Copyright

Published by Avon, an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Sue Moorcroft 2018

Cover illustration © Carrie May 2018

Cover design © Head Design 2018

Sue Moorcroft 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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008260071

Ebook Edition © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008260088

Version 2018-09-17

Dedication

To every wonderful member of my street team

Team Sue Moorcroft

with grateful thanks for your support.

You rock!

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Sue Moorcroft

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Georgine tied the laces of her running shoes, keeping one anxious eye on the patterned glass in her front door and the two manly shapes silhouetted by November sunlight.

One of them knocked with measured movements. ‘Miss France? Miss France? Come to the door, please.’ Then he muttered something to his companion.

The companion answered clearly, ‘Not giving up yet,’ and leant on the doorbell, raising his voice above the sound. ‘If you could just open the door, Miss France, we won’t keep you long.’

Everything about the men and their insistence said ‘debt collectors’. Even though she knew they weren’t as bad as bailiffs, who could lawfully gain entry, they raised too many horrible memories for her to open the door, even just to say that Aidan no longer lived with her. She wouldn’t have expected to be believed, anyway.

Heart tumbling, she fumbled herself into her running jacket and gloves, then checked her backpack for the Christmas student show production file. Yep, there was its pretty Christmassy cover, nestling on top of her distinctly less-Christmassy work clothes. Quietly, she swung the backpack onto her shoulders and let herself silently out of the back door, heaving a sigh of relief as she turned the key. The debt collectors would have to come up the footpath behind the terraced houses on Top Farm Road and climb her six-foot fence to see her here. She hoped they wouldn’t, because that was the route she was about to use to escape.

Breath forming a white cloud, she loped across the lawn, every grass blade rimed with frost and squeaking beneath her feet. A run and jump onto a garden chair and her gloves found enough purchase on the top of the ice-beaded fence to allow her to swing a leg over the top, then she was up, over and jogging along the footpath.

When she reached the point where Scott Road met Top Farm Road she lengthened her stride. She’d intended to drive to work until her unwanted callers had planted themselves between her and her elderly hatchback, but it was exhilarating to race through the zing of frost on the morning air. Any number of men could bang on her door all day long without bothering her.

Her breath came easily as she found her rhythm, legs carrying her out of the Bankside estate, soon reaching the last houses of Middledip village. The pavement petered out and her comfortably worn running shoes began slapping the road. She tried to concentrate on thinking about props for the Christmas show, but every time a car whooshed past she hopped onto the verge and held her breath in case it was the debt collectors and they’d somehow guess she was the Miss France they’d been trying to speak to.

It was a relief, when she’d covered a mile or so, to swing left beneath an iron arch bearing a white sign with black writing:

ACTING INSTRUMENTAL

Performing Arts College

Sanctuary. A place where she could leave reality behind. Her running feet ate up the final few hundred yards as she wove through students ambling along the drive, chatting or heads down over their phones.

One called, ‘Good mawnin’, Mizz Jaw-Jean,’ in a pretty fair Midwest American accent.

Laughing breathlessly, she raised a gloved hand. The student, Isla, was not only a drama student at Acting Instrumental, but the daughter of Sian from Georgine’s own schooldays. Her schoolmates in the huge comprehensive school in the nearby town of Bettsbrough had loved to rib her with awful parodies of her American father’s soft Georgia drawl. She wished she had a pound for every time her teenaged self had heard it. It might pay off the scary men at her door – if it had been her debt they were trying to collect. Which it wasn’t.

She’d honestly thought she’d finally be OK for money when she landed the job of events director at Acting Instrumental three years ago, but what with Georgine’s dad and her sister, Blair, needing support at different times, and Aidan falling apart upon being made redundant, which had led to the current financial mess … Still, never a day passed without her thanking her stars that she hadn’t been daunted by the formal language in the ad for an events director of student productions. What her role actually required her to be was stage manager, producer, hand-holder, bridge-builder and breach-filler.

Georgine specialised in that kind of role.

She veered towards the main building. Barely slowing as she yanked off her backpack, she touched her pass to the card reader. The door clicked a greeting and glided aside.

The first person her gaze fell on was Norman Ogden, the principal of Acting Instrumental, strolling past the as yet naked Christmas tree in the foyer at his usual deceptive pace. Peering from under his fringe, he reminded Georgine of an enormous schoolboy who’d found an adult set of clothes and tried them on. ‘Cold enough for snow,’ she panted, to draw her boss’s attention away from the fact that she only had a few minutes in which to change out of her running gear before work.

‘A snow day to keep us at home would probably suit the students,’ he responded good-naturedly. ‘Need a catch-up. Quick meeting, you and me, ten minutes, my room?’

‘Great,’ she replied as she jogged towards the staff area, suppressing the urge to point out that she was busy, busy, busy as it was just six weeks until opening night of A Very Kerry Christmas, Uncle Jones, this year’s Christmas show by the top year students. It would be her sixth show since she’d come to the college.

And she had to phone Aidan to give him a giant bollocking about responsibility dodging. It was more than time for him to man up. She sighed as she reached the female staff locker room. Left over from when the house had been a luxury private residence, the locker room had a sumptuous pale grey marble shower room attached.

Queen of the lightning-fast shower, she switched on the water, wriggled out of her running kit and hung it on the radiator so it wouldn’t be clammy for the run home, and jumped into the spray. Soon she was dressing in the clean clothes she unrolled from her backpack. Two further minutes with hairbrush, tinted moisturiser and mascara wand and she was ready to start her day.

As she emerged into the corridor, students were streaming towards rehearsal rooms or first sessions, crowding her with their backpacks and instrument cases and confining her pace to what she thought of as ‘the student shuffle’.

Chatter and laughter rippled through the air. Georgine smiled. She loved this time of year. Halloween and bonfire night had passed and now the students were looking towards the main event of the term: Christmas. Already posters advertising A Very Kerry Christmas, Uncle Jones were appearing in Middledip, Bettsbrough and even as far afield as Peterborough.

Some of the students called, ‘Hey, Georgine!’ and she returned their greetings, only pausing when a tall, solemn youth with a guitar-shaped gig bag on one shoulder fixed his gaze on her and announced sternly, ‘Got me grade seven acoustic guitar.’

Not fooled by the unsmiling delivery from Tomasz, a student generally held to be ‘challenging’, she raised her hand for a high-five. ‘Fantastic, Tomasz! That’s awesome!’

‘I’ll get a stiffycut.’ Tomasz’s heritage might be Polish but his accent was pure Bettsbrough. He performed his part in the high-five as if obliged to humour her, but triumph shone in his eyes before he turned away.

Georgine was still grinning at his pronunciation of ‘certificate’ when she reached the office suite, calling ‘Morning!’ to Fern as she passed through the admin office and reached the door marked Norman Ogden at 8.30 a.m. precisely.

‘C’mon in,’ Oggie called genially and gestured towards one of the tub chairs that stood around his desk. ‘Tell me all the news.’

Georgine settled herself in the brown chair. She was long past hunting for hidden meaning in Oggie’s habit of opening meetings with informal questions, knowing he’d listen with apparently equal interest to progress reports, student concerns, personal news or downright gossip. Previous years working in mainstream schools as a teaching assistant or arts support staff had made Georgine deeply appreciative of a head like Oggie.

She knew if she told him about the men banging on her door he’d instantly offer any support he could, but she felt sick just at the idea of sharing such shaming information, so she got straight down to business. ‘Tomasz has passed grade seven acoustic guitar. He’s waiting for his certificate.’

Oggie gave several claps of his big hearty hands. ‘I’ll find him later to offer congratulations. He seems to have settled a bit this term.’

Georgine nodded. ‘Because it’s his second year, maybe.’ Knowing Oggie would want an update on the progress of the show, she opened her file and reported speedily on music, dance and drama rehearsals, winding up with finance. ‘I’ve negotiated a better discount with the Raised Curtain by supplying our own lighting and sound crews from the theatre-tech students. It’ll be great experience.’ Experience was a buzzword at Acting Instrumental.

She closed the file and shifted to the edge of her chair ready to get on with her day. A Christmas musical-theatre piece was a fantastic showcase of student abilities and evidence for their courses, but it meant a lot of sweat from the events director.

Oggie stretched and settled more comfortably. ‘A new guy’s joining us today and I’d like to introduce you.’

Georgine sat back in her chair again. ‘A staff member? I didn’t know you were recruiting.’

Oggie made a vague cycling motion of his hands. ‘Not formally. But when the right person comes up … I know Joe will make a valuable contribution.’

‘I’m sure,’ she replied politely. ‘What’s his role?’

Oggie’s eyebrows lifted as he considered her question. ‘To be defined. He has broad experience with contemporary bands – road manager and drum technician, and so forth. He could be helpful with lighting rigs and sound desk. I’ll call him in. He’ll have to be accompanied everywhere he might encounter students until his DBS comes through, so I’m landing him on you for a bit.’

Georgine didn’t protest, not just because Oggie was the boss, but because he was the best boss in the world and must have good reason to bring in someone who hadn’t got his Disclosure and Barring Service certificate in order, so she didn’t even look at her watch as he made a call. ‘Joe? Ready for you. Come to reception and Fern will see you to my room.’

It was typical of Oggie to say ‘room’ rather than ‘office’. Georgine had never heard him refer to himself as ‘principal’ and he expected students to address staff by first names. Staff and students alike called him Oggie.

She was roused from these reflections as Oggie’s gaze shifted to the doorway. He smiled. ‘C’mon in, Joe.’

Georgine turned in her seat to offer a friendly greeting. ‘Hi. I’m Georgine France.’

The tall, clean-shaven man with a brutally short haircut blinked at her through thin-rimmed glasses. His expression froze. Then he cleared his throat and muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe Blackthorn,’ before nodding politely and seating himself in one of the other chairs.

Oggie embarked on outlining to Joe the role Georgine held at Acting Instrumental. Though Georgine played her part in the conversation, warm and welcoming, she was intrigued by the strained behaviour of her new colleague. Somehow, she expected tall, handsome men to be bursting with confidence, yet this one was behaving as if he was suffering severe anxiety. It might explain why Oggie would choose a low-key and unorthodox induction to their establishment.

‘So, Joe,’ Oggie wound up. ‘Stick with Georgine for now. She’ll give you a quick tour and an idea of how we do things.’ Oggie raised his dark eyebrows. ‘That OK? Great.’

Joe evidently understood they were being dismissed and rose, murmuring, ‘Thanks for giving up your time,’ in Georgine’s direction.

Swooping up her file, Georgine replied, ‘Not a problem,’ though having to keep him with her or pass him like a baton to another staff member just added to her load. ‘If we start in the new block, we can finish in this building.’

‘Sure.’ He stood back to let her lead him out to the glass corridor that linked the buildings and gave them a view of a paved area currently empty of anything but benches, flower tubs and twinkling frost.

At the end of the corridor, Georgine turned to her near-silent companion, noticing the way he kept one step behind, as if it was uncomfortable to let his soulful brown eyes meet her gaze. Lifting her voice over a sudden burst of drumming, she said, ‘This block holds sound studios and rehearsal rooms.’ The drumming paused, and the sound of an argument took its place, culminating in a snarled, ‘Tosser! You knew that was mine.’

‘Whoops!’ Georgine quickly followed the sound through a doorway and found a group of teenagers surrounding two gangly lads squaring up to each other, faces red and eyes glittering. One of them was Tomasz, whose good mood over his ‘stiffycut’ appeared not to have lasted.

‘No tutor here yet, guys?’ she asked calmly.

Both heads swivelled her way, faces wearing matching expressions of dismay. Tomasz rubbed his ear sheepishly. ‘Not yet.’

‘We’re waiting for Errol for Music Industry,’ volunteered the other, backing away as if the field of battle had nothing to do with him.

Georgine treated each to a keen stare. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here any time. You don’t need me to wait with you. Do you?’

Both lads flushed and shook their heads.

Georgine beamed. The other students had fallen back to sit on tables or rummage through backpacks. ‘Everybody OK? See you later, then.’ She returned to Joe in the corridor.

He glanced towards the now subdued room they were leaving behind. ‘Do you need to wait for their tutor?’

‘It’s not how we generally do things. The tallest one, Tomasz, can’t always afford things like guitar strings and he gets protective of his possessions, but Oggie likes to treat the students like adults as far as possible. I think they’ll be OK now they’ve let off steam.’ She opened a pair of doors.

‘Oggie was always good at treating kids as if each one mattered.’ Joe stepped into the lofty hall beyond the doors.

Georgine followed him in. ‘Did you work at Oggie’s last place? I know he was head of a big academy in Kent.’

Joe looked away. ‘He taught at my school in Surrey when I was a teen. He put on the plays and concerts and I did scenery shifting and stuff. It took me a while to fit in, but Oggie helped. I kept in touch with him through college and we became friends over the years.’

‘Wow, you’ve known him for ages,’ she said encouragingly. She did the maths in her head, knowing Oggie to be in his mid-forties. ‘The Surrey school must have been one of his first jobs.’

He shrugged.

Nobody could accuse him of drawing things out with his chat, chat, chat, she thought. ‘This is the studio theatre. We’re incredibly lucky to have it. Some rehearsals take place here but we put performances on at the Raised Curtain, a theatre attached to a local academy.’ She cast her satisfied gaze over a drum kit standing near mic stands, amplifiers and equalisers. The front rows of the retractable seating were out but the rest were tidily away like a giant set of drawers ready for rehearsals.

She speeded up as she led the way back up the corridor. ‘The main building used to be a house called Lie Low, the bolthole of a Carry On star and then a shady businessman.’ They passed dance studios, Joe glancing in on students and giving the brief nods he seemed to consider sufficient interaction as Georgine continued to provide background information. ‘Acting Instrumental’s a small independent further education college. Our current roll is eighty-four students across two year-groups. The cafeteria’s through here. Oggie got funding to subsidise lunches so the take-up is high.’ She turned right. ‘This is my room.’ She laughed to see a garland of turquoise tinsel hanging from the handle. ‘I’m collecting Christmas props so people are bringing me their cast offs.’ She whisked past, heading straight for dance rehearsal.

She paused at the door. ‘This is the big rehearsal room. Maddie’s working with dance students on our Christmas show, A Very Kerry Christmas, Uncle Jones. The students are Level 3, which is the same as A Level.’ She stepped inside. At one end of the room a stage space was denoted by yellow gaffer tape on the floor where a small dance troupe was learning a routine.

Maddie glanced round without pausing in her dance. Tall and willowy, her fair hair pulled back in a plait, she flashed a smile before returning her attention to the teenagers who were mirroring her movements. The shuffles and thumps marking the rhythm of their feet made Georgine’s heart lift.

‘Forward, back,’ Maddie called, ‘step-two-three, change, step-two-three, back, leg lift, and chassé … and then we’re ready for the last part of act one, scene two. Let’s try it to music.’ She clicked a small remote in her hand and a lively jive tune burst onto the air.

‘Here we go … two, three and forward, back …’ The troupe moved as one, girls in leggings and boys in jogging pants, all eyes on Maddie unless a head turn was required with a step.

‘Wonderful! Concentrate but don’t frown, chassé, back, leg lift,’ Maddie sang gently. Frowns vanished, limbs moved in time.

Georgine’s toes were already tapping. She whispered to Joe, ‘Each student will keep a progress log: how their creative journey’s developed, decisions made and the effect on the audience. We make rehearsal and show-night videos too.’

‘Great.’ His nod definitely looked approving.

Encouraged by this slight sign of engagement, she went on. ‘We’re extraordinarily proud that we’re open to students’ choices, nurturing them, cheering them on, proactively helping them make whatever they can out of music, dance or drama. A kid can come here without a single GCSE and try vocational qualifications from entry level up to Level 3. The “can do” attitude here is awesome.’ She laughed at her own enthusiasm. ‘I love how amazing, how fantastic Acting Instrumental is.’

Joe actually smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re proud of helping it happen.’ It probably counted as gushing from Mr Chat and Personality.

Georgine turned back to the dancers, jigging on the spot to the catchy number. ‘I need to watch the rest of this rehearsal and get involved. You OK to look on?’

‘Yep.’ But Joe, to Georgine’s surprise, moved further into the room with her to continue the conversation. ‘Will they dance to recordings on the night?’ His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his jeans.

‘No, this is a rehearsal track. The show’s composed by Jasmine, an alumna who went on to university and won a scholarship that paid her final year’s tuition fees. She’s provided rehearsal recordings that her music student mates have played on. We have two bands of our own, but they’re still rehearsing separately at this stage.’

She half expected Joe to look bamboozled by so much detail, but his deep brown eyes were aglow with what looked like satisfaction. ‘Ace.’

Georgine could only agree.

Before them, Maddie was still mirroring the troupe’s routine, occasionally calling out the steps, gaze moving back and forth to monitor each student. Unable to contain her impatient feet, Georgine thrust her shiny Christmas show file at Joe and moved up behind Maddie, picking up the steps to dance along.

A couple of the students grinned her way and Maddie, seeing Georgine in the mirror, implemented an impressively smooth about face to dance opposite Georgine. Forgetting all her pressures and worries, Georgine laughed aloud as the troupe moved forwards and she had to reverse. It was a bit like being Ginger Rogers to a bunch of Fred Astaires … apart from wearing jeans and trainers instead of a swirly dress and heels.

At the close of the segment Maddie called, ‘Three, two, one, cha-cha-cha, and sliiiiiide, jazz hands. Fantastic everybody! Quick break. Grab a drink if you want one.’

Back down to earth now the dancing was done, Georgine caught her breath and approached her colleague. ‘Maddie, I’d better introduce you to the new guy, Joe. Oggie was one of his teachers, apparently, and he has technical experience.’

Maddie sipped from a bottle of water and winked. ‘The cutie rocking the designer specs? What’s he like?’

‘Nice to look at,’ Georgine admitted, ‘but flippin’ hard work. Hardly speaks.’

Yet when she took Maddie over to Joe and made the introductions, Joe flashed a smile, showing no signs of shyness. ‘I’ve really enjoyed watching,’ he told Maddie, and went on for a whole minute about how great the dancers had looked and what a shame it was that there weren’t more male dance students.

Then he turned back to Georgine and returned to using only necessary words. ‘Oggie’s texted. I need to go to Fern’s office and apply for my DBS online.’

‘OK, I’ll show you there.’ Georgine turned back to the dancers. ‘You’re doing brilliantly! I’ll be back shortly.’ Then Georgine delivered Joe to the capable hands of Fern, with her bouffant silver hair and air of unflappable calm.

She skipped back to dance rehearsal trying not to mind that Joe had turned to Fern’s computer with such an obvious expression of relief.

Chapter Two

After filling in all the necessary boxes on-screen and watching Fern check his application before it went off, Joe thanked her and made for Oggie’s room. Pretending not to see the look of reproach in Fern’s eyes because he hadn’t cleared his destination with her, he shut the door.

He flopped into the same brown chair he’d occupied earlier, threw off his glasses and covered his eyes.

Oggie laughed at his theatrics. ‘What?’

Joe didn’t move. Mortification was easier to deal with from behind eyelids. ‘Georgine France. I was at school with her. Here, not in Surrey. I’m behaving like a teenage doofus around her.’

Oggie stopped laughing. ‘Oh! Will it be a problem?’

Joe pressed his palms harder against his face, the short, freshly cut ends of his hair and his close-shaved cheeks feeling weird to his touch. Since he’d gone clean-cut he felt a stranger to himself. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she recognise you?’

‘No sign of it. Everyone changes a lot between fourteen and thirty-four. When I knew her I was blond and scrawny and looked as if I lived in a skip.’

Oggie’s voice dropped sympathetically. ‘You’re not that person now. Did you know her well?’

Slowly, Joe slid his hands down from his eyes, blinking at the raw winter light streaming through the window. ‘Reasonably.’ Then, because he’d never wanted to bullshit Oggie, corrected himself. ‘We were friends from age eleven to fourteen.’ He sucked in a huge calming breath. ‘I had the most gigantic, painful crush on her. She was one of the popular girls. Her dad had money and she went on holidays abroad and had dancing and singing lessons after school. The princess to my pauper.’

‘A monied princess?’ Oggie looked slightly surprised.

‘Compared to me. She came to Bettsbrough Comp on the bus from Middledip or in a posh car. I lived on the crappiest estate in Bettsbrough with a couple of alcoholics masquerading as parents. The Shetland estate was known as “Shitland” back then and I was part of the infamous Shitland gang, but she was always nice to me.’ He swallowed. ‘I recognised her instantly. Not even Georgine’s sister had the same unusual colouring.’ Her hair was what she’d used to tell him was ‘cool strawberry blonde’, her skin golden and spangled with faint freckles like a blonde photographed through the palest sepia filter. Except for her eyes. Not green, nor grey or blue, but a mix of the three, like a winter sea.

He’d had to paint her portrait once in art class and the teacher had said, ‘Good effort!’ Some of his moron mates from the Shitland gang had jeered and so he’d painted the ends of her hair like worms, because clowning around was a good way to distract them from how he’d felt about Georgine. He was the fool, the kid who never had the right shoes or uniform or PE kit. The one whose stepdad was known throughout the town by just his surname, Garrit, and ridiculed, along with Joe’s mum, for being drunk on cheap lager almost every day.

Garrit hadn’t been funny to live with.

In fact, not much about Joe’s life had been funny. If he hadn’t developed strategies to make people laugh with him instead of at him he would have punched their stupid heads in for not using their stupid eyes to see how stupidly unfunny it was to be him.

He rose on what felt like hollow legs to get a drink from the small cooler in the corner. ‘She doesn’t know me as Joe Blackthorn, or by my full first names, John Joseph.’ He kept his back to his friend as he sipped from the flimsy disposable cup. ‘You probably remember me telling you I had my stepdad’s surname from the age of two or three. Then all the Shitland gang got nicknames and mine was “Rich” because I wasn’t. Everybody called me Rich Garrit.’

He dropped back into his chair and sent Oggie a rueful smile. ‘Sorry to be a diva. It was a shock to see Georgine and after the crap that’s happened with the band lately …’

Oggie nodded, not rushing in with platitudes or questions, but letting Joe work through things in his own time, just as he had all those years ago. His Uncle Shaun had rescued Joe from Cambridgeshire and put him in the school in Surrey with, for the first time, all the right uniform and all the right PE kit. Even the right haircut. If he hadn’t had the right accent to begin with, well, he’d soon changed that. He’d claimed the name on his birth certificate, but chosen to be Joe instead of Johnjoe, which his mother had called him, another way of disassociating himself from what he’d used to be.

He still remembered the pleasure and relief of blending in.

Freed of the expectation of clowning, he’d worked at the subjects he liked, such as music and art. Oggie had noticed him spending break times alone and got him painting scenery for school plays. He’d made friends.

It was to Oggie that he’d admitted his uncle was teaching him piano and drums. Oggie who talked to Shaun about weekend sessions at a local stage school; Oggie who’d arranged extra music lessons so Joe got the GCSE he needed for a place at music college. There he’d got together with Billy, Liam, Nathan and Raf and his life had changed again …

‘If you’re going to stay here, you’re going to encounter Georgine a lot,’ Oggie said, jerking Joe back to the present. ‘She’s at the heart of Acting Instrumental. We did talk about the possibility, even probability, of you meeting your past head-on if you came.’

‘Yeah.’ Joe drummed his fingertips on his leg. ‘I could have coped with anyone better than her.’

Oggie grunted. ‘Perhaps you should consider how you’ll feel if she remembers you. It might be easier if you remind her first. Get it over with.’

‘Yeah.’ He tried to envisage it. Those green eyes had gazed at him with zero recognition, as if Rich Garrit had never existed, which made him both glad and sorry. ‘It could be a tactical lack of memory on her part. We parted on bad terms.’

Because he’d acted like a moron on the last day of term before Christmas. Made her the object of ridicule because he knew that baring his young heart in front of the Shitland gang would have set her up for cruel teasing. But the hurt in her eyes had sent him home hating himself, vowing to apologise at the school Christmas party that evening.

But Georgine hadn’t shown up. He’d waited outside because he didn’t have the entrance money – or anything to wear or a gift for the Secret Santa.

Eventually, he’d trailed home to find waiting for him an uncle he hadn’t known he had, ready to transform his life.

Joe’s Christmas miracle, fairy godfather and Secret Santa rolled into one. He’d gone to live with Shaun in Surrey and rarely looked back.

When he did, it was to think about Georgine France.

Chapter Three

At lunchtime, Georgine knew she had to let life outside Acting Instrumental intrude, so held back from the rush to the cafeteria. Zipping herself into her jacket, which was an inadequate defence against the sharp wind unless you were running, she slipped outside. She rounded the jut of the big rehearsal room to huddle behind the main building. The garden there was frequented mostly in summer sunshine when the grassy area held more attraction.

She hunched her shoulders against the wind blowing from Siberia, took a deep breath and rang Aidan, knowing that the man who answered would be a lot different to the one she’d met a couple of years ago on a rare visit to a nightclub with Blair. She’d been attracted to his happy-go-lucky nature, maybe because she felt she always had to be so sensible and together. Unfortunately, the happy-go-luckyness later proved to be hugely dependent on the ‘happy’ part. When the going got tough Aidan had retreated into bad moods and deception. He’d even begun taking money from her purse with the excuse that ‘couples share’. When she discovered he’d been unable to pay his share of the household bills and had continually lied that he had savings to cover them, it was the last straw. It was months since she’d called time on their relationship and asked him to move out of her house, yet still she was suffering the repercussions of being involved with him.

He answered, ‘’Lo, Georgine.’ His voice was just as smooth and deep as it had been when it used to curl her toes, but he also sounded down and defeated.

He wasn’t the only one having a hard time. She dived in. ‘Please sort your debts out. I had collection agents knocking at the door while I was eating my porridge this morning.’

‘No money,’ he replied listlessly.

‘Well, tell them that! You’ve been gone for three months. Stop them coming to my house or give me an address I can pass on.’ She waited. ‘Aidan?’ She checked her phone screen and glared at it. Call ended.

She counted slowly to ten, annoyed with herself for venting. Since being made redundant from his job as a commercial executive for a huge car manufacturer Aidan didn’t really handle anger.

After three minutes of pacing and huddling into her jacket, Georgine rang back. ‘Look, Ade,’ she said, pouring syrup on her voice. ‘I understand you got in a muddle with money and didn’t feel you could tell me.’

‘Because you’re funny with money. I was protecting you,’ he put in morosely.

Georgine closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sky. ‘OK, because I’m scared of financial pressure.’

‘Yet you give Blair money. And your dad.’

Her nails dug into her palms. ‘You know I feel an obligation.’

‘Yeah, I know the whole sad story, even if I don’t understand it.’

Georgine refused to let herself be sidetracked into explaining yet again why she helped her dad and sister, but didn’t have a pot of gold handy for Aidan. ‘I understand that, in law, I’m as liable as you are for the unpaid utility bills, even if those were your agreed responsibility. I sold the jewellery you gave me to offset some, and the rest I’m paying off as I can manage it. But I can’t cover whatever other liabilities you took on unbeknownst to me while you lived at my place, even if I wanted to. So please contact the organisations concerned and tell them not to come knocking at the door of 27 Top Farm Road. Explain you no longer live there.’

Aidan sighed. ‘But you can tell them.’

Revulsion shivered through her. ‘I don’t want to speak to debt collectors! It’s your responsibility …’ She recognised the futility of talking to Aidan about responsibility and changed tack. ‘I’m only asking you to stop them turning up at my door.’

‘There are websites that tell you what to do when that happens,’ he said with irritating calm. ‘They say don’t panic. Don’t let them in; complain to their company if they intimidate you.’

‘I don’t want to talk to them to find out which company they’re from! And I can’t help panicking.’ If she clenched her eyes shut any harder she’d bring on a migraine. Her voice rose, despite her best efforts. ‘If I lose my house because of you—’

He sighed. ‘Did I ever ask to use the house as security? No. Then how can you lose it because of me?’

Sleepless nights worrying through all the worst possible outcomes had provided the answer to this one. ‘If I can’t meet my mortgage because I’m catching up on all the bills you left unpaid! Or I miss a catch-up payment and the utility company takes me to court.’

It was Georgine who ended the call this time. How could Aidan have changed so much? Until last year he’d held down a good job, worn an expensive suit and driven a late-model car. But when the job went as the company restructured, everything good about him had followed.

In the early days, she’d loved his joy in life, not realising until everything went wrong how heavily he’d depended not only on a fresh pile of money hitting his bank account each month but bonuses coming along twice a year to wipe clean his credit card excesses. It became obvious that saving up had never been in his psyche.

With a sigh that matched any of the pitiful ones Aidan had been heaving down the phone, she blinked open her eyes, unclenched her fists and used the fingers of her gloves to wipe stray tears from beneath her eyes, then looked up and saw Joe standing motionless on the outside staircase that rose up the side of the building. Watching her.

She jumped, then, hoping he’d been too far away to overhear her conversation, forced herself to smile and call up to him. ‘Hello. Are you lost? Those stairs lead to some kind of private apartment. The landlord keeps it separate and Oggie says it’s not in our lease.’

He glanced down at the staircase beneath his feet. ‘Right. Thanks. That would explain why up here wasn’t included in your tour.’ He ran lightly down to ground level. ‘Oggie said to talk to you about the Christmas show. He thinks you might like lighting and sound taken off your hands.’ Joe looked much more self-possessed than he had this morning, even if he talked slowly, quietly, as if he were testing every word before letting it loose.

‘Would I ever. I’ll take you through what you need to know,’ she said promptly. She didn’t bother reminding him he wasn’t supposed to be wandering around unaccompanied, because she hadn’t given any thought to his whereabouts after he’d gone off to the admin office during dance rehearsal and probably she should have. Georgine gave a last sniff and pushed Aidan and his troubles into a mental ‘worry about this when I’m not at work’ box. ‘I’m going for lunch. Shall we walk over together?’

‘That would be great.’ Joe flashed a smile. It was so unexpectedly warm that she grinned back as if she’d known him for much longer than a few hours.

Lunch break was half over and tables were freeing up when they reached the cafeteria, though the noise level was only a couple of decibels below deafening. Georgine was convinced that some students sat two tables away from their friends just so they could shout conversations like, ‘Have you done any of your Christmas shopping yet? No, me neither. Got to get some money first.’

Three lads were picking at guitars, apparently trying to master a tricky bit of fingerwork. It wasn’t unusual to see students turning any spare spot in the college into a rehearsal room.

She went ahead of Joe in the queue in case he wasn’t sure of the system – not that it was hard. You chose your food and drink and paid by scanning your pass, having already credited the cafeteria account linked to it. Accounts could be topped up online, pleasing parents who suspected their kids would use meal money to buy cigarettes or sweets if the actual cash was put in their hands.

Even at staff rates it was an economy to eat a hot meal in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Georgine would content herself with a sandwich or a bowl of soup at home in the evening.

‘Oh,’ said Joe, ruefully, when they got to the head of the queue and he saw Georgine hold out her pass card to be scanned by Celine, who was on the till today. ‘I was supposed to collect my pass from Fern before lunch and I forgot.’ He turned to Celine who, in her blue smock, was waiting patiently. ‘Can I pay in cash today?’

Regretfully, Celine shook her head, complete with hat and hairnet. ‘I’m sorry, darlin’, it’s not a cash till. We don’t have actual money.’

‘Oh.’ Joe dropped his gaze to the contents of his tray: pasta and the biggest latte on offer, garlic bread he’d already taken a bite from and a cereal bar. His face reddened. ‘Erm, I can’t really put this back.’

Celine turned to Georgine. ‘Shall I put it on your card? Then he can give you the cash.’

‘Would you mind?’ Joe switched his gaze to Georgine too, expression hopeful and relieved.

From the scalding in her cheeks Georgine was pretty sure she’d turned every bit as red as him. She didn’t have much choice but to say, ‘Not a bit,’ and proffer her card again, but her heart began a slow descent to her chilly toes.

Celine passed the card beneath the scanner. It beeped angrily. She flashed Georgine a look of surprise, then returned the pass with a shake of her head. ‘I bet it won’t go through twice in a row as some safety precaution.’ She tapped at the till’s screen then said to Joe, ‘I’ve voided your bill for now. Get your card and account sorted and you can pay us tomorrow. You look the honest sort.’ She scribbled down £6.38 on a torn-off receipt, gave it to him with a big smile and moved on to the next in the queue.

Hurrying off towards a half-empty table, Georgine felt as if she’d just missed being hit by a speeding car. She knew very well that the card hadn’t scanned because there wasn’t enough in her cafeteria account after paying for her own lunch. The balance of about four pounds was barely enough for a meal tomorrow, Wednesday, without coffee. The account would top up on payday, Thursday.

For a horrible moment she’d feared Celine would shame her by saying, ‘Not enough money on your card, darlin’.’ But the woman’s eyes had held an apology. She’d realised she’d dropped Georgine in it. Georgine had swung from dread to gratitude in a heartbeat at the way Celine had covered up.

She made a mental note to add her to the ‘gets chocolate brownies at Christmas’ list. She baked a lot of Christmas presents rather than buying them.

Joe cleared his throat as they took seats at a table. ‘Thanks for trying to save my blushes. I feel as if I’m wearing a big sign saying “can’t pay for his own lunch”.’

Seeing that he was genuinely upset, and completely empathising because she hadn’t been able to raise the small sum to pay it for him, Georgine tried to shrug it off. ‘It makes you feel conspicuous, but it’s only an admin issue. Induction days are usually better organised than yours seems to have been.’

Georgine had chosen a vegetable frittata with salad. It was one of her favourite lunches, but today the subject of money was under glaring spotlights in her mind.

Two more paydays till Christmas. She was only able to claim mileage and other show-related expenses retrospectively so she hoped she could afford the extra trips back and forth to Bettsbrough. She was having Dad, Blair and Blair’s boyfriend, Warren, for Christmas dinner. Luckily Mum and her husband, Terrence, would spend Christmas in their French holiday home, so she wouldn’t have to drive to their posh house on the Northumberland coast for a festive visit, but buying Christmas gifts for them was a trial. Terrence was careful with his fortune. He released money for Christmas gifts, but he expected something worthwhile in return. Last year Georgine had bought their presents from charity shops then parcelled them up in dark red tissue paper and stencilled on ‘The Vintage Shop’ in gold, because calling stuff ‘vintage’ increased its value to the power of ten. They’d actually been impressed and Terrence had displayed his wooden letter rack behind glass in their vast sitting room. Luckily, Georgine’s mum, Barbara, never now set foot in Middledip, Bettsbrough or even Peterborough, so couldn’t demand to be taken to the non-existent ‘Vintage Shop’.

Mum and Terrence had bought Georgine cashmere jumpers. She’d run her fingertips over them admiringly, but she’d rather have had winter boots with fleece inside, or a couple of pairs of jeans. She didn’t live a cashmere kind of life.

Joe’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. ‘Do you live in Middledip?’

She blinked, realised her frittata was getting cold and hastily dug into it, nodding while she chewed and swallowed. ‘I did a year at the University of Manchester, but I’ve always lived here otherwise. I rented for a while, but then managed to buy a starter home in the new bit of the Bankside estate.’ And it represented security, at least for so long as she could afford the mortgage.

‘What did you do at uni?’ Joe picked up his mug of latte.

‘A foundation year in performing arts. I would’ve specialised in dance with some singing if I’d stayed, so I could do musical theatre.’ She paused. ‘My parents split up and it was hard for Dad to keep me at uni so I opted to become independent. It’s difficult enough to make a living in the performing arts with a degree so, without one, I didn’t even try. Far too perilous financially! I did lots of teaching assistant stuff, and am dram and open mic in my free time, and then I got this job. I love it so much that I’m just happy I got here, whatever my route. For a long time I regretted not getting the chance to finish uni, but I’m lucky that the qualifications for this role are more about enthusiasm and ability than a degree.’

Joe looked as if he were paying close attention, his brown-eyed gaze steady through his glasses, a perplexed frown puckering the skin at the bridge of his nose.

‘What about you?’ she asked politely, keen to change the subject from the various messes she’d made of her life.

He dropped his eyes to his lunch. ‘I lived in Surrey and London for a lot of the time.’

‘Which part of London?’

‘Various. Camden for the last few years.’ He put a forkful of pasta in his mouth.

She watched him eat it, noticing the firm line of his jaw. ‘Isn’t London crucifyingly expensive?’

He shrugged. ‘If you can shoehorn enough people into one house the rent becomes manageable between you.’ He loaded his fork again. ‘Tell me about the theatre where you’ll put on the Christmas show.’

Georgine was happy to talk about Acting Instrumental and everything attached to it. ‘The Raised Curtain? It’s part of the Sir John Browne Academy, but it’s put to a lot of community use outside school hours. We’re lucky that they let us hire it the week before Christmas. It’s unusual for a student run to last for six shows but we’re ambitious here.’ She went on, Joe asking an occasional question. He was so relaxed and normal now, Georgine felt as if she must have been towing a cardboard cut out of him around this morning. Who would have thought that in a few short hours they’d be well on the way to establishing a rapport?

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