Chapter 3
CLARA
‘That’s fantastic,’ Minty says, shoving aside some kind of oil-smeared overall from the front passenger seat so I can sit down.
It’s getting dark and beginning to drizzle as the street lamps flicker on, so the lift home, even in my brother’s old rust bucket, is welcome.
Besides, there’s nothing I love more than seeing Minty’s smiling face at the end of the day.
‘You did it, doll, your first solo! Knew you could nail it.’
I smile to myself. He has so much belief in me – too much. ‘I’m not sure I nailed it…’ In truth, I may be talking it down, but I can’t help myself – I’m still beaming from the experience.
My brother flips on the indicator, glances over his shoulder, and pulls out into the road.
The car groans in response. It’s an old Ford.
A very old Ford. Minty calls it vintage, but that would be too kind.
Fix Or Repair Daily – it’s all in the name.
But I get the feeling Minty kind of likes the constant struggle to keep it on the road.
My brother is a man who enjoys a challenge.
‘You sing like an angel, C,’ he says enthusiastically. ‘Seriously. No exaggeration.’
He always calls me C, as if familiarity has rubbed away all the other letters in my name.
The lights fly past, the familiar streets pulsing outside the rain-streaked windows in a blur of colours. ‘You are a little bit biased, Minty, what with being my brother.’
In reality, Minty is so much more than biased and so much more than my brother.
After our musician parents died tragically on the way back from a gig, it was Minty who made sure we stayed together.
He had only just turned nineteen, but Minty brought me up with a dogged determination and a smile.
No matter the mishap, he was always there.
He made it to every school parents’ evening, and parents’ evenings had never been his thing, but Minty took the responsibility of raising his scrappy ten-year-old sister seriously.
He made sure I was never without, taking on a series of extra jobs, from home removal to Saturday sales assistant.
When necessary, Minty even wore a shirt and tie.
My brother is not a shirt-and-tie person.
All Minty ever really wanted to do was fiddle with engines, but somehow, he managed to fit it all in.
He even cooked every evening, ensuring we sat at the table each night for a debrief on my day.
He must have read somewhere something about broccoli being necessary for life.
So, every mealtime, out came the broccoli. Even today, we have it with pizza.
I glance at him as he steers the car through the familiar streets: his fierce, angular jaw; his tuft of unruly toilet brush hair; his glittering, proud eyes.
Even now, when I could easily get a bus home, Minty drops whatever he’s doing so he can pick me up from choir practice. So he can be there to hear my news.
‘You’ve got serious talent.’ He grins.
‘You didn’t even hear me.’ I laugh.
‘Heard you in the shower.’ Minty shrugs. ‘Just speaking the truth, little sis,’ he says nonchalantly.
‘How’s the house looking?’ I ask. I’m hoping he hasn’t been busy with another oil-smattered project.
‘Yeah. Pretty good.’ He nods. ‘Just a few bits in the sink.’
I glance over at him and can’t help but smile.
When I was seven years old, Minty decided to take apart the washing machine to see ‘how it worked’.
Only he forgot to put it back together before Mum got home from a shift she occasionally stood in for at the local supermarket.
Mum had found Minty sitting in the middle of a pile of tangled wires and bolts, grinning from ear to ear.
‘I learnt such a lot!’ That was all he said.
After my parents died, money was tight. It was always make-do and mend, but Minty seemed to go that extra mile.
He’d tried fixing up an old bike he found at the scrapyard, intending it as a surprise for my birthday.
But when he tested it out, the pedals jammed, and poor Minty went careering down the high street, narrowly missing an old woman with her groceries.
The bike was beyond repair. After that little mishap, I said I hated bikes in an attempt to avoid mechanical interventions. To this day, I don’t even drive.
‘So, Clara…’
Hmm, I’m not so keen on that tone of voice. He hardly ever calls me Clara. I know where this is going. ‘No.’
Minty takes a moment to peel his eyes from the road and shoot me a look. ‘You don’t even–’
I feel my eyes narrow. ‘I don’t need you to fix me up with one of your mates.’
This was beginning to be a bit of a problem. In his desire to fix, Minty was taking it upon himself to sort out my life, and for Minty, a nice young man was part of that fixing.
‘My mates are great guys. Vetted.’
‘Minty!’
He shrugs. ‘This one you’d like.’
‘You said that about the last one, and that was an all-out disaster.’
‘Phil?’
I nod. ‘Phil.’
‘Phil’s a great guy. On the right track, I’d have said.’
‘Track?’ I laugh. ‘He took me trainspotting. That’s not a date.’
‘Well,’ Minty shrinks down into his shoulders in a sheepish attitude, ‘okay, so it’s a bit of a specialised interest. But you know what, he’s never late.’
‘Then there was Darren.’
Minty breathes out sharply. ‘Yeah, I don’t know what went wrong there. Darren’s a great bloke.’
‘He told me my phone was running slow, so he downloaded new software. He fixed the gate on the front drive before he took me through it.’
‘And he did a good job,’ Minty says enthusiastically.
‘Yeah, that was okay, but in the restaurant, he fixed the plumbing in the men’s toilets.’ I shoot Minty a hard stare. ‘No one even asked him to do it.’
‘Like I said,’ Minty states with a sigh. ‘Good bloke.’
‘And then there was Kev cheap-at-half-the-price.’
‘Kev can always spot a bargain.’ Minty’s voice is full of appreciation.
‘But when he said take me out for a meal, I didn’t realise he meant a supermarket meal deal.’
‘Hmm.’ Minty nods. ‘You were a bit overdressed for that.’
‘Yeah. It wasn’t even a nice bench. So, I think I’ll take a pass.’ I flip open my bag and rummage for my phone. ‘Why is it that as soon as a woman reaches twenty-five everybody thinks she should get herself hitched. I don’t want a man.’
Only, of course I do, and of course, I’m lying.
I gaze out of the window once again, thinking about what exactly I do want.
I want a life like Evelyn’s, which did have a starring role for a man in it.
Only not my brother’s friends. It had to be a man more like…
like… An image flashes through my head: Marco Delagado.
No way. I give myself a shake. I have got to get myself in check.
The man is out of my league. Besides, he called me a goblin.
* * *
‘How was choir practice last night?’ Stan asks with a teasing grin, pushing his swing doors into a whirlwind for me to step into.
I press the disabled button, and the wide door next to the carousel slides open in front of me.
‘No fun,’ he says, raising one large bushy eyebrow as if still daring me to step into his revolving whirlpool and play.
‘Absolutely no fun,’ I confirm. ‘Are there auditions again today?’ I ask, sauntering towards my desk. Auditions seem to have been going on forever. They surely must have found their golden voice by now.
Stan follows me across the wide foyer. ‘Just the tail end. Thank goodness we haven’t had any tears yet. Usually, there are tears.’
Stan’s words make me feel more than a little relieved I’d kept a lid on it yesterday during my please-ground-swallow-me-up moment.
Stan’s right – tears are a no-no in a place like Delagado Towers.
Image is everything here. Emotions are not needed.
Oblivious, Stan glances towards the lift, his eyebrows knitting as though perplexed.
‘Odd thing is, though, no one’s coming down from the studio. ’
‘Oh?’ I’d only been working at the office for less than a year, so I’d never been here for one of their annual auditions.
The talent trawl of Delagado Sounds. The Voice of the Nation is a national competition run by Delagado, sponsored by one of the terrestrial broadcasters.
Sure, there are loads of these talent shows now, but this was the first, and a working record label runs it.
The prize is totally sweet: a recording contract and studio backing.
The event was legendary. I couldn’t wait to see who they chose.
Maybe it would be someone I had ushered through the door.
It wasn’t actually part of my remit to get involved.
I’m the receptionist for the entire building, not just the production company.
Despite sharing a name, the main day-to-day running of the Towers and Delagado Design (the music side) doesn’t really mix.
The sound studio even has its own lift, but without a dedicated reception desk.
So, most likely, they don’t want the young hopefuls streaming in through that.
The process goes on for around two weeks.
It’s relentless. If they go past the main reception, at least everything gets recorded.
Besides, the main reception, with its high marble pillars, glass windows, and wide tongue of a reception area, is big-time swanky.
It’s been so cool watching all the hopefuls traipsing by.
Maybe I’m not involved with the glitz and the glamour going on in the studios above, but perhaps a little of that sparkle will rub off.
What does it really matter if Marco Delagado caught me looking like a goblin?
It’s a well-known fact that he might be pretty, but the man has the personality of an ogre, so I guess that makes us quits, or maybe some kind of fairy-tale incompatible.
Not sure ogres and goblins have ever been storyboarded as a match made in heaven.