Page 69 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

Stuart arrived at the venue early and walked around the building to make sure he knew where the stage door was. Parked close beside the back entrance was the white van. He recognised the registration plate. His heart thumped. Florence was in the theatre and in a couple of hours he’d be speaking to her. Deep breaths. It wasn’t normal to get nervous about discussing a cat.

According to leaflets in the foyer, the theatre was owned and run by volunteers, principally to stage amateur productions but occasionally they booked outsiders as money-spinners and to help raise the theatre’s profile. Stuart fumbled with his spectacles and phone, finally managing to bring up his e-ticket for validation.

“You’re shaking,” said the young usher, in bow tie and suit. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just been rushing to get here.” Stuart tried to smile confidently.

The tiny bar was doing good business and the homemade cakes on the tea stall were almost gone. Stuart paid for a cup of tea in a paper cup and a fairy cake topped with white icing and a cherry. Juggling them was an issue and his still-shaking hand slopped hot tea onto his wrist. Wincing, he found a window ledge to use as a table. He’d barely swallowed the last bit of tea when a five-minute warning was given for the start of the performance.

This time the show started differently. The curtains went back to reveal the whole band on stage and they immediately launched into one of the best-known Blackberries hits. The first part of the song was drowned out by applause.

Stuart focused on the two female singers. He couldn’t see in detail because, again, he was near the back of the auditorium. They were taking it in turns to sing verses of the song but neither voice was right. Both lacked Florence’s high energy. He strained his eyes. The body shapes weren’t right either. They were too skinny, with angles instead of curves. Neither was Florence.

Stuart went cold and stood up to get a better look. Maybe Florence was elsewhere on stage. Somebody pressed on his shoulder and made him jump. He turned around.

“Please sit down. We can’t see.” It was an angry-looking woman.

Stuart apologised and sat down. There was no Florence. The tension built across his shoulder blades and his stomach clenched. She must be ill. He imagined her, pale-faced, in a hospital bed, all her energy and enthusiasm extinguished. He wanted to go to her, care for her, reignite her bright flame. A fighting spirit grew in his chest. As soon as the show finished, he’d race to the stage door and demand to know where she was. Perhaps he could write a message to pass on to her. He felt his pockets, no paper and no pen.

Despite his preoccupation, the familiarity of the Blackberries’ music took hold of his body. Without conscious thought, his toes and fingers were tapping out the rhythm and his head was going from side to side. Around him seats were emptying and the side and central aisles were filling. Nobody was taking any notice of anyone else. Nobody here knew him. He wanted to dance but the thought of pushing past the remaining seated people in his row made Stuart tremble.

Bright new future. Life is for living. Make the most of the time you have. How many more clichés do I need to spout? I never went to a disco. You need to dance for me as well.

She was right, and what was the worst that could happen? He tried to make eye contact as he apologised to those still seated but in the darkness it was impossible. Then he was in the aisle and the music took him. At first he was painfully aware of how he must look: a middle-aged man with jerky limb movements that didn’t match the beat of the music. Then he shut his eyes and imagined Florence dancing in front of him. He mirrored her movements and the tension across his back and in his stomach subsided. Now he understood why some people actively sought out dancing as a pastime. With a sudden surge of confidence, he wondered if he might become one of them.

You are one cool bro!

His sister had a talent for exaggeration but Stuart couldn’t deny feeling a spark of pride in his dance moves.

At the end of the set there was the same standing ovation, even though Florence was missing. Stuart’s anxiety descended again. He wanted time to slow down, but eventually the audience tired of clapping and the curtain fell. Stuart pushed his way through packed conversations in the overheated lobby into the cool air outside. The stage door was still closed. Before his fighting spirit could flee, Stuart positioned himself between the door and the van.

A few minutes later the door was flung open hard so that it rebounded off the wall. Jim was coming out backwards. He and the other male singer were balancing a large part of the drum kit between them. Stuart let them place it in the van before he stepped forward.

“What have you done with Florence?” The words shot out abruptly.

“What?” Jim was frowning.

“Where is she?” He’d spoken too sharply but his anxiety had been growing ever since Florence hadn’t appeared on stage. Now his concern was at an almost uncontrollable peak.

“Who are you?” Jim’s voice now held a hint of aggression. “We called the police on the last stalker and I can do the same now.”

Florencehadbeen stalked; the thought cut at Stuart’s heart. And he remembered Jayne’s accusation. Perhaps he was just one of a string of men bowled over by Florence.

Bowled over?

“I didn’t mean it like that, Sandra. Go away.”

“I’m waiting. Tell me who you are.”

Jim’s attitude and Sandra’s comment stole his bravado. “I am . . . was . . . her landlord. I’ve got her cat, Tibby.”

Jim’s expression relaxed slightly. “I put the cat flap in while you were out.”

“That’s sort of why I’m here. I can’t keep the cat much longer. I’m moving in with my girlfriend and she doesn’t want Tibby. So I need Florence to take her away.”

“She’s gone down to London to sort the grandkids out.” Jim paused. The defiant frown left his face and his voice softened. “They lost their mother.”

Stuart nodded, his heart aching as he remembered Florence’s reaction to her daughter’s death. “No problem. It’s the wrong time to hassle her. If you could just mention Tibby . . .”

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