Chapter 4
‘What breaking news awaits us this week, do you reckon?’ Jacob mused, plonking himself down next to me in the staffroom.
I say staffroom. Again, like a lot of things at the Brighton Tribune , it was quite an overgenerous description for what was essentially a semi-circle of ten plastic chairs in the worst-smelling corner of the office.
I took the polystyrene cup of coffee Jacob handed me with a weak smile, the first sip doing little to alleviate the pounding headache that had been present all morning.
It was like the better version of myself – the smug one who knew that fifth glass of wine was a bad idea – was sitting on her high horse with a giant wooden mallet, bashing it repeatedly against my skull.
‘Can’t be worse than the Asbo from last week,’ I yawned, smiling at the thought of poor Rory, the local cockerel, who finally ruffled one too many feathers with his early-morning siren calls and was served a noise abatement notice by Brighton it’s criminal that the council have pulled their funding.
I can’t walk down the street for bumping into a million of those ridiculous eco scooters that people just dump willy-nilly and yet they don’t have enough left to support places like this?
’ He sucked air sharply between his teeth, his hands thrust deep into two of the many pockets that adorned his trousers.
He let out a deep breath and turned to me, a little abashed.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to go off like that. ’
I smiled at him. ‘Please, don’t apologise. You’re absolutely right. That’s why I’m here, after all.’
‘Ah, speak of the devil.’ Terry raised his chin at someone behind me and I turned to see the piano now occupied by a ginger-haired boy with glasses who was carefully pressing each key in turn, delighted with every new note he produced.
The stool’s previous occupant was striding towards us.
There was something about him that felt familiar: the broad shoulders, the single dark curl falling just so across his brow, the soft crease in the middle of his chin a stark contrast to his sharply chiselled jaw.
He was wearing black jeans and a denim shirt, the cuffs of which were rolled up to expose his forearms.
‘Jenny, is it? From the Tribune ?’ His right hand extended as he approached and I noticed his index finger was stained with black ink, the tips hard and calloused against the back of my hand as he enveloped it between both of his. ‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m Luca. Luca Patel.’
His eyes held mine, a tiny v appearing in the space where his eyebrows almost joined that made me wonder whether we’d met before.
‘Jenny Thompson.’ I smiled, the intensity of his gaze making the back of my neck prickle with heat. ‘So, you’re in charge round here?’
‘Well, Ivan helps, too.’ Luca pointed over towards the cardigan-wearing man trying to encourage a boy to use his drumstick to hit the drum, not the child sat next to him.
‘Ah, you’re just being modest. Luca runs the show,’ Terry piped up, punching Luca playfully on the shoulder.
‘Yeah, well, I’m not doing that great a job, considering the council just cut our funding,’ Luca sighed, raking his fingers through his hair ‘Something to do with government cutbacks or some bullshit, but that funding was our lifeline. Without it I’m not sure how much longer we can stay open.
’ My pen stilled as I watched him looking about the room, his eyes lingering on each child’s face in turn.
It was evident how much he cared. He shook his head fiercely, as though eliminating some awful scenario his brain had cooked up from either ear.
‘Anyway, that’s why we’re putting on a fundraiser in a few months.
It’s an opportunity for all the kids to perform, but also, hopefully, for us to raise some much-needed funds. ’
‘That’s a fantastic idea. Do you have a date? I’ll be sure to mention it in the article.’
‘28 th May. It’s the main reason I called the Tribune . Thought an article in the paper might help sell some tickets, raise enough money that we can keep the doors open for another year.’