was hardly surprising; the woman was barely four feet tall. Okay, bit of an exaggeration. But she was tiny. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course I am.’ The woman sounded indignant. ‘How frail do you think I am?’
Becca figured this was a trick question, so refrained from answering. ‘It was my fault entirely. I was escaping Mad Maude. I’m not a fan of cats,’ she added, feeling an explanation was required. ‘Particularly not ones with a personality disorder.’
The woman laughed. ‘In that case, you’re forgiven. I’m familiar with Maude’s antics. You must be Ruby’s daughter? She mentioned you were arriving. Delighted to meet you.’
The woman’s eyes travelled the length of Becca’s body, taking in her ripped jeans, leopard-print nails, big hoop earrings and blue-tipped peroxide hair. Her expression indicated disapproval.
Becca fought back a smile. As outfits went, this was conservative. She held out her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Becca.’
‘Mrs Busby.’ The woman tutted at the sight of Becca’s black bra visible beneath her white top. Her mum had often mentioned the old woman during their phone calls. She sounded like quite a character.
The woman held out her arm and nodded towards the dining room. ‘Shall we?’
Becca had never escorted anyone into lunch before.
Oh, well. Always a first time for everything.
She led the old woman through the doorway, expecting to find the room bustling with guests and chatter, but instead found the sparse conservatory empty apart from one elderly gentleman seated at a table. He was wearing a smart blazer.
When they entered, he rose from his chair and pretended to tip his non-existent hat. ‘Good afternoon, Milady. And how are we this fine lunchtime?’
Mrs Busby responded with a dainty curtsey. ‘I’m very well, thank you, Dr Mortimer.’
He held out a chair for her. ‘Allow me.’
Becca felt like she’d been transported to a bygone era.
‘And who do we have here?’ The elderly gentleman subjected Becca to the same once-over Mrs 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
