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

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      His father appeared unperturbed by his son’s refusal to shake his hand. ‘How are you, Thomas?’

      It was such a simple question and yet one that was fricking hard to answer. How was he? What? For the past seven years? He opted for brevity. ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘And work?’

      ‘That’s fine too.’ Tom wasn’t about to share his growing sense of dissatisfaction about his career. Not least because his father wouldn’t understand. He’d never been ‘soft’ like his son.

      ‘What time are you due in court?’

      There was no point lying – the trials were listed on the wall. ‘Soon.’ He kept his response vague.

      ‘Tricky case?’

      ‘Not really. Was there something specific you wanted?’ Tom rubbed his chest, wishing he’d taken a shot of Fostair this morning as a preventative.

      His father glanced behind, waiting until the corridor cleared before speaking. ‘I wanted to let you know that I haven’t been…well.’

      Time slowed. It took a moment before he realised the thumping he could hear was coming from his chest. But he wasn’t going to soften, not after all this time. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.’

      Harvey Elliot cleared his throat, as though debating whether to continue. ‘I was having chest pains. I was admitted to London Bridge Hospital for an angiogram. The test results showed the onset of atherosclerosis. It causes angina.’

      ‘Right.’ It felt like a pathetic response to such a big announcement, but what was he supposed to say? Despite everything that’d happened, he’d act like the dutiful son and bury the hatchet? That wasn’t going to happen. There’d been too many arguments over the years, too many hurtful accusations.

      His father waited, but it was obvious Tom had nothing more to add. ‘I thought you should know.’

      ‘What’s the prognosis?’ Tom felt he needed to know what he was dealing with, even if they had burnt their bridges.

      ‘Medication. Eating better, taking more exercise. Less stress.’ His father tried for a good-natured smile. ‘Torture, right?’

      Tom didn’t feel like engaging in friendly banter. ‘Surgery?’

      ‘Not at this stage. Hopefully it can be managed without the need for surgical intervention.’

      ‘Well, thanks for letting me know. I hope things improve.’ He went to leave, but his father caught his arm.

      ‘The thing is, it’s made me re-evaluate my life. Lying in a hospital bed waiting for results tends to focus the mind. Makes a man think about his life, his…decisions.’

      Tom turned to look at the man who’d made his teenage life hell and walked out on his mother when she’d needed him the most. ‘And what conclusions did you come to?’

      ‘I decided that I didn’t want to miss out on any more of my son’s life.’ His father took a step closer. ‘It’s time to bury the hatchet. I’m willing to move forwards, if you are. I was hoping we could call a truce and forgive each other. What do you say?’

      Tom rubbed his chest. ‘You think I need your forgiveness?’ He studied his dad’s face. There wasn’t a hint of insecurity. ‘I’m curious. What terrible crime have I committed that requires your forgiveness?’

      ‘You’ve barely spoken to me in seven years—’

      ‘And why is that?’

      His father sighed. ‘Because you felt the need to punish me for leaving your mother.’

      The man wasn’t stupid; he’d give him that. ‘She has an illness. She needs constant help and yet you decided to put your own needs ahead of hers.’

      His father frowned. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it was for me?’

      The blood drained from Tom’s face. ‘Hard for you?’

      There were so many things Tom could have said, but at that moment he was genuinely lost for words. His father thought it would be that simple? That he could just decide it was time for them to ‘move forwards’ and forget everything that had gone before. Jesus. He really was a piece of work.

      Tom was saved from saying something he’d regret by his phone pinging with a message. He glanced down, expecting to see Izzy’s name. They’d accepted an offer on the flat and were close to exchanging contracts. But it was a missed call from his mother.

      Ignoring his father, he pressed play. Did you know you could get green apples…? From now on I’m only going to buy green apples. No other colour… Can you get other colours? Pink? I’d like pink apples. Add green and pink apples to my grocery shopping this week. Thank you, darling. Love you.

      Tom didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The world was conspiring against him. An unwinnable case, his father having a mid-life crisis, and his mother losing the plot. And it was only bloody nine-thirty.

      He turned to leave. ‘I need to deal with this.’

      ‘Will you think about it?’ his father called after him.

      There was nothing to think about. Some things were beyond repair.

      The relationship with his father was one of them.

       Chapter Eight

       Saturday 23rd September

      ‘You cannot exclude my child,’ the woman said, squaring up to Becca. ‘You have no right. I’m paying you to teach my kid to dance, not inflict this rubbish on them. It’s not even dancing.’ She gestured to where the kids were balancing beanbags on their feet, trying to flick them up and catch them standing on one foot.

      ‘You’re right. It’s not, but—’

      ‘If I wanted my kid to mess around playing games, I’d do it at home. I wouldn’t pay some jumped-up freak to do it for me.’

      Freak? That was a new one.

      The woman jabbed a finger. ‘Get on with teaching them to dance and don’t tell my kid he can’t join in, you hear me?’

      Becca was conflicted. Part of her wanted to give in, especially as the other parents were nodding in agreement, supporting the woman’s grievance. But she knew she had to make a stand. If she didn’t, things would never improve. She couldn’t spend every Saturday morning shouting until she was hoarse. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t agree to that.’

      The woman looked incredulous. ‘Excuse me?’ She turned to the other parents. ‘We’re paying for you to teach our kids ballet, right? Nothing else.’

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