemakers be wanting dinner later?’

‘No thanks. We’ll grab something when we’re out.’ And then Becca had a thought. ‘You’re welcome to join us, if you want?’

Her cousin did a double-take.

‘That’s sweet of you, but Maude and I are happy staying in and watching Corrie. Aren’t we, Maude?’ The cat hissed. ‘Manners, young lady. Come on, let’s put you outside so I can finish lunch… And don’t forget your key,’ her mum called back from the doorway. ‘I won’t be happy if I have to get up in the early hours to let you girls in like last time… And don’t drink too much.’

Becca winked at Jodi. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be good.’

‘Well, that’ll be a first,’ her mum shouted from outside.

Jodi raised an eyebrow and followed Becca upstairs. ‘What was that all about?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Inviting your mum to join us? You’ve never done that before.’

Becca shrugged. ‘I thought maybe she needed cheering up.’

Jodi stopped walking. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

‘I was hoping you’d tell me. She seems a little…off. You know, sad. She looks tired and she’s lost weight. She says she’s fine, but I think she’s hiding something.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’ Jodi looked stricken. ‘I’m a terrible niece.’

‘No, you’re not. And it’s always easier to spot something when you’re not around all the time.’ Becca followed her cousin into The Beach Room. The turquoise room was huge and sea-facing, with white shutters and a large ceiling fan to keep it cool during the height of summer.

Becca kicked off her boots and opened the double-slated doors leading to the built-in wardrobe. ‘What do you fancy for tonight, bohemian chic, or racy reggae?’

Jodi sat on the bed and unlaced her Converse trainers. ‘Don’t care. Nothing too revealing. Last time I spent half the night with my boob hanging out and not realising until the barman handed me a bulldog clip.’

Becca laughed. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’ She flicked through Jodi’s meagre collection of clothes. Mostly jeans, a few summer dresses, some nice items from the local boutiques in Brighton that her mum had bought her for various Christmases and birthdays. And then something caught her attention. She pulled out an orange tunic emblazoned with the words Pho-King Good on the front and laughed. ‘Why on earth have you still got this?’

Jodi didn’t reply, but her cheeks flushed.

Becca immediately stopped laughing. ‘Oh, God, you’re still working there, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because it’s embarrassing?’ Her cousin looked mortified. ‘It’s not great as jobs go, but Mr Pho trusts me and I’m earning money, even if it’s minimum wage. It’s better than being unemployed.’

Becca went over and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s so unfair that no one will give you a job. You have so much to offer.’

Jodi shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is. You know the worst part?’

Becca shook her head.

‘When the judge sentenced me to six weeks in prison, I didn’t think it was such a big deal. I’ll do my time and make amends, I thought.’ Tears appeared in her eyes. ‘When I was released, my probation officer told me I’d been given a second chance. I’d paid my debt to society and it was up to me whether I continued with a life of crime, or resisted reoffending and turned things around.’

‘And you have, Jodi.’

‘As far as everyone else is concerned, I can’t be trusted. I’m a risk that isn’t worth taking.’

Becca slid her arm around her cousin. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’

Jodi rested her head on Becca’s shoulder. ‘There is. Take me out and get me drunk.’

Becca hugged her. ‘That, I can do.’




Chapter Two (#u2ab0cc04-b5fa-5698-9f30-3595ee54622b)


Friday 8th September

Jodi washed her hands in the dingy restaurant bathroom, trying to remove the smell of burnt oil, lemongrass and fermented fish that had saturated her clothes and skin. It didn’t matter how many times she washed her tunic, there always seemed to be a hint of Thai curry invading her wardrobe. She didn’t mind working at the restaurant, she was grateful for the income, but waiting tables wasn’t her dream job.

She dried her hands and removed her tunic, rolling it into a tight ball and stuffing it into her bag, trying to contain the potent smells. Maybe she didn’t deserve a dream. Perhaps she’d given up her right to lead a better life when she’d gone off the rails and ended up in prison. Maybe karma was wreaking its revenge.

But if that was the case, then she wouldn’t have been offered a job at the Starlight Playhouse, would she? It might not be permanent, but it was the type of job she’d always wanted.

When she’d attended the interview, she’d assumed it would go the same way as all the others. The interviewer would switch from being impressed by her first-class business degree and glowing references from her tutors, to discovering her criminal record, and the vibe would instantly change. Awkward glances would be exchanged, followed by concerns about her ‘lack of work experience’ or ‘suitability for the position’.

No matter how hard she’d studied, how many nights she’d volunteered at the homeless shelter, or how much commitment she’d shown over the years waiting tables for Mr Pho at the local Thai restaurant, she couldn’t seem to escape her past.

But Carolyn Elliot-Wentworth hadn’t been put off by Jodi’s stint in prison. And if she’d remembered Jodi from her days spent attending the youth club at the Starlight Playhouse a decade earlier, she hadn’t acknowledged it. Instead, she’d offered Jodi the position of business manager for a fixed three-month period. The salary wasn’t great, and it was only twenty hours a week, but it would give her some much-needed office experience.

Plus, if Becca could be persuaded to apply for the dance teacher position being advertised, she might even get to work alongside her cousin. It was almost perfect.

Jodi had one reservation. It meant working at the scene of her teenage misdemeanours. Was that a good or bad thing? She didn’t like being reminded of her past. But maybe that was the point. It was karma again, ensuring she could never escape her mistakes. A daily reminder that she needed to stay on the straight and narrow.

She said goodnight to Mr Pho and headed into the street, unsurprised to find it full of revellers. It was Saturday night. The party had only just started.

Like most of the locals, she usually avoided using the main road that led away from the railway station down to the seafront. The area was frequented by pale-skinned out-of-towners who’d travelled down for the weekend, eager to get pissed, hook up and start fights. The Pho-King Good restaurant was situated in the heart of the tourist area. As such, it attracted large groups of twenty-somethings, eager to line their stomachs with cheap curry before consuming barrel-loads of booze.

One such group were hanging around outside the restaurant. They’d been in earlier, already drunk, making her job torturous. She was used to dealing with unruly behaviour, attempts to chat her up and ask whether she had a boyfriend. It was all part of the job. But she’d be lying if she said it didn’t upset her when reference was made to her ethnicity. They say alcohol makes a person tell the truth, that inebriated people become brutally honest and offer unfiltered opinions. Whereas a sober person would keep their prejudices under wraps, a pissed person might not.

One of the guys whistled as she walked by. ‘Hey, sexy.’

He stunk of smoke. Yet another pungent smell to add to the stench infiltrating her clothes.

‘Anyone ever told you, you look like Thandie Newton? I wouldn’t kick her out of bed,’ he said, showing off to his mates.

Jodi ignored him.

Her relationships with men had been influenced by several things, most of which revolved around her upbringing. Apart from witnessing her mum shacking up with numerous blokes, her own destructive behaviour had attracted a certain ‘type’ – one she was no longer interested in. As with job hunting, man hunting had proved disappointing. She’d had one semi-serious relationship in her early twenties, but the moment she’d plucked up the courage to tell Ned about her criminal past, he’d suddenly developed a desire to go travelling. Despite promising to contact her on his return, he never did.

And that was the problem: if they were decent blokes, they didn’t want a girlfriend with a criminal record. And who could blame them?

The guy stepped in front of her, blocking her route. ‘Want to join the party?’ He offered her the joint he was smoking.

The smell acted as a trigger, a time capsule that transported her back to her teens. Of waking up with no recollection of where she’d been, or what she’d done the previous evening. Of nights spent in police stations waiting for her mum to pick her up. Aunty Ruby showing up instead and taking her back to the guest house to sober up. Crying her eyes out, as she dealt with the comedown of a drug-fuelled night.

She’d grown up in Hove, the posh end of town – although there’d been nothing privileged about her upbringing. Her mother had lacked direction, until she’d met Ratty. To this day, his real name remained unknown. All Jodi knew was that he was a musician from Jamaica, who played steel drums in a reggae band and spent one summer in 1988 touring the UK with her mother in tow.

By the time he left England and headed home to the Caribbean, Adele Simmons was in love, addicted to the ‘groupie’ lifestyle and six weeks pregnant. Unfortunately for Adele, it was all downhill after that. She flitted from one man to another, trying to find another Ratty, and increasingly annoyed that her youth, fun and night time partying had been curtailed by a screaming baby.

Consequently, Jodi grew up without a father and with a mother who resented her. She’d accepted being passed from one relative to another, while her mother entertained numerous male ‘friends’. She did what the other kids did, watched films at the Duke of York cinema, hung out at the skate park and ice-skated at the now closed Ice Cube. When she reached her teens she realised her mum’s lifestyle wasn’t normal. Her reaction to discovering that her mum was the talk of the school gates, was to rebel. When Adele failed to respond to her daughter’s pleading for her to change her ways, Jodi switched to behaviour that ensured her mum had to pay attention to her. But even that hadn’t worked.

She preferred to avoid thinking about her mother, who was currently shacked up with her latest man in Glasgow and no longer part of her life.

Side-stepping the guy with the joint, Jodi walked off, ignoring his drunken suggestion that she ‘go back to where she came from’.

Ignorant arse. She came from bloody Brighton.

Her teenage years hadn’t all been rotten. Her best memory was from the summer of 2005 when one of her favourite bands, The Kooks, had moved into a property in Adelaide Crescent and used to sit outside on the lawn practising their latest songs. She and Becca had felt so cool, so grown-up hanging out with them. The memory made her smile.

But her smile faded when she turned into East Street and saw a homeless man lying on the ground. He was wrapped in a blanket, his worldly goods stored in carrier bags next to him. She dug out her tips from the night and placed the coins into the hat lying next to him.

‘Would you like details of the homeless shelter?’ she asked, crouching down, but he was asleep. She tucked his hat under the blanket, out of sight, and left him alone.

Her life could so easily have ended up the same way. Aunty Ruby was the reason it hadn’t. Her aunty had taken her in after she’d left prison, helped her study for her GCSEs, A levels, and had been thrilled when Jodi finally obtained her degree last year.

When Jodi reached the guest house, she found the place in virtual darkness. Pushing open the front door, she spotted Mrs Busby carrying a tea tray across the foyer. It was a nightly ritual. Two glasses of hot milk, one for her and the other for Dr Mortimer, accompanied by a packet of Milky Ways.

Jodi ducked behind the front desk, unwilling to be collared and grilled. Neither of her aunty’s long-standing guests knew about her past and she wanted to keep it that way. But it was getting increasingly tricky to keep the truth hidden, especially when the pair couldn’t understand why ‘a nice girl like her’ seemed so inept at finding a job.

While she was hiding, she heard a noise coming from the study. When she was sure Mrs Busby had disappeared, she crept over and peered around the study door.

She loved her uncle’s old study. There was something about the smell: a mixture of worn leather and old books. It was also the room where her aunty spent a good deal of time. It seemed to give her comfort.

Over the years, books on gardening, horticulture and organic produce had been added to the tall bookcases, already crammed with publications about science, religion, cricket and war history. The dark green carpet was covered with a thick woven cream rug and a vase of fresh flowers adorned the window ledge, next to the nautical weather predictor. But other than that, it remained as her uncle had left it – more of a safe haven than a shrine. A place her aunty could retreat to when life got too much.

Her aunty was sitting in the wingchair, her legs tucked up, spinning the chair around, faster and faster, with a glazed look.

Jodi leant against the doorframe. ‘Bad day?’

Her aunty nearly fell off the chair. ‘Goodness, you made me jump.’

‘Sorry.’ Jodi went into the room. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine, love. I was lost in thought. I’ve been trying to balance the books.’

Jodi noticed a pile of invoices on the desk. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Other than my lack of enthusiasm? Not really.’

Guilt kicked Jodi in the ribs. Why hadn’t she realised her aunty was struggling? Her cousin had spotted it straight away. ‘Do you have to do this tonight? Can’t it wait until morning?’

‘Possibly, but I’ve been putting it off for over a week.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not my favourite pastime, but the books won’t balance themselves.’ Flicking on the desk lamp, her aunty reached across for her reading glasses. ‘Of course, it might help if the books actually tallied for once. Dealing with the accounts was always Derek’s area of expertise.’ Her expression turned melancholy. ‘Still, it wasn’t like the poor man expected to die so young. It took us both by surprise.’

Jodi dumped her bag on the floor and went over to the desk. ‘You seem dejected, Aunty.’

‘Oh, ignore me, love. My back’s playing up. It always makes me crabby. Anyway, how are you? Busy night at the restaurant?’

‘Hectic.’ She perched on the desk, noticing a discarded travel brochure in the waste paper bin. ‘Have you been to see your GP?’

Her aunty pushed her hands into her lower back, stretching out the muscles. ‘It’s nothing a hot bath and a decent rest won’t solve.’ She stopped. ‘And losing a few pounds.’ She visibly sucked in her tummy.

Jodi smiled. ‘You look fine, but you could do with a holiday.’

‘If only.’ Her aunty rolled her eyes. ‘I think the five-a.m. starts are taking their toll. If I’m not in bed by nine p.m. these days, my body objects.’ She let out a sigh. ‘Mind you, my body seems to object whatever I do, so I’m not sure why I bother.’

Jodi rescued the brochure from the bin and flattened out the pages. The front cover depicted a white boat cutting through deep blue water, advertising a cruise around the Mediterranean. ‘What you need is a change of routine. A wise person once told me, if you carry on doing what you’ve always done, you’ll only ever be what you’ve always been.’

Aunty Ruby laughed. ‘Very profound…Ghandi?’

‘You, actually.’

‘I said that? Goodness.’

‘It was good advice.’ Jodi gestured to the brochure. ‘Yours?’

Aunty Ruby looked away. ‘When would I get the chance for a holiday?’ Her cheeks had coloured, so Jodi knew the brochure was hers.

Her aunty resumed spinning on the chair. ‘But perhaps I do need a change. When I opened up this morning I caught the reflection of a middle-aged woman staring back at me in the glass. It took me a moment to realise the woman was me. I’m sure the last time I looked my hair was still brown. Now look at it?’ She pointed to her wavy bob. ‘I look like Miss Marple.’

Jodi laughed. ‘You do not. But if you don’t like it, why don’t you colour it?’

‘I’d look like mutton dressed as lamb.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. The colours you can buy these days look really natural. And besides, only the other day you were telling me how much you admired Helen Mirren. And I’m sure she dyes her hair.’ Jodi placed the travel brochure on the desk, hoping the enticement of a holiday might prove tempting.

Her aunty looked thoughtful. ‘Helen Mirren, eh?’ And then the chair stopped spinning. It had unwound in height. She peered over the top of the desk, making Jodi laugh with her miffed expression.

Maude interrupted them, sauntering into the room carrying something mangled between her teeth. She dropped the carcass by Jodi’s feet and looked up, radiating an air of arrogance as she turned tail and sauntered out again.

‘That’s right, leave me to clear it up,’ her aunty called after her, struggling to get out of the unwound chair.

Jodi went over to help, steering her aunty towards the door. ‘I’ll deal with this. Pour yourself a glass of wine, have a warm bath and then go to bed. In the morning, I’ll sort out the accounts.’

‘Oh, you don’t have to do that.’

Jodi looked at her. ‘Actually, I do. In fact, I don’t know why I haven’t offered before. What’s the point of studying for a business degree, if you don’t use it to help your family? You’ve helped me enough over the years; it’s time I repaid the favour.’

Jodi might be struggling to persuade an employer she was trustworthy and loyal, or convince a guy she wasn’t trouble waiting to happen, but she could prove to her family that their belief in her was justified. Because without them, she’d be lying in a gutter under a blanket somewhere…like that homeless guy, wondering what the hell had gone wrong with her life.





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