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

used to come here when it was a youth club.’ Carolyn leant against one of the bar stools. ‘She made quite an impact.’

      Oh, God. Jodi wanted the ground to swallow her up.

      ‘Is that right?’ Leon raised an eyebrow. ‘How so?’

      Jodi couldn’t believe Carolyn was about to shaft her and tell the gorgeous bar manager about her wayward youth. How did she even remember?

      Carolyn laughed. ‘Blowed if I know. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. Whatever it was, it made quite an impression on my son.’

      Phew. Of sorts, anyway. Did Tom know she was working here? Somehow, Jodi doubted it.

      Leon looked right at her. ‘I can imagine.’

      Carolyn clapped her hands. ‘Introductions over. Time to get to work.’ She slid her arm through Jodi’s. ‘Now, tell me what you know about QuickBooks. I haven’t a clue and I have a stack of invoices that need entering.’

      Five months’ worth, by the sounds of it.

      And then Carolyn stared down at her bloodstained hand. ‘Goodness me, how did I do that? I’m bleeding. Leon, where’s the first-aid box?’

      Jodi held up her hand. ‘I think it’s my blood, Carolyn.’

      Carolyn’s gaze switched from her own hand to Jodi’s. ‘When did you do that?’

      It was official. Jodi was starring in her own version of Groundhog Day. ‘I fell down the steps outside.’

      ‘Well, why didn’t you say something? We need to get that sorted.’ She took Jodi’s arm and headed in the direction of the office.

      Jodi glanced back at Leon. ‘Thanks for the napkin.’

      A wry smile played on his lips. ‘No worries. Good to have you on board.’ He resumed drying glasses, leaving Jodi to wonder whether working at the Starlight Playhouse was going to be even more challenging than she’d imagined.

       Chapter Six

       Wednesday 13th September

      Becca had learnt early on in her career that being a dancer wasn’t a glamorous existence. From dusty, dirty rehearsal rooms, to dressing rooms that needed more than a lick of paint. Not to mention the touring, getting home late at night, the money that you weren’t paid and the endless physical hard work. You had to sacrifice a social life. You had to get used to being told no a lot, taking criticism, being told you weren’t good enough. The love you had for dancing had to be bigger than all the negatives. And she’d dealt with that. She’d been stoic, dedicated and resilient…but nothing could have prepared her for the horror of teaching a class of seven-year-olds.

      The trial lesson last Saturday hadn’t started well. Mrs Morris had been so relieved a potential replacement had finally been found, that she’d packed up and gone home. Talk about landing her in it. But she hadn’t let this dent her confidence, and had set about trying to win over a group of tiny tots. Her plan was to begin with the basics, assess their abilities and then build on their technique, as her teachers had done with her. Which was fine in principle. It was just in practice that it failed.

      Half the kids hadn’t turned up for the class. The ones who did were unruly, wouldn’t listen to instructions and spent the entire hour running around the studio making an absolute din. Far from reining in their unruly offspring, the parents had stood around the room glaring at Becca, clearly holding her responsible for their children’s lack of discipline. One boy nicked a girl’s hairnet and refused to give it back, making her cry. Two other girls started bickering and ended up crying, and one kid ran across the studio so fast he smacked into the mirrors, resulting in more crying.

      Becca had been close to tears herself.

      But this was nothing compared to the parents. One outraged mother removed her child mid-class, stating in a loud voice that Becca was an ‘utter disgrace’. Three parents announced at the end of the class they wouldn’t be returning, and one woman questioned whether Becca’s ‘unconventional’ appearance was entirely ‘appropriate’ for the role of a dance teacher.

      Part of her had wanted to question why they allowed their children to behave in such a rowdy manner, but she’d held her tongue. She suspected teaching was like the world of show business, where everyone knew everyone. If word got out that she had a bad attitude, then it would be game over.

      But it’d been tough. She’d never struggled to be civil before. But then she’d never been faced with a horde of competitive parents, who did nothing but criticise her appearance, her lack of control, or her ability to teach.

      The distressing thing was, they were right. She was a useless teacher.

      The only chink of light had come at the end of the class when one of the mothers had thanked her for helping her kids understand the meaning of ‘turnout’, something they’d struggled with under Mrs Morris. She’d introduced herself as Rosie and promised to return next week. She’d even left smiling, seemingly oblivious to just how disastrous the class had been.

      Despite all this, Carolyn had still offered Becca the job. She wasn’t naive enough to believe this was because she’d impressed Carolyn. Far from it. Carolyn hadn’t even witnessed the debacle – she’d still been asleep in the office – which meant the offer was based purely on Carolyn’s desperation to find a replacement teacher, and not on Becca’s ability. It wasn’t exactly a glowing endorsement. And now Becca had to do it all again. This time with the adult tappers.

      While she waited for the class to arrive, she took the opportunity to stretch out her hamstrings. Flexibility was the key to any style of dance. Stiff joints and tight tendons didn’t allow for freedom of movement.

      She went over to the barre and began her routine, using the time to have a proper look around. She’d been so busy on Saturday trying to control the kids that she hadn’t paid much attention to the state of the dance studio. On first glance, it looked fine. It was a decent-sized space, with a wooden sprung floor, a mirrored wall, and a ballet barre running the length of the room. But on closer inspection, she could see damp patches on the walls, cracks in the plasterboard and chunks missing from the floorboards. It looked tired and scruffy, like the rest of the building.

      She was mid-stretch when the doors behind opened. A couple entered, both very tall and model-thin skinny. They wore matching woollen coats and hats, despite the mild weather. They ignored Becca and shuffled over to the furthest seats, as if trying to hide.

      She went over. ‘Hi, I’m Becca. I’ve taken over from Mrs Morris.’

      They acknowledged her with shy nods, but didn’t hold eye contact.

      Becca tried for a welcoming smile. ‘And you are?’

      They looked at each other, as if silently questioning who was going to answer.

      Eventually, the guy spoke. ‘I’m Nick. This is my wife, Cassie.’

      ‘Lovely to meet you both. Have you been coming to the class long?’

      They shook their heads. ‘First time,’ the man replied.

      Thank God for that. She figured it would be easier if people had nothing to compare her with. ‘Welcome to the class. Do you have tap shoes?’

      More head shaking. The couple were synchronised, if nothing else.

      ‘Not to worry. But if you enjoy the class and want to keep coming you’ll need the correct shoes. I can give you a list of stockists if you need them.’

      The doors opened again and two women came in. Unlike Nick and Cassie, these two didn’t appear to suffer from shyness. One was short and round with a mass of curly grey hair, and the other was medium height with fabulous red hair and an equally fabulous cleavage. They