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

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      One such group were hanging around outside the restaurant. They’d been in earlier, already drunk, making her job torturous. She was used to dealing with unruly behaviour, attempts to chat her up and ask whether she had a boyfriend. It was all part of the job. But she’d be lying if she said it didn’t upset her when reference was made to her ethnicity. They say alcohol makes a person tell the truth, that inebriated people become brutally honest and offer unfiltered opinions. Whereas a sober person would keep their prejudices under wraps, a pissed person might not.

      One of the guys whistled as she walked by. ‘Hey, sexy.’

      He stunk of smoke. Yet another pungent smell to add to the stench infiltrating her clothes.

      ‘Anyone ever told you, you look like Thandie Newton? I wouldn’t kick her out of bed,’ he said, showing off to his mates.

      Jodi ignored him.

      Her relationships with men had been influenced by several things, most of which revolved around her upbringing. Apart from witnessing her mum shacking up with numerous blokes, her own destructive behaviour had attracted a certain ‘type’ – one she was no longer interested in. As with job hunting, man hunting had proved disappointing. She’d had one semi-serious relationship in her early twenties, but the moment she’d plucked up the courage to tell Ned about her criminal past, he’d suddenly developed a desire to go travelling. Despite promising to contact her on his return, he never did.

      And that was the problem: if they were decent blokes, they didn’t want a girlfriend with a criminal record. And who could blame them?

      The guy stepped in front of her, blocking her route. ‘Want to join the party?’ He offered her the joint he was smoking.

      The smell acted as a trigger, a time capsule that transported her back to her teens. Of waking up with no recollection of where she’d been, or what she’d done the previous evening. Of nights spent in police stations waiting for her mum to pick her up. Aunty Ruby showing up instead and taking her back to the guest house to sober up. Crying her eyes out, as she dealt with the comedown of a drug-fuelled night.

      She’d grown up in Hove, the posh end of town – although there’d been nothing privileged about her upbringing. Her mother had lacked direction, until she’d met Ratty. To this day, his real name remained unknown. All Jodi knew was that he was a musician from Jamaica, who played steel drums in a reggae band and spent one summer in 1988 touring the UK with her mother in tow.

      By the time he left England and headed home to the Caribbean, Adele Simmons was in love, addicted to the ‘groupie’ lifestyle and six weeks pregnant. Unfortunately for Adele, it was all downhill after that. She flitted from one man to another, trying to find another Ratty, and increasingly annoyed that her youth, fun and night time partying had been curtailed by a screaming baby.

      Consequently, Jodi grew up without a father and with a mother who resented her. She’d accepted being passed from one relative to another, while her mother entertained numerous male ‘friends’. She did what the other kids did, watched films at the Duke of York cinema, hung out at the skate park and ice-skated at the now closed Ice Cube. When she reached her teens she realised her mum’s lifestyle wasn’t normal. Her reaction to discovering that her mum was the talk of the school gates, was to rebel. When Adele failed to respond to her daughter’s pleading for her to change her ways, Jodi switched to behaviour that ensured her mum had to pay attention to her. But even that hadn’t worked.

      She preferred to avoid thinking about her mother, who was currently shacked up with her latest man in Glasgow and no longer part of her life.

      Side-stepping the guy with the joint, Jodi walked off, ignoring his drunken suggestion that she ‘go back to where she came from’.

      Ignorant arse. She came from bloody Brighton.

      Her teenage years hadn’t all been rotten. Her best memory was from the summer of 2005 when one of her favourite bands, The Kooks, had moved into a property in Adelaide Crescent and used to sit outside on the lawn practising their latest songs. She and Becca had felt so cool, so grown-up hanging out with them. The memory made her smile.

      But her smile faded when she turned into East Street and saw a homeless man lying on the ground. He was wrapped in a blanket, his worldly goods stored in carrier bags next to him. She dug out her tips from the night and placed the coins into the hat lying next to him.

      ‘Would you like details of the homeless shelter?’ she asked, crouching down, but he was asleep. She tucked his hat under the blanket, out of sight, and left him alone.

      Her life could so easily have ended up the same way. Aunty Ruby was the reason it hadn’t. Her aunty had taken her in after she’d left prison, helped her study for her GCSEs, A levels, and had been thrilled when Jodi finally obtained her degree last year.

      When Jodi reached the guest house, she found the place in virtual darkness. Pushing open the front door, she spotted Mrs Busby carrying a tea tray across the foyer. It was a nightly ritual. Two glasses of hot milk, one for her and the other for Dr Mortimer, accompanied by a packet of Milky Ways.

      Jodi ducked behind the front desk, unwilling to be collared and grilled. Neither of her aunty’s long-standing guests knew about her past and she wanted to keep it that way. But it was getting increasingly tricky to keep the truth hidden, especially when the pair couldn’t understand why ‘a nice girl like her’ seemed so inept at finding a job.

      While she was hiding, she heard a noise coming from the study. When she was sure Mrs Busby had disappeared, she crept over and peered around the study door.

      She loved her uncle’s old study. There was something about the smell: a mixture of worn leather and old books. It was also the room where her aunty spent a good deal of time. It seemed to give her comfort.

      Over the years, books on gardening, horticulture and organic produce had been added to the tall bookcases, already crammed with publications about science, religion, cricket and war history. The dark green carpet was covered with a thick woven cream rug and a vase of fresh flowers adorned the window ledge, next to the nautical weather predictor. But other than that, it remained as her uncle had left it – more of a safe haven than a shrine. A place her aunty could retreat to when life got too much.

      Her aunty was sitting in the wingchair, her legs tucked up, spinning the chair around, faster and faster, with a glazed look.

      Jodi leant against the doorframe. ‘Bad day?’

      Her aunty nearly fell off the chair. ‘Goodness, you made me jump.’

      ‘Sorry.’ Jodi went into the room. ‘Everything okay?’

      ‘Fine, love. I was lost in thought. I’ve been trying to balance the books.’

      Jodi noticed a pile of invoices on the desk. ‘Is there a problem?’

      ‘Other than my lack of enthusiasm? Not really.’

      Guilt kicked Jodi in the ribs. Why hadn’t she realised her aunty was struggling? Her cousin had spotted it straight away. ‘Do you have to do this tonight? Can’t it wait until morning?’

      ‘Possibly, but I’ve been putting it off for over a week.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not my favourite pastime, but the books won’t balance themselves.’ Flicking on the desk lamp, her aunty reached across for her reading glasses. ‘Of course, it might help if СКАЧАТЬ