Tracy Corbett - The Summer Theatre by the Sea - The feel-good holiday romance you need to read this 2018

‘It’s too …’

‘What, Ethan?’ She rounded on him, hurt fuelling her anger. ‘Because I don’t understand. What is it that’s so bad you feel the need to up sticks and leave for Paris?’

He seemed to search for the appropriate word. ‘Suffocating.’

The word landed like a blow. Hard. Fast. Zapping the air from her lungs.

Suffocating …?

Ethan looked at her, defiance in his stance. ‘There, I said it. I didn’t want to, but you forced my hand.’ He turned and marched back into the bedroom to fetch the second suitcase. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be like this.’

She followed him. ‘I’m sure you didn’t, which is why you were planning to sneak out without even telling me. What were you going to do, text me when you arrived in Paris?’ She had to jump out of the way when he wheeled the suitcase past, perilously close to her toes. ‘I deserve better. At least say it to my face.’

He turned abruptly, causing her to nearly bump into him. ‘Fine. I’m leaving you, Charlotte. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’ve accepted a cash offer on the flat. The buyers will be renting it furnished for three months first. They move in at the end of May.’

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘That’s only three weeks away.’

For the first time since she’d arrived home he looked contrite, but only fleetingly. ‘Sorry, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.’

That was it? ‘But surely you can’t do that without my consent?’

‘Actually, I can.’ He went into the hallway and unhooked his jacket from the stand. ‘I’ve owned the place for seven years. The mortgage is in my name. You’ve lived here for less than two. That doesn’t entitle you to claim a beneficial interest. I’ve checked.’

Her head throbbed, each pulsating thump as painful as the impact of his words. Who was this man? She barely recognised him. They’d shared a life together, a bed, a five-year plan, and all he could say was that she had no legal right to anything? ‘But you could’ve told me you were selling up. You didn’t have to spring it on me last minute. Didn’t I at least deserve that?’

He slipped his jacket on. ‘Probably. I’m being selfish, I know.’

She folded her arms, in an effort to stop herself from shaking. ‘You said it.’

For a moment, he looked like he was about to retaliate, but then sighed. ‘I thought that’s how we worked. We’ve never been overly mushy or sentimental. Our relationship has been pragmatic and mutually beneficial. I bought the place, you did it up. An agreeable business arrangement.’

‘A business arrangement?’ Was that really how he saw it? How could he be so cold, so unfeeling?

He shrugged. ‘Of sorts, yes.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder, the weight of it unwelcome and invasive. ‘Come on, you have to admit it was never going to go the distance.’ He held her gaze. ‘It’s better this way.’

Tears were beginning to surface. ‘How is it better, Ethan? I’ve just lost my job and now you’re telling me that in three weeks’ time I’m going to be homeless.’

He kissed her cheek. ‘Think of it as a new start. You’ll bounce back, you’re made of tough stuff. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you.’

Stung, she stepped away from him. ‘Wow, just what every girl longs to hear. How much she’s admired . Lucky me.’

He opened the door. ‘Take care, Charlotte. Good luck.’ And with that he was gone, wheeling both suitcases towards the lift.

She’d need more than good luck. In the space of one morning, she’d lost everything. Her career, her boyfriend, her home. She had nothing left.

Slamming the door behind him, she sagged against it, fury giving way to heartbreak as she slumped to the floor. Angry tears ran down her face. She hated crying, it always made her feel so out of control, so untethered, but she couldn’t stop the onset. She was hurt, mad, shocked. Her perfect life was gone. Shattered. Wiped out.

What the hell was she going to do?

Tuesday, 17 May – 14 weeks till curtain-up

Barney Hubble leant against the iron railings and drew in a breath of salty air as he watched a fishing boat drag its nets from the water. There was nothing remarkable about this particular Tuesday evening in May, and yet the sight of the water sparkling under the fading daylight and the rush of waves ebbing and flowing over the sandy beach below, was strangely hypnotic. How different his life was now compared to back in London.

For a start, he walked everywhere. He’d never walked anywhere in London, other than endlessly marching up and down hospital corridors. And he swam most days, relishing the battle of challenging riptides and the exhilaration of diving into freezing-cold water, feeling his skin contract beneath his wetsuit. He was also able to indulge in his passion for music. He didn’t earn much from his gigs, but he enjoyed it and it made him feel alive … unlike when he’d worked on the hospital wards and he’d felt permanently dead.

As a kid, he’d learnt both guitar and piano at school before progressing to singing in bands. He’d never ventured into acting before, but last summer his housemates had coerced him into joining the local amateur dramatics group. Despite his initial reluctance, he’d discovered that it was a great way to make new friends and ingrain himself into the local community. Something he hadn’t even known he’d wanted, and certainly something he’d never experienced in London.

His parents had never been big fans of hobbies. It was all work, work, work, for Henry and Alexa Hubble. A philosophy they’d tried to instil into their son. Not that he was against hard work, he just wanted more from life. Maybe it was selfish, but specialising was his parents’ dream, not his. He’d given med school his all, but nothing had prepared him for the relentless onslaught of being a junior doctor.

So, he’d taken a gap year. But the year was now up and his parents wanted to know when he was returning to his studies. It was a reasonable enough request. Trouble was, he wasn’t ready to leave Cornwall. He was still working out what he wanted out of life. He loved living by the sea, he was rediscovering his passion for music, and he was trying out new experiences … like playing Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream .

The sound of voices rose above the crash of waves below. He turned and watched his mates Nate and Paul cross the quayside to join him.

‘I can’t believe I’m being forced to wear a dress again.’ Nate slung his worn leather jacket over his shoulder. He’d never forgiven the last director for casting him as an ugly sister in Cinderella. For everyone else, the sight of a tattooed, bearded twenty-five-year-old dressed to look like Amy Winehouse was hysterical. Nate had never enjoyed the joke. ‘I mean, seriously, which part of me screams love-struck damsel in distress?’ He held out his tattooed arms. His biker T-shirt was stained with grease, and his normally spiky brown hair flattened from wearing his crash helmet.

Paul shrugged. ‘Comic irony? No one would ever mistake you for a girl, even in a dress. Ergo, visual humour.’

Nate didn’t look convinced.

‘And anyway, men have often played female roles in the theatre,’ Paul said, heading up the hill towards the hall, looking dapper in his blue Ben Sherman suit, complete with narrow tie and pointed shoes. ‘Where do you think the word “drag” comes from?’

Nate looked blank.

Paul gave him a questioning look. ‘It stands for “dressed as girl”. It began during Victorian times to denote a male actor playing the part of a female for comic effect.’