LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

       Thursday 7th September

      Becca Roberts got off the bus outside the grand Queens Hotel and made her way along the promenade towards Ruby’s Guest House, the place she called home. The sea breeze increased as the English Channel came into view, choppy and grey, chucking waves of foam over the harbour wall. Wispy clouds obscured the sun, but that didn’t detract from the spectacular view. No matter where she’d lived, or travelled to since moving away to attend dance college, Brighton always appealed, whatever the weather.

      She stopped to rub her knee. Waking up with a raging hangover had killed any desire to do her strengthening exercises today. Her physio wouldn’t be happy. He also wouldn’t approve of her hobbling down the road weighed down by a lumpy rucksack and dragging a heavy suitcase, but needs must.

      And anyway, she was used to pain. Injury was an occupational hazard for a dancer. At some point, everything in your body would hurt. But this latest injury wasn’t a niggle that could be cured by massage, painkillers and ice. And that was something she was still struggling to get her head around.

      The sight of her mum’s bright yellow front door cheered her a little. Ruby’s Guest House was a three-storey Georgian townhouse situated in the Artists’ Quarter, bang smack between the old burnt-out West Pier and the replacement Palace Pier. The ‘Vacancies’ sign creaked in the breeze as she approached. God, she’d missed this place.

      Despite ringing the bell twice and knocking, no one answered. She tried the door, unsurprised to find it open. Her mum had been known to leave a key in it overnight.

      ‘Anyone home?’ she called out, carrying her suitcase over the threshold. ‘Mum?’

      Still no answer. She spotted a Post-it Note stuck to the mirror hanging in the hallway.

       In the kitchen prepping lunch. You’re in the Seventies Suite! Come and find me when you’re settled. Mum. x

      Becca smiled. The Seventies Suite was her favourite. She dragged her suitcase upstairs and down the landing. As she opened the bedroom door, she was hit by bright swirls of orange patterning on the wall and a lime-green duvet cover with a multitude of cushions strewn about the bed. A lava lamp sat on top of a chunky bedside cabinet, next to a yellow plastic clock. The room glowed, helped by the orange curtains and huge sash window.

      She couldn’t help laughing as she kicked off her shoes and jumped onto the queen-sized divan. She’d spent many a night lying on this bed during her teenage years, gossiping with her cousin about boys… Well, one boy.

      Themed rooms had been her dad’s idea. He’d spent six years designing and constructing the different spaces, researching and sourcing suitable décor and putting his carpentry skills to use before dropping dead of a heart attack aged forty-six. It had seemed so cruel that after all his hard work, he hadn’t lived long enough to complete the project and enjoy it.

      Shaking away the sadness, she rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom, enjoying the feel of the deep-pile rug beneath her feet. Like the bedroom, the en suite was styled to reflect the Seventies, including a pampas bath suite and psychedelic tiling. She noticed a large crack in the shower screen and made a mental note to tell her mum. Ruby’s Guest House was normally in tip-top condition, something her dad had always insisted on.

      After a quick shower, in the hope it might ease her hangover, she slung on a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting crop top and headed for the stairs.

      All the bedroom doors were closed, except for the one leading to the sewing room. She stuck her head around the door, eager to admire her mum’s latest work-in-progress. But instead of the usual collection of haberdashery neatly displayed on the shelving, she was greeted with mayhem and clutter. Rolls of material lay on the floor, two partially dressed mannequins were shoved against the wall and various boxes of ribbons and accessories obscured the floor. The place was a mess.

      Strange. Her mum was usually such a stickler for a tidy workspace.

      Her pondering was cut short by a sharp pain shooting up the back of her leg. She spun around, knowing full well what…or rather whom…she was about to encounter. True enough, Mad Maude was on the attack. The devil incarnate. Satan with fur.

      She swiped at the cat, but her reflexes were too slow to outwit her nemesis. Maude’s orange fur expanded as she clawed at her enemy’s leg. Why her mum put up with such a psychotic animal, she didn’t know. Surely it couldn’t be good for business? But then, Maude didn’t pick on anyone else. It was only Becca she had a vendetta against.

      Grabbing Maude by the collar, she prised the cat away, knowing she only had seconds to make her escape. Chucking Maude onto the beanbag, she hobbled for the door, slamming it behind her and holding on to the handle. For all she knew, the damn cat could open doors.

      Various screeching noises could be heard from the other side. Becca waited until it had gone quiet before she let go and limped downstairs. Bloody cat.

      She was so distracted, she nearly knocked into an elderly woman heading into the dining room. ‘Goodness, where’s the fire?’ the old woman said, looking alarmed.

      ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you,’ which 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.’

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