Tale Teller Club Music: Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries Chapter 15 Scandal in the Palace: Pastor Po's Predicament

Diary Entry: Scandal in the Palace: Pastor Po's Predicament

Oh, how the winds of scandal swirl around my palace! It was inevitable, I suppose. A place as vibrant and unconventional as the Brighton Arts Club is bound to ruffle feathers, though, I confess, I never imagined it would be blamed for the unraveling of a marriage. And yet, that is precisely what has happened.

Pastor Po, my dear friend and occasional co-conspirator in all things artistic and absurd, arrived this morning clutching a set of papers that bore all the marks of doom. “Divorce,” he announced, his voice laden with equal parts disbelief and indignation. “And guess who’s been named as the other woman?”

I stared at him, momentarily baffled. “Po, darling,” I said, “you’ve mistaken me for someone far more scandalous.”

“Not you,” he replied, thrusting the papers into my hands. “This place. The Brighton Arts Club.”

I nearly spilled my tea. “The palace?” I exclaimed. “How can a building cause a divorce?”

It turns out that Pastor Po’s soon-to-be ex-spouse (let’s call her Mrs. P, for the sake of discretion) had grown increasingly suspicious of his frequent visits to the club. According to the documents, the Brighton Arts Club is described as a “den of iniquity,” a place where “unspeakable acts” unfold beneath the guise of art and culture.

“Unspeakable acts!” I repeated, incredulous. “Does she mean the life drawing classes? Or perhaps the Cat Cafe? Oh, Po, I didn’t realize I was running Sodom and Gomorrah with added fairy lights.”

Po, ever the dramatic, collapsed into one of my velvet armchairs and buried his face in his hands. “She’s convinced I’ve been living a double life,” he groaned. “That I’ve been… cavorting.”

“Cavorting?” I echoed, unable to suppress a laugh. “Po, you’re the most celibate man I know. You’ve been to more poetry readings than parties, and your idea of rebellion is ordering a second slice of cake.”
The truth, of course, is far less salacious. Po’s visits to the palace have always been entirely innocent—attending open mic nights, lending his mellifluous voice to spoken word events, and occasionally lending a hand with the Cat Cafe. But Mrs. P, it seems, could not abide the notion of her husband spending so much time in a place filled with “free spirits” and “provocative influences.”

I suspect it was the suspension shoot that tipped her over the edge. Po was present during the setup, purely by coincidence, and while he left long before the ropes began to swing, the mere association was evidently too much for Mrs. P to bear.

“Do you think I should apologize?” Po asked, looking genuinely distraught. “Or perhaps write a letter explaining that I’ve never so much as looked at a rope, let alone tied one?”

“No, darling,” I said firmly. “If anything, you should be suing her for defamation. The Brighton Arts Club is a sanctuary of creativity, not a brothel. Though,” I added with a wry smile, “if it were a brothel, I dare say we’d be doing better financially.”

Naturally, word of the divorce has begun to spread, and with it, wild rumors about the club’s alleged debauchery. This morning, I overheard two of my neighbors whispering outside the gates.

“They say there’s a dungeon in the basement,” one hissed.

“And a dominatrix runs the place,” the other replied.

“Ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath. “It’s not a dungeon—it’s the wine cellar.”

Still, I cannot entirely begrudge the gossip. Scandals, while inconvenient, have a way of drawing attention, and attention brings visitors. If people wish to believe that my palace is a hotbed of intrigue, who am I to disabuse them? After all, notoriety is good for business—as long as one remains on the right side of the law.

To support Po—and to ensure the palace’s reputation remains intact—I’ve decided to host a special event in his honor. We’ll call it “An Evening of Innocence,” featuring poetry, tea, and a program so wholesome it would make a vicar weep. I’ll invite the press, of course, to ensure the real Brighton Arts Club is properly represented.

As for Mrs. P, I wish her no ill will, though I do hope she finds solace far away from my palace. And should her accusations ever reach my ears again, I shall invite her to visit the club herself—perhaps a nice quiet afternoon in the Cat Cafe will cure her of her misconceptions.

Books by Author Sarnia de la Maré FRSA