Eddie returned minus the bird, now with a suitcase in tow.
Her aunty jumped away from the mirror.
Eddie pretended he hadn’t noticed, and then spotted Jodi. ‘Hey, there, kiddo.’
‘Hi, Eddie. You found us okay, then?’ If she wasn’t mistaken, her aunty was being checked out. Jodi hadn’t seen that coming.
Flustered, her aunty grabbed a key from a hook behind the counter. ‘Can I take that for you?’ She nodded to the suitcase by his feet.
He picked up the case. ‘Thank you, I can manage.’ He turned to Jodi and handed her a folded piece of paper. ‘From Leon,’ he said, squeezing her hand.
She unfolded the note, recognising Leon’s looping handwriting. Chapter thirteen – Using Spies. All wars are, at their heart, information wars.
Puzzled, she glanced up.
Eddie winked at her. She wondered if he knew what had happened on Friday. But then, maybe it was better not to mention it. She didn’t want to embarrass the man.
She pocketed the note, resolving to revisit chapter thirteen as soon as possible.
Mrs Busby appeared from the breakfast room. She stopped when she saw them. Despite being eighty-something the woman was extremely astute. Not much got past her, which was a trifle awkward when you lived under the same roof. If her aunty ever did decide to partake in a reckless fling, it’d be in the local paper before the week was out.
‘I see we have a new visitor, Mrs Roberts.’ The delight on the old lady’s face was flagrant. Jodi half expected her to rub her hands together in glee.
‘We do, Mrs Busby. If you’ll excuse me, I’m just showing the gentleman to his room.’
Mrs Busby didn’t budge. ‘Oh, my,’ she said, beaming up at Eddie from her five-foot-nothing stance. ‘You’re a handsome devil.’
As far as Jodi could see, this was one of the few advantages of getting older. You could get away with saying anything.
Eddie held out his hand. ‘Eddie Moriantez. Pleased to meet you.’
The old lady clasped hold with both hands. ‘I’m Mrs Busby. One of Mrs Roberts’s long-term residents, along with Dr Mortimer. Have you met the doctor?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘He’s deaf, so speak up.’ Mrs Busby twisted his left hand upwards for closer inspection. ‘Not married?’
Eddie looked stunned by the direct line of questioning. ‘Err…widowed.’
The old lady sighed. ‘Oh, dear me. Mrs Roberts is a widow.’ She lowered her voice, as though Aunty Ruby wasn’t standing there. ‘Heart attack. Twelve years ago. Very tragic.’
Eddie looked uncomfortable.
Aunty Ruby looked mortified.
‘It’s not right for a lady to be on her own. Don’t you agree, Mr Moriarty?’
Eddie went from looking sympathetic to bursting out laughing.
Jodi doubted Mrs Busby had realised her slip. Eddie might have classic film-star looks, but the baddie professor in Sherlock Holmes? Hardly.
Oblivious, the old woman carried on. ‘When did your good lady wife die?’
Eddie stopped laughing. ‘A…a few years ago,’ he said, trying to pull his hands away. His eyes shifted to Aunty Ruby, a plea for help.
Her aunty took the hint. ‘Let’s not keep Mr Moriantez hanging around, Mrs Busby. I’m sure he’d like to get settled in his room.’
Eddie managed to extract his hands. ‘It was good to meet you, but you’ll have to excuse me. I don’t want to keep Mrs Roberts waiting.’
‘Oh, call her Ruby, it’s much more intimate. Don’t you think?’
The noise her aunty made sounded slightly strangulated.
‘You be sure to call on me if you need anything. I’m down the landing on the right. The Arc Deco Suite.’
Eddie raised his eyebrows.
Yep, he didn’t need to point out it was odd. But no more so than Dr Mortimer choosing the Moulin Rouge Boudoir.
When Mrs Busby finally departed, her aunty turned to Eddie. ‘I’m sorry about that. Mrs Busby can be a little…intrusive at times.’
Eddie grinned. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
For a moment, their eyes locked.
Jodi wondered if she should make a discreet exit.
But then her aunty seemed to check herself. ‘Would you care to follow me?’ She went over to the staircase.
Eddie followed, his eyes homing in on her backside.
Jodi followed too, trying not to laugh.
‘Nice structure,’ Eddie said, halfway up the stairs.
Her aunty spun around, nearly losing her balance. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He looked surprised. ‘The building…nice structure.’
‘Oh, right.’
Jodi had to cover her mouth to stop herself laughing.
Her aunty led him down the hallway towards the Carpenter’s Room. When she turned to show him the room, she discovered he wasn’t behind her.
Eddie was looking in the room opposite. ‘Is this the room?’
Her aunty laughed. ‘The Floral Room? I’m not sure Laura Ashley bedspread and curtains would suit. Not unless you’re gay.’ And then realising what she’d said, she slapped her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s none of my business if you’re…you know…whatever.’
Eddie let her flounder for a few seconds. ‘Not gay,’ he said, joining her in the Carpenter’s Room.
Her aunty looked relieved.
Eddie wheeled his suitcase into the room. ‘What a fantastic room.’
The Carpenter’s Room was painted dark grey with yellow fabric accents. All the furniture was bespoke, made by her uncle. The artwork on the walls and the wood-burner slotted into the alcove softened the edges. It was the perfect room for Eddie. Manly, yet sensitive. Just like him.
Rather alarmingly, her aunty’s hair matched the colour of the cushions. They really needed to do something about that. Not that it seemed to bother Eddie. He was looking at her aunty like she was Julia Roberts.
‘I’m so glad you like the room.’ Aunty Ruby walked over to the door. ‘I’ll get you some towels. Perhaps after lunch I could trouble you to fill in a registration card. I need to keep the books in order.’
‘No problem.’ He sat on the bed and ran his hand over the grey duvet cover.
It was a few seconds before her aunty dragged her gaze away from the bed.
Jodi followed her into the hallway. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Absolutely peachy,’ she said, opening the airing cupboard door. ‘I think plain white towels might be best. I’m not sure I could cope with a six-foot Charles Bronson wandering about the place in floral terry towelling.’
Charles Bronson. Just as Jodi had thought.
Aunty Ruby was smitten.
For the first time since Friday night, Jodi felt a rush of happiness.
Chapter Nineteen
Saturday 28th October
Becca felt like a football coach standing on the sidelines yelling instructions at her players. Only she wasn’t dealing with a bunch of muddy youths running around a pitch, she was trying to synchronise nine children into moving across the floor in unison to the song Chandelier. It wasn’t so much an elegant and sophisticated ballet routine, more like prop-forwards entering a rugby scrum.
‘Listen to the music,’ she yelled, trying to hold her phone steady as she videoed them. ‘You’re out of time. Wait…wait…GO…jeté…pirouette…ronde…no, ronde, Ben!’ The poor kid looked confused.
The showcase was in exactly four weeks. Had she been too optimistic in trying to get them to perform a routine? Based on this morning’s debacle, hell yes.
On the positive side, her class size had increased. The latest pupils to join were a pair of cuties who had natural ability and already knew the basics. She’d waited for their mothers to criticise her lack of teaching ability, but so far they seemed quite happy with her methods – and this was their third week. Definite progress.
At least the dance studio was more presentable now.
Unlike the art studio and grand ballroom, which had suffered due to the recent storms.
‘You need to move quicker,’ she yelled, pointing to where Ben should be standing. ‘That’s it, turn your feet out…good boy.’ He was an adorable child, but he had the attention span of a goldfish. ‘Big finish, everyone! Nice sweeping arms…relevé…plié…and slowly move into arabesque… Lovely. Well done.’
She gave them a thumbs-up as the music ended, even though most of them had fallen out of the final arabesque. Focusing on a polished ending was a challenge for another week.
‘Gather round,’ she called, beckoning them over. ‘Great class, everyone. You should be really pleased with yourselves.’ She was rewarded with smiling faces. ‘I know the routine isn’t perfect, but there’s plenty of time to work on it.’
Who was she trying to fool, them or her? But the advice she’d received from Rosie had been spot on. Kids responded better to praise than constant criticism.
‘You just need to practise at home. We’ve only got a few rehearsals left before the showcase. So I’m going to email your parents the video of the routine, and I want you to spend half an hour every day going over the steps. Can you do that for me?’
They all nodded. A couple of girls tugged at their too-tight hair-buns, eager to be released from the confines of ballet attire.
Phoebe raised her hand. ‘What about costumes, Miss? Can we wear tutus?’
The other girls nodded excitedly, but Ben started crying, no doubt traumatised by the idea of wearing a tutu as well as getting the routine wrong.
‘The costumes haven’t been decided yet, Phoebe.’ Becca went over and gave Ben a hug, trying not to fret over how she was going to finance a set of show costumes with no budget. ‘I’ll let you know in the next couple of weeks. Well done for today and see you all next Saturday.’
The end of class was always manic. Parents tried to locate lost items of clothing, children ran off before their parents were ready and mothers tried to coordinate diaries, play-dates, and lifts to next week’s class.
Ben still had his arms around her waist. ‘I can’t do the steps…and I don’t…don’t want to wear a tu…tutu,’ he said through tearful hiccups.
She hugged him close. ‘I promise I won’t make you wear a tutu. And you’ll pick up the routine – you just need to practise. Don’t give up now, you’re almost there.’
His mother came over, looking tired and drawn. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Ben’s a little worried about the routine, but I’ve assured him he just needs to practise. And I’m sure Phoebe will help, so there’s nothing to worry about.’
Rosie ruffled his hair. ‘Listen to what Becca’s saying. Now go and get your things. I want a quick word with the teacher.’ She waited until the other mothers had left and her children were out of earshot.
Oh, hell. Had Becca shouted too much during class? ‘Is everything okay?’
‘It’s fine, it’s just…’ Rosie’s hand shook as she held on to her walking stick. ‘Will we have to pay for the costumes?’
Becca knew of several dance schools who charged for costumes, so it wouldn’t be an outrageous request to ask the parents to pay. But she could see from the look on Rosie’s face that money was an issue. Welcome to the club, she thought. They were trying to put on a showcase with a zilch budget. But she didn’t want to burden the woman who’d supported her when she’d first started teaching. It didn’t seem right. ‘Don’t worry, costumes will be supplied for the showcase. The kids just need to provide their own ballet shoes, which they all have.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’ A relieved-looking Rosie gathered up her children’s belongings and headed for the door, balancing on her stick. ‘See you next week.’
Phoebe skipped over to the door. Ben trailed behind, dragging his bag on the floor.
Becca waved them off. Maybe she should simplify Ben’s part in the routine? She’d give him a couple more weeks before deciding. She didn’t want to embarrass the kid by singling him out.
When the studio had emptied, she changed out of her ballet shoes into her pink trainers and locked up. It had been a strange week, even more so than normal. Jodi hadn’t been in work Monday or Tuesday complaining of an upset stomach, which was unusual. Jodi was never ill. She suspected her cousin’s ailment was exacerbated by the stress of being accused of theft. And who could blame her? It was outrageous. When Jodi had returned to work, she’d stayed in the office working on ways to produce the showcase with no money, thus avoiding any non-essential contact with the other staff members.
Tom had been in court most of the week, although she suspected he was also lying low, and Petrit had been on annual leave, so it had been quiet. But things couldn’t continue as they were. Decisions needed to be made. And she felt it was up to her to break the tension.
She went in search of Tom, knowing he’d arrived back from London early this morning. As she passed through reception, she spotted Eddie descending the grand staircase looking decidedly damp. ‘Hey, Eddie. Have you seen Tom?’
‘He’s up in the roof,’ he said, digging around in his pocket for a hanky. ‘We’ve been trying to fix the leak. I’m heading out to buy more tarpaulin. How was ballet class?’
‘Good, thanks. How are you finding the guest house?’
The mood at the guest house had changed since Eddie had moved in. It felt lighter, less like an old people’s home and more like the holiday residence it was supposed to be. Even Mrs Busby had perked up, enjoying flirting with a ‘handsome devil’.
Eddie grinned. ‘Interesting. Your mum’s a lovely woman.’
There hadn’t been a man in her mum’s life since her dad had died. Not to Becca’s knowledge anyway. But maybe it was time for her mum to start dating again? And there was no one more decent or likeable than Eddie. Becca just needed to ensure her mum was receptive to the idea. ‘She needs to get out more. Running the guest house is tiring work.’
He frowned. ‘Anything I can help with?’
‘There is actually. I’ve been trying to coax her along to the tea dances, but so far she’s resisted. Now, if you were to come along, she might be persuaded to attend.’
He laughed. ‘I’m a terrible dancer.’
‘Good, that’ll make her feel better.’
‘I’m not sure how to take that. But I’ll do my best.’ He wiped his big hands on his hanky. ‘Need anything from the DIY store?’
‘Five grand to repair the roof and put on a showcase?’
His expression turned rueful. ‘I think we all want that.’
‘You don’t think Jodi took the money do you, Eddie?’
He looked surprised. ‘Not for a second.’
Good. ‘Any idea who did?’
He shook his head. ‘I’d have something to say to them if I did.’
He wasn’t the only one. ‘See you later.’
‘See ya, kiddo.’ He patted her shoulder, leaving her to climb the grand staircase in search of Tom.
As she passed by the portraits of Tom’s disapproving ancestors she poked her tongue out. It was childish, but they were a miserable bunch.
When she reached the top of the staircase, she stopped to get her bearings. The long galley corridor ran the length of the manor house. At each end was a set of concealed steps. Tom’s bedroom was in the east tower, so she knew the layout, but she’d never ventured up to the west tower before. Access to the roof was via the attic at the top, so once again she found herself navigating a narrow staircase, fighting off cobwebs and spiders, trying to locate Tom.
She heard him before she saw him. He sounded like he was wrestling a crocodile, judging by the groans and grunts. As she climbed the makeshift ladder to the eaves, she saw him. He was dressed in a suit, minus the jacket and tie with the sleeves of his pale blue shirt rolled up.
She glanced away from his hairless forearms, focusing on the fact that he wasn’t wrestling a large reptile, but fighting with a giant sheet of tarpaulin.
He stood up and
smacked his head on a wooden beam. ‘Shit!’
Becca stepped over the floor joists to reach him. ‘Watching you attempt DIY is like watching a toddler in traffic.’
He startled. ‘Jesus! Don’t creep up on me like that.’
‘I didn’t. And if you weren’t making such a racket you’d have heard me coming. What are you doing?’
‘Baking a cake,’ he said, rubbing the side of his head.
Sarcastic sod.
‘I can see stars,’ he said, blinking a few times.
‘That’ll be the hole in the roof.’ She looked up at the daylight seeping between the slates. ‘Need a hand?’
He looked at her ballet leotard and tights with white loose-knit jumper and pink trainers. ‘Dressed like that?’
‘Says the man wearing a suit.’
A smile twitched at his lips. ‘I forgot to change.’
‘Idiot.’ She assessed the mess around her. ‘What do you need?’
He nodded to the toolbox by her feet. ‘Is there a hammer in there?’
She searched around and handed him the tool. ‘Have you seen Jodi this morning?’
‘Not yet. How is she?’ He ducked under the beam and positioned the tarpaulin.
‘Not too bad, considering she’s been wrongly accused of theft.’
‘Hold that, will you?’ He reached up, his body almost touching hers as he leant over her. ‘And I haven’t accused her of anything.’ His shirtsleeves were already soaked through. Why he hadn’t thought to change first she didn’t know.
She held the corner of the sheet in place, trying not to think about how close he was. She could smell his citrusy aftershave and a faint waft of fabric conditioner. The effect was alarming. ‘But you didn’t correct Vivienne when she accused her, did you?’
‘I was having an asthma attack.’
‘That was then. What’s your excuse now?’ When she turned, their eyes met, and for a moment they both stilled. She could feel the heat building and she had to resist the urge to lean in to him. What the hell was happening? She broke the tension by nodding to the hammer. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
Starlight on the Palace Pier Page 18
