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

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