Chapter 44
Bridie arrived at the theatre just after seven, the sky already darkening, the sea air sharp against her cheeks.
She paused outside for a moment, keys cold in her hand, taking in the building as it now stood.
Even from the outside, she could see the difference.
The roof tiles gleamed wetly under the streetlamp, newly set, and the faint glow behind the windows told her that the electrics were working properly now.
She told herself that this meeting was practical. Jack had wanted her to come by to check she was happy with the work his tradesmen had been doing during the week. That was all. Roof repaired. Electrics made safe. Replastering under way.
Still, her heart was beating far too quickly as she unlocked the door.
Inside, the foyer smelled different. Cleaner. Fresher. Paint, plaster, something new layered over the familiar damp and dust. Jack was waiting for her, hands in his pockets, as though he’d been standing there for some time.
‘Evening,’ he said.
‘Evening,’ she replied, suddenly conscious of her boots, her coat, her hair still damp from the mist outside. ‘I can’t believe how much you’ve got done in a week.’
He smiled, clearly pleased. ‘I told you. Once you get the right people in …’
She followed him through to the auditorium – and stopped dead. ‘Oh my god!’ She had expected progress. She had expected repairs. What she had not expected was transformation.
The ceiling was breathtaking. The decorative plasterwork had been restored, not stripped away as she had feared. The mouldings flowed seamlessly into one another, intricate and elegant, framing the spaces where the old chandeliers now hung, cleaned and rehung, catching the light.
Bridie turned slowly on the spot, afraid to blink in case it vanished.
Jack watched her carefully. ‘You like it?’
‘Like it?’ she breathed. ‘Jack, this is … this is everything I wanted.’
He exhaled, relief evident. ‘Good. Because you were right. Ripping everything out would’ve been a crime.’
She stared at him. ‘Did you really just say that?’
‘Don’t get used to it. I still prefer newbuilds.’
She laughed, then caught sight of the plasterwork again. ‘Who did this?’
‘I employed an artisan plasterer.’
Bridie had never heard of such a thing. ‘I didn’t even know artisan plasterers existed.’
‘They do,’ Jack said lightly. ‘And this one specialises in decorative mouldings. Bespoke designs.’
‘But this matches exactly.’
‘It does. And then he added his own touches, where it made sense.’
She turned to him, frowning. ‘Where on earth did you find him? And at such short notice?’
Jack shrugged. ‘You’d be surprised who you can get hold of at short notice if they are offered the right inducement.’
‘You mean money.’
He didn’t deny it.
Her joy dimmed slightly, worry creeping in beneath the awe. She loved what he’d done, but would the theatre ticket sales recoup the investment in the theatre, and if not, how could she possibly repay him?
‘Jack … how much is all this costing?’
He waved the question away. ‘Let me show you the rest.’
The painters were mid-job, ladders propped against walls, paint pots and rollers scattered about. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air.
Jack stopped beside a row of seats that were still covered in dust sheets. ‘There’s one more thing.’ He reached down and slowly pulled the dust sheet back.
Bridie’s breath caught. The seats – her seats – were magnificent. The red velvet gleamed rich and deep, the wood was polished, every tear and broken hinge were gone. They looked brand new, yet unmistakably original.
Jack grinned. ‘And under all the other dust sheets … the same.’
She sank into the nearest seat, stunned. ‘How did you even…?’ Then she laughed softly, shaking her head. ‘No, don’t tell me. I know. I’d be surprised who you could get hold of at short notice if given the right inducement.’
He nodded. ‘Specialist furniture restorers. They worked miracles.’
She stood abruptly and crossed the aisle, throwing her arms around him before she could think better of it. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, emotion thick in her throat. ‘This is … it’s you, isn’t it?’
Jack stiffened. He gently took her wrists and lowered her arms, stepping back. The moment was lost, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. ‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘I’d better go.’
‘Yes. Me too,’ she said quickly, disappointment blooming despite herself. ‘It’s getting late.’
They walked through to the foyer in silence. Bridie’s thoughts churned. Why did I say that? Had he thought she meant … had she ruined everything?
She reached the front door and unlocked it just as thunder cracked overhead, the sound so loud it made her jump. Lightning split the sky, followed instantly by torrential rain hammering against the glass.
She backed away instinctively, heart racing, until she felt Jack’s arm around her shoulders.
‘You never did like thunder and lightning,’ he said softly.
‘I don’t want to go out in that,’ she admitted, embarrassed by the tremor in her voice.
‘Neither do I,’ he said. Then, after a beat, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
Moments later they were back in the auditorium, Jack handing her a paintbrush.
She stared at it. ‘This is your idea?’
He nodded, smiling. ‘We’re stuck here. Might as well make ourselves useful.’
She changed into a pair of old overalls left behind by the tradesmen, resigned. ‘I’ll start rolling,’ she said.
Thunder boomed again, sealing her fate.
They worked side by side, laughter and easy banter returning as if it had never left. Bridie watched Jack roll paint onto the wall with practised ease.
Bridie paused, and watched, then followed his lead. ‘You look like you know what you’re doing.’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘I didn’t always have a crew.’
‘You?’ She smiled. ‘Hands-on?’
He glanced at her. ‘It’s been a while. I used to take on individual properties and renovate them, bringing in people as and when I needed help.’
‘You did a lot of the work yourself?’
‘In the beginning, yes. It was the only way to save money and make a decent profit. But as I moved up the property ladder, and started to diversify, that’s when things got tricky, and I realised I needed a crew to do this sort of work while I project-managed.’
‘Bet you never thought you’d be picking up a paintbrush again.’
‘Roller,’ he corrected. ‘I forgot how therapeutic this is.’
He finished rolling one section and paused to dip the roller in the paint. ‘Sometimes …’
‘Sometimes …?’ she prompted.
He paused. ‘Sometimes I miss the old times.’
‘Doing properties yourself?’ Bridie asked. Jack’s wife came to mind. She could just imagine from what she’d heard the demands she placed on him to keep the money rolling in so she could lead the life she’d grown accustomed to.
Jack left the roller sitting in the paint and turned towards the stage. He’d gone very quiet all of a sudden.
‘Is everything all right, Jack?’ She wondered if he was beginning to regret getting involved in all this. Not only was he spending lots of money, but he was also stuck there working on the weekend. ‘Did I say something wrong?’
Jack turned to look at her. ‘Not at all. When I said that I miss the old times, I wasn’t talking about the early days of my property business.’
Bridie creased her brow. ‘What were you talking about?’
‘This.’
Her heart stumbled. ‘This?’
He looked at her. ‘Us. Being here. Before everything got complicated.’
The walls came down after that.
Jack spoke of how abandoned he’d felt when she’d left for London. How angry. How he’d told himself he didn’t care, burying his feelings.
She told him about the loneliness she’d felt after her fiancé left. The regret. The wondering what might have been if she’d stayed in Suffolk.
‘You mean,’ he said quietly, ‘if you’d chosen me over your dreams.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
Silence thickened between them. They stood too close. The rain softened. The thunder stopped.
They almost kissed.
Instead, Bridie stepped back, breathless.
‘It’s getting late,’ she said, adding jokingly, ‘If we stay much longer, your tradesmen will be out of a job.’ But she knew it was no joking matter.
She was thinking of Hannah and what she’d said – be very careful, Bridie, about doing something you’ll regret, on the rebound.
Jack nodded, disappointment flickering across his face. They changed out of their overalls, suddenly shy.
‘How long until it’s finished?’ she asked.
Bridie had seen the dust and debris lying around from the work that had been done already.
The place would need a deep clean. She hoped her neighbours in Cobblers Yard were up for another cleaning session.
She couldn’t wait to show them what Jack had done to the place.
‘A week,’ he said. ‘I’ll send in cleaners.’
‘My friends were hoping to—’
‘You don’t need them,’ Jack said bluntly. ‘I’ve got cleaners. They’re professionals.’
‘Professionals,’ Bridie repeated.
‘Yes. You’re running a business – right? Or at least that’s your intention – isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Bridie said slowly. ‘But they’re my friends, and they were looking forward to—’
‘You can’t be sentimental in business.’
She smiled wryly. ‘Funny. I thought you were being sentimental helping me.’
He didn’t answer.
Outside, the night was calm again.
‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I insist.’
She relented. The shops weren’t open. Nobody would see him if he went into Cobblers Yard. Even so, perhaps that wasn’t a good idea. Then she’d offer him coffee, and who knew where that might lead.
Nowhere, she assured herself. Jack was married, and even if things weren’t going well right then, nobody was going to accuse her of breaking up a relationship after what had been done to her.
But she knew how rumours could easily get out of hand; she was thinking of the supposedly ghostly presence in the theatre.
She realised she’d heard nothing unusual that evening, suggesting that the strange noises had probably been the building’s way of telling her it needed urgent repairs.
As they stepped outside and walked along the quiet promenade, Bridie thought of Oliver. She remembered those times they’d snuck into the run-down theatre as teenagers. It suddenly came to mind that it hadn’t been Jack who had insisted on walking her to the bus stop afterwards – it had been Oliver.