…continued
One moment the woman was standing there; the next she was gone. Tom blinked. Had she been an apparition? He turned back to his car, wondering if he was hallucinating. It was almost as if…? No, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be her. He looked back up at the fire exit. No one was there.
His mind was playing tricks on him. He was tired and stressed. He hadn’t slept much over the past week, thanks to Izzy refusing to sign the flat sale contracts, claiming she was ‘having second thoughts’ about selling. An emotional exchange of words had followed with him trying to convince her that selling was the right thing, and her pleading to ‘give them another go’. By the time they’d finally exchanged contracts he was exhausted.
What with the added pressure of trying to juggle court cases and manage his mother’s affairs, sleep had become an impossibility. His asthma was bad too, to the point where he’d been prescribed Clenil Modulite to reduce the inflammation in his lungs and prevent a full-blown attack. He’d been advised to reduce his stress levels, which was laughable.
He looked at his car. The windscreen and bonnet were covered in white paint and there was a dent in his front wing. He kicked the rear tyre. ‘Shit.’
He wasn’t about to start cleaning up the mess wearing his suit. He had a change of clothes in the boot along with a few personal belongings. The rest of his stuff was in storage. The decision regarding where to live following the flat sale had been decided when he’d received a voice message from his mother telling him she was off to rehab. The Starlight Playhouse would be his home for the next eight weeks.
He glanced up at the fire door one last time, just to check the paint-thrower hadn’t reappeared. She hadn’t. Whoever it was, she wouldn’t get far. And when he found her, he’d give her a piece of his mind – whether she was a dead ringer for his childhood sweetheart, or not.
He walked around to the front of the building. The grounds stretched ahead of him looking impressive. Eddie had kept on top of things, which was one less problem to worry about. He didn’t visit the playhouse often. For the most part he could manage his mother’s affairs remotely. But the news that she was off to rehab meant staying in London was no longer an option. Not at the moment, anyway.
The reception area hadn’t changed. Neither had the woman behind the front desk. She was a scary apparition, her black apparel a reflection of her sombre personality. Vivienne was old-school. Her father had served the family at a time when the Starlight Playhouse was still a manor house and she’d been brought up to revere the aristocracy. She believed in the hierarchy of position within a household and didn’t take kindly to those of lower rank ‘acting above their station’. But she was fiercely loyal to his mother, so he could forgive her occasional snobbery. ‘Hi, Vivienne. Is my mother around?’
‘Master Thomas, what an unexpected surprise.’ She smoothed down the front of her black dress. ‘Madam will be so thrilled to see you. As am I. You couldn’t have called at a more opportune moment.’ She lowered her voice. ‘There have been some developments concerning the playhouse. I don’t want to alarm you, but I fear madam is not thinking rationally.’
His mother’s actions were rarely rational, so this wasn’t ground-breaking news. However, he wasn’t about to start gossiping about his mother’s mental state. ‘Is she in the office?’
‘Madam is upstairs packing. Has she mentioned her…trip?’
She made it sound like his mother was heading off to Venice for the weekend. ‘She has. Thank you, Vivienne. I’ll head up and see her.’
‘I hope this means you’ll be taking over management of the playhouse in her absence, Master Thomas?’
He glanced back. ‘That’s the plan.’
Vivienne smiled. The kind of smile a snake would inflict upon a defenceless mouse before devouring it.
He climbed over the rope cordoning off the private quarters and headed up the grand staircase, patting the bust of Uncle Henry as he passed by. Large oil paintings hung from the walls, depicting his ancestors in stately attire, from full battle regalia, to women wearing elaborate gowns and bored expressions. His mother had descended from a titled family, but his paternal family came from Billericay, diluting his blue blood somewhat. And he was fine with that.
The manor house was spread over three floors. The basement wasn’t used anymore. It mainly stored heirlooms, paintings and furniture, moved down there when the ground floor had been converted into an arts centre. The east tower wasn’t used either, other than by him. He was the only person who’d preferred the solitude of the tower to the drama below, spending his teenage years trying to escape his father’s temper and his mother’s drunkenness.
The galley corridor was unchanged, as were three of the original bed chambers. Dark wooden panelling covered the walls, adorned with shields and spears and rich fabric tapestries. The furniture was chunky, ornate and uncomfortable. During the renovations, four of the bed chambers had been converted into a living area, and his mother’s private study was also up here. Now the place looked tired, dusty and smelt of damp.
He found his mother in her study, flicking through old photos. He leant against the doorframe and watched her. He was glad she’d booked herself into rehab. But he wondered what had changed her mind. She’d always resisted when he’d suggested it before. ‘Hi, Mum.’
Her face broke into a smile. ‘Tom, darling!’ She moved around the desk to greet him.
He met her halfway, pulling her into an embrace. She smelt of coconut, which was a massive improvement on day-old gin. She’d lost weight and he could feel her ribs. But she was sober and didn’t appear hungover, so they might be able to have a sensible conversation. ‘So, big news, I hear?’
She drew back and looked at him, her eyes scanning his face. ‘I’m sorry I left a message. I should’ve spoken to you in person, but I didn’t want an interrogation. I needed time to adjust to my decision.’
He frowned. ‘When have I ever interrogated you?’
‘Oh, darling, you do it all the time. And it’s okay, I deserve it. I know it’s because you care.’ She turned back to the desk and picked up a brochure. ‘The programme lasts eight weeks. Here are the details.’
He took the brochure, still smarting over her accusation. ‘How did you find this place? Have they been recommended? Do they have a good reputation?’
She gave him one of her looks.
‘What? This isn’t an interrogation, this is a concerned son asking his mother what research she’s done to ensure this is the best place to get help.’
She tilted her head to one side, flecks of grey visible in her blonde hair. ‘The place was recommended by my GP. It has an excellent reputation.’
‘Good.’ He read the blurb on the front. ‘The Sunrise Rehabilitation Centre boasts a safe and nurturing environment, offering personalised treatment plans and twenty-four-hour care.’
‘I visited the place on Friday. I’ll have my own room, daily one-to-one counselling and group therapy sessions.’ She sounded like she was describing a fancy spa retreat.
He tried to mask his hurt. ‘Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Because you would’ve taken over, and this was something I needed to do on my own.’
Wow. A sober Carolyn Elliot-Wentworth was a lot more assertive than her pissed counterpart.
‘They also have music and art therapy, and offer yoga and meditation, which helps with the detox process. That’s the worst bit, apparently.’ She turned away, busying herself with papers on the desk. ‘Detox can take between seven to ten days, but I’ll be supported throughout.’
He wasn’t about to let her struggle alone. ‘You’ll have me too, so you won’t be on your own.’
She turned to look at him. ‘No visitors, I’m afraid.’
He frowned. ‘For how long?’
‘The duration of the programme.’
‘They can’t ban your son from visiting.’
‘I’ve signed a contract. I’ve agreed to the terms.’
He flicked through the brochure. ‘Where’s the number? I’ll call them.’
She removed her glasses. ‘I know you mean well, but you need to let go. Just as I have to.’
‘What does that mean?’
She paused, as if trying to assimilate her thoughts. ‘I’m trapped in a vicious cycle of shame and guilt. The only way of maintaining long-term abstinence is to face the root cause of my addiction, which will be painful and no doubt humiliating. Until I’ve faced my demons, I won’t be able to move forwards. And that will be impossible to do if I know my son will be there to witness my collapse.’ She cupped his cheek. ‘Family will be invited to a meeting once the programme is complete to discuss supporting me on the road to recovery. I would love for you to come to that.’
He swallowed back the lump in his throat. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Thank you, darling.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Now, let me finish packing and then we can grab a coffee before you head back to London.’
‘I’m not going back to London. I’m staying here.’
She seemed confused. ‘Why?’
‘To manage the playhouse, of course. If you’re going to be away for eight weeks, then someone needs to run the place.’
‘Which is why I’ve appointed a deputy.’
‘I know Vivienne’s loyal, but she’s not up to taking on the playhouse.’
She sighed. ‘It’s not Vivienne.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Look, all you need to know is that the playhouse is in safe hands. So, thank you for the offer, but it’s not necessary.’ She walked out of the study.
What the hell was going on? He followed her. ‘Why are you being so cagey?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. Who is this safe pair of hands?’
‘There’s two of them actually.’
‘Okay, so what are their names?’ He caught up with her by the bust of Uncle Henry. ‘Mum, please. If you’re not here, then I need to know who I’m dealing with. Supposing something happens? An emergency?’
She stopped walking. ‘Fine. I’m leaving the running of the playhouse to Becca Roberts and Jodi Simmons.’ Having dropped her little bombshell, she hurried down the staircase, leaving him too shocked to move.
So, it had been her.
And then his brain caught up with his ears. ‘You’re leaving them to run the playhouse?’
He followed his mother to reception. ‘I’ll be in my office, if anyone needs me, Vivienne.’
‘Of course, madam.’ Vivienne looked a little stunned when her boss slammed the office door.
‘Mother, wait up. We’re not done.’ He ran across reception.
‘Is everything okay, Master Thomas?’ Vivienne gave him a quizzical look.
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I take it you’ve heard the news.’ She lowered her voice, checking no one could overhear. ‘I think madam is under some sort of voodoo spell. She’s been brainwashed by that dark girl into handing over the playhouse. You have to make her see reason, Master Thomas.’
As much as the idea of Becca and Jodi running the playhouse filled him with horror, his objections were based on historical fact, not the colour of Jodi’s skin. Voodoo spell? Christ, the woman was ignorant. ‘Thank you, Vivienne. I’ll handle this.’
He entered the office to find his mother rummaging through the desk drawer. ‘Where are my spare keys?’
‘Mum, will you please talk to me.’ He closed the door, preventing Vivienne from eavesdropping. ‘How the hell are Becca and Jodi involved with the playhouse?’
‘Becca teaches dance here.’ She unearthed the contents of the drawer. ‘She moved back to Brighton to recuperate from an injury. I offered her a job.’
He tried not to conjure up an image of Becca dancing. He didn’t need the distraction. ‘Right. And Jodi?’
‘She’s my new business manager.’ She sifted through the wastepaper bin, emptying the contents onto the desk. ‘Where are those keys?’
‘You gave the job to Jodi Simmons? Did you know she has a criminal record?’
She didn’t look up. ‘Yes, she told me.’
‘And you think that makes her a suitable candidate to take charge of the playhouse, do you? To look after the finances and handle money?’
His mother stopped searching and pinned him with a disappointed look. ‘Since when did you become so judgemental? I thought I’d raised you better than that.’
‘This isn’t a judgement. It’s a fact. She was jailed for theft.’
‘Yes, and since then she’s turned her life around. She’s obtained a business degree and proved herself to be trustworthy.’
He seriously doubted that.
‘I don’t know how I managed without her,’ she said. ‘I fully intend to offer her a permanent position when our finances improve.’
‘They won’t improve with those two in charge.’
‘You’re being childish.’
He stepped closer. ‘And you’re being taken for a fool. Please reconsider, I’m begging you. This is a huge mistake.’
She gave him a steely glare. ‘I’ve offered Becca and Jodi joint running of the place for the next eight weeks and I’m not about to retract my offer. No matter what you say.’
‘Fine. Have it your way, but at least give me an equal say. I’ve come here intending to stay for the duration of your treatment. I have a vested interest in the playhouse too. This is my family home. And besides, the Starlight Playhouse is your dream. Please let me co-manage it with them, for my sake, if not for your own.’
She sighed, no doubt worn down by arguing. ‘Fine.’
‘Thank you.’ He needed to save her from herself. She wasn’t thinking clearly.
‘But don’t take over and make all the decisions. You may not trust them, but I do. They’ve brought more positive change in the last month than I’ve managed in twenty years, so listen to their ideas and respect their opinions. Okay?’ She held out her hand, forcing him to cement their agreement with a handshake. ‘Thank you… Ah, here they are!’ She found the keys under the desk. ‘Now, I need to finish packing. Jodi has gone to the bank to withdraw funds—’
‘Is that wise?’
She folded her arms across her chest.
He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Fine, whatever.’
‘If you’re staying, you’ll need to make up one of the guest suites.’
‘I’ll stay in my old room.’
She looked incredulous. ‘It’s freezing up there.’
‘The fresh air will do me good.’
Wasn’t that an understatement.
He marched outside, his chest tightening with every breath. So much for reducing his stress levels. He felt like he was about to explode. The world was conspiring against him. His father, Izzy, and now his mother, forcing him to relive a time in his life he’d rather forget.
He rested his hands on his knees, trying to draw in deep breaths. His bloody inhaler was in the car. A car that was currently covered in white paint. White paint that had been thrown by Becca Roberts. ‘Damn it.’
He closed his eyes. His mother had no idea what she’d done.
He could still remember with clarity the night his life had started to unravel. They’d been at one of those house parties where adults were absent and trouble escalated as word spread that a good time was to be had. Booze, drugs. Never his scene, but a factor whenever Jodi Simmons was present. The party had got out of hand. The neighbours had called the police, complaining of noise and the smell of cannabis. The sound of sirens had sent the kids running before the police arrived. But a drunken and drug-fuelled Jodi had tied the back of his scooter to the garage door in an attempt to be ‘funny’. When he’d driven off with Becca riding pillion, the scooter had flipped and they’d ended up in an ambulance being treated for cuts and bruises. When his dad had arrived at A&E to collect him, he’d had a fit. Tom had been grounded for weeks, despite not having actually done anything wrong.
And that was the thing about Becca and Jodi: they’d dragged him into their antics. Maybe not Becca so much, but in the end, even she’d had a brush with the law. It was trouble he could do without.
Rubbing his chest, he continued walking, aiming for the back of the playhouse where his paint-splattered car was parked. He heard running water before he turned the corner. The sight stopped him in his tracks. Becca Roberts was washing his car.
For a moment, he just stared. It was like he’d been transported back in time. She was wearing white overalls and pink Converse trainers, her blonde hair had blue ends, tied into bunches that swung about as she rubbed paint away from his windscreen. She was holding a hose in one hand, a sponge in the other, making more mess than she’d created. A surge of something filled his gut – he had no idea what. Dread, probably.
When she dropped the sponge, picked it up and resumed rubbing, his temper flared. ‘For crying out loud!’
His yell startled her. She turned, still holding the hose…and sprayed him with water.
Cold hit him like a hammer blow, sucking the air from his lungs.
He couldn’t move; his body had gone into shock.
Becca tried to redirect the hose, tripped over the bucket and soaked him again.
Self-preservation kicked in. He ran over to the wall and turned off the outside tap. He was drenched. His suit, his shoes, his hair. Wet clothes clung to his skin, uncomfortable and cold. He turned to glare at her. ‘You did that on purpose.’
Becca was on the ground where she’d fallen, water dripping from the end of the hose. ‘Of course I didn’t. You startled me. What were you thinking, shouting at me?’
‘Because you dropped the sponge and didn’t rinse it out.’
‘So?’ She clambered to her feet, favouring one leg.
‘The ground is covered in grit. You’ve probably scratched my paintwork.’
She threw her hands in the air. ‘Oh, pardon me for trying to do you a favour.’
He marched over, his blood boiling. ‘A favour? You were the one who threw paint over it in the first place.’
She looked up at him. Her wide blue eyes, pink lips and cute nose forever imprinted on his brain. ‘It was an accident, you arsehole. You seriously think I’d stoop so low as to chuck paint over your car?’
‘Where you’re concerned, anything’s possible.’
She jabbed his chest with a finger. ‘Don’t you dare presume to know me. You haven’t seen me for twelve years.’
‘No, but you’re still capable of causing mayhem, by the looks of it.’
‘You arrogant arse.’ She smacked him in the face with the sponge.
It didn’t hurt, but he was shocked nonetheless. Too stunned to speak, he stood there, watery paint trickling down his face and onto his suit jacket. When he found his voice, he said, ‘Expect a dry-cleaning bill.’
‘Do what you like. As long you piss off back to London, I don’t care.’ She turned, kicking the gravel, dirtying her pink trainers.
‘Believe me, I’d love to, but I’m stuck here babysitting you and your bloody cousin for the next eight weeks.’
She stilled. It was like someone had electrocuted her. Even her blue bunches stopped swaying. She turned slowly to face him. ‘What did you say?’
‘That’s right. I’ve come back to manage the playhouse while Mum’s in rehab. Imagine my surprise when she told me she’d put you and your cousin in charge. I don’t know what your game is, but if you’re planning anything dodgy think again. Because I’ll also be here co-managing with you, and I won’t be as easy to impress.’
The colour drained from her face.
He knew the feeling.