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

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СКАЧАТЬ his inhaler inside. He could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, an indicator that an asthma attack was looming. ‘Not as far as I’m concerned.’

      ‘I don’t think you mean that.’

      He closed his eyes. Life with Izzy had been a constant yoyo. She’d loved city life, parties, notoriety, and most of all, money. But her desire for endless excitement had proved incompatible with his demanding job and unwillingness to ‘party’ with her. Her boredom and frustration with his supposed conservatism had her seeking thrills elsewhere. The arguments would increase, accusations would be thrown and eventually she’d storm out. But the remorse would soon kick in and she’d come back, promising to change her ways. Of course, she never did. And he’d been a mug for thinking otherwise.

      ‘It feels so final, putting the apartment on the market and everything.’ Her voice broke. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’

      His eyes flicked open. What he wanted? Jesus!

      It would be so easy to remind her of all the reasons why it’d ended. Reasons caused mostly by her, not him. But he was past the point of caring. He was done arguing. He took a deep breath. ‘We’ve been here before. It’s time for us both to move on.’

      ‘I just wanted to make sure, before…before it’s too late.’

      The tightness in his chest squeezed, increasing the need to administer a shot of Ventolin. ‘I have to go… I hope everything works out for you. Bye, Izzy.’ He ended the call before he heard her voice again and found himself caving…again. And that would make him the biggest idiot on the planet.

      It was no good, he needed his inhaler. He must have left it in the Robing Room.

      He’d just reached the end of the corridor, when his phone buzzed again. Christ, she was trying his patience today. He snatched at his phone, only realising at the last minute that it wasn’t Izzy. It was his mother.

      He pressed the button for the lift, deciding his lungs weren’t up to climbing the stairs. ‘Hi, Mum.’

      No response. This wasn’t unusual.

      He tried again. ‘Mum…? Everything okay?’

      A few seconds passed before she spoke. ‘Tom, love?’

      There was a slur to her voice. He checked his watch. Twenty past three. Great. She’d either hit the bottle early, or she was still hungover from last night.

      The lift doors pinged open and he stepped inside. ‘Is there a problem? Only I’m at court today. Can I call you back later?’

      Another delay before she responded. ‘I have a problem.’

      Several. But now wasn’t the time to be pedantic. ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘I don’t know how it happened.’

      Oh, Christ. ‘How what happened, Mum?’ He pressed the lift button for the third floor.

      ‘It just arrived. With no warning.’

      Trying to get to the crux of his mother’s many issues was a bit like pulling teeth. There were days when she got her shit together and was the funny bright person she truly was. But those moments were obliterated by the days when she succumbed to the booze. He should be used to it. Dealing with her drinking had been a constant throughout his thirty years, but it never got any easier. ‘You need to be a bit more specific, Mum. What has arrived?’ Post? Aliens? Dinner?

      ‘A unicorn.’

      A…what? He hadn’t seen that one coming. ‘A unicorn?’

      ‘Yes. An inflatable one, to be precise.’

      Was there any other type? Jesus, how pissed was she? ‘And how did this unicorn arrive?’

      ‘FedEx.’

      At least she hadn’t said, ‘It flew in through the window.’

      The lift doors opened and a couple of barristers got in, dressed in their full regalia. Oh, great. An audience.

      ‘And what do you want me to do about it?’ he said, trying to keep his voice low. Tame it? Ride it? Or merely inflate it?

      ‘I want to know how it got here. I wondered whether you’d ordered it?’

      ‘And why would I do that?’

      ‘You often order things for me.’

      ‘Yeah, food or clothing, not inflatable unicorns.’

      One of the barristers turned and looked at him.

      Tom shrugged. Don’t ask, he wanted to say.

      ‘Well, if you didn’t order it, then who did?’

      Tom rubbed his chest. He was starting to wheeze. ‘What does the paperwork say? Does it say where it was ordered from?’

      There was a delay while she no doubt searched for the paperwork.

      The lift reached the third floor, enabling him to escape.

      Trying to manage his mother’s affairs back in Brighton was getting harder. It was one thing to pay bills, send her food, or check she got up every day, but trying to ensure she was managing her business adequately was another level of responsibility entirely.

      His mother was the daughter of a titled family who’d accumulated several properties built in the 1700s. When his grandfather had died in 1979, the estate had been divided up between his two offspring. Uncle Henry had inherited the castle in Scotland and Windsor townhouse, while his mother had been lumbered with the crumbling manor house in Brighton. Uninspired by the thought of managing the upkeep of a Grade Two listed building with its multitude of antiquities and issues, his mum had applied to the local authority for planning permission to turn the entire lower ground floor into an arts centre. She’d had grand ideas to build a theatre, a cinema, several art studios and a café for local artists. Although permission was granted for the renovations, the project became too expensive to complete.

      Over the years, the Starlight Playhouse had been used as a youth centre, a camera club and housed the occasional art display. But only the café attracted any regular custom, along with the solitary hirer of the dance studio.

      Eventually, his mother came back on the line. ‘I found it,’ she said, accompanied by a rustle of paper. ‘It came from eBay.’

      Tom checked her eBay account. Unsurprisingly, he discovered an order for ‘one inflatable unicorn’.

      Shaking his head, he lifted the phone to his ear. ‘The order was placed on the fourth of September. What were you doing last Monday?’

      ‘Monday, you say?’ A pause followed. ‘No, I definitely didn’t order anything last Monday. Are you sure it wasn’t you?’

      ‘It definitely wasn’t me.’

      ‘Maybe the account was hacked?’

      There were times when he wanted СКАЧАТЬ