Chapter 4
CLARA
‘Don’t worry,’ Stan says, walking me to the lift. ‘I’ll hold the fort here.’
‘Amy’s in a terrible state.’
‘Hmm.’ He draws in his thin lips. ‘Not surprising. I hate being sacked.’
I glance at him curiously. ‘How many times have you been sacked?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Another story, Clara. This one’s not mine.
You get yourself up to that top floor and get it sorted.
Only…’ He reaches out and presses the golden button.
The call light goes on. The lift is currently all the way up on the seventeenth floor.
‘Only maybe…’ Stan clears his throat. ‘Don’t get yourself sacked as well, eh? ’
‘Not helpful.’
He laughs. But I can’t find it in me. This is not funny. In fact, I wish Stan would just keep it buttoned for a bit.
I can’t believe I’m standing waiting for the golden lift.
Not quite in the way I dreamed of yesterday, but even though this is just a mercy mission, I have to admit that my knees are feeling more than a little weak.
The smallest puff of wind could knock me over like a bowling pin.
Let’s hope that monster of a man doesn’t bellow at me.
‘I’ll just get in and get back out again really quickly,’ I say more to myself than Stan as the lift doors draw back.
‘Going up,’ Stan says with a wink as I step into the mirrored cage.
‘Oh dear.’ I do not want to be doing this. ‘I look such a mess,’ I say, glancing at my image in the reflected mirrors and rubbing a trace of mascara from under my eyes. Well, maybe not a total mess, but certainly not like the people who inhabit the seventeenth floor.
Stan smirks. ‘You can wear the mask if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.’
I turn back towards him. The man is grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
‘Told you you were going places.’
‘Not funny,’ I say.
Stan laughs. ‘Try this.’ And he pretends to get his face stuck in the lift. The last image I see before the doors finally slide shut is a rectangle of reception with Stan’s wrinkled face, squeezing back out of the gap in the doors. The man is a health and safety liability.
* * *
I count the floors as the lift ascends, hoping someone from one of the other companies in the building might get in, might give me a smile, might say something regular and everyday, like talk about the weather.
But no one gets in. When the lift doors finally slide back, I get the distinct feeling that, never mind Stan’s brain, it’s my legs which have jellified.
I may be on the seventeenth floor. It may look as swanky as a hotel, but the place is mayhem.
I get the feeling that even if I had been wearing the goblin mask, nobody would have noticed.
There’s a man with a whole seventies thing going on: the hair, the flares, the glasses, and he’s chasing a shrieking woman who’s dressed as a horse.
I let the lift doors close without getting out.
I seriously can’t do this. But then I think of poor Amy, and I know I have to.
When the lift doors open again, it’s a whole different scenario.
A gaggle of dolled-up singers with the most perfect hairdos on the planet, dressed in sequins and pearls, are milling about, arms woven together as neat as corn dolls, chatting like true sisters.
Sadly, one trips over the slumped horse woman, who appears to now be flat-out on the floor.
No, I seriously can’t do this. The doors start to close again. It’s then that I see Amy’s handbag. The green Gucci one with the gold clasp. Whatever the personal cost, I’ve got to get that bag back.
I step out onto the carpet of chaos. Somewhere, loud music is pumping.
Not the melodic kind, but the kind guaranteed to drive anyone slowly but surely towards insanity.
I push past two large women arguing about their proposed singing order.
Somebody punches somebody else. Then there’s a kind of combined hair-pulling involving a significant loss of hairpieces and extensions.
I duck out of the way, clutching my curls, and narrowly avoid the path of a bald man with a long goatee who is accusing a girl, who looks like she’s just stepped out of a Mamma Mia hologram, of stealing his vocals.
I’m not sure how this is possible since they are all supposed to be singing cover songs, but I don’t wish to get involved.
There are child-sized unopened snack baskets, abandoned platters of sushi, something nasty happening with what I so hope is wasabi, and a multitude of half-consumed water bottles littered across a low-slung series of red leather couches.
Above them is what can only be described as a red wine calamity spewed across the entirety of one once-white wall.
I wonder if it’s art, then again, on closer inspection, the thing is still dripping, so that would seem unlikely.
In short, it’s all bad. All very bad, and standing there in the middle of the floor, waving his arms like a windmill with a screw loose, shouting vacuously in each and every direction, is the tall, thin, wavy-haired piece of hunk I met yesterday.
Only now, he’s not looking quite so fresh.
His brown eyes have lost that deep chestnut depth, switched up in favour of bloodshot spider’s webs.
His hair is mussed rather than wavy, and his lips are stained in a dried scarlet kiss-of-death alcohol bruise.
No wonder he keeps his hand over his face when the paparazzi are after him.
If he drinks this much normally, I can see why he’d be shy.
My mask could even come in handy. I should let him borrow it.
I stand there, looking aghast. This whole place has gone to pot.
It’s such a contrast from the serenity of the marble hall downstairs, and it’s so not what I thought the seventeenth floor would be like.
I mean, sure, there’s partying and fun, but this does not look like anyone’s idea of a fun party.
Slowly, I step towards the Gucci bag, which is resting on a glass coffee table.
The thing looks so out of place. Like Cinderella’s glass slipper displayed on a podium.
An item of magical perfection from a different realm.
I’m almost there; it’s practically within reach when an empty whisky bottle rolls under one of the couches, coming to rest against my foot.
There are four women and six men in tears.
Each one clutching sheet music to their heaving chests.
They’re not even standing together in their grief.
Everyone is trapped in their own private hell of failure.
It’s no way to treat people. Marco Delagado might be rich, he might be brilliant, he might even be great-looking when not intoxicated, but the man is totally out of order.
Luckily, I’m used to just about every flavour of bad behaviour that it’s possible to exhibit.
I have my brother, Minty, and his mates to thank for that.
Since I was twelve, I have spent my life having to step over and sort out.
Replace the empty bottles for machine parts, remove the distraught ‘artists’, and this present shambles is not a million miles from my world.
I scoop up the whisky bottle and stride over to Marco, interrupting whatever nonsense it is that he happens to be spouting. It sounds like a lot of name-dropping with a few well-placed Ringos and at least one Sheeran in the mix.
‘Mr Delagado,’ I say coolly. ‘I’m here to assist you for the day.’
Before I’ve even managed to wrangle down my mind and work out why I’ve said it, Marco Delagado whirls around looking gorgeous, intense, and, it has to be admitted, totally out of control.
He’s spluttering with rage, one arm actually drawing back as if to push me away, but then the oddest thing happens.
The entire room seems to take a deep intake of breath as if the world is running slower.
His brown eyes glint through the cracks of red.
His head lollops to one side. Everything stills, and his anger melts.
His features soften. Even in this state, he’s clearly a good-looking man.
I’ll give him that. In fact, he’s just my type: cheeky attitude, chiselled face, and gorgeous muscle-toned arms. But everything about him says bad news.
He’s the sort of bad news my brother would have a problem with.
It wouldn’t matter if he owned the country.
My brother would not be impressed by that.
Minty is only ever impressed by what he calls ‘great blokes’.
People like him and his friends. People who treat women right – treat them like their princesses.
That’s why the dating thing has been a problem.
Minty and I have a very different idea as to who I should be dating, and sometimes, it’s just easier to go with the flow.
But I’m not doing that anymore. No more meal deals, fixed gates, or trainspotting.
I have to find my own Mr Right, and this is clearly not the place to be doing that.
Currently, I’m fully expecting an earful of abuse.
But this is not about my brother and his plans for me.
This is the here and now and instead of giving me a mouthful, Marco Delagado drinks me in, looks into my eyes in an oddly curious way, like a scientist peering down a microscope.
‘And who would you be, my little darling?’ His voice, despite the slur and the appalling brewery breath and patronising choice of words, has a velvet tone.
It’s the kind of tone that should make a woman feel special, even when he’s swaying, and I can’t help wondering how many women have fallen for it. But I know better. Beneath the charm is a careless cruelty. I saw what he did to Amy.
I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze straight from the barrel. ‘I’m not your darling, sweetheart,’ I say, drawing myself up to my full five foot six. ‘I’m Clara Thompson, and I’m here to make sure your auditions run on schedule.’
There’s another one of those pauses. Only now, it’s packed with tension. I wonder if he’s going to start shouting. I also wonder what the hell I’m doing. I had only taken the elevator up here to retrieve a bag, but somehow, when I saw so many people having their dreams crushed, it just made me mad.
‘You…’ he slurs, pointing towards my chest. ‘And you…’ The finger remains extended, but suddenly he shrugs, turning away, already dismissing me.
‘Do as you like.’ Marco waves one hand wildly through the air.
‘Just make sure I have talent in front of me within the hour, or you’ll both be out of jobs. ’
I don’t bother to tell him that there’s only one of me. It doesn’t seem like the time to be pedantic. Instead, I take a deep breath and turn to face the crowd of disgruntled artists, clapping my hands sharply for their attention.
‘Okay, everyone, let’s get started!’ I say, pitching my voice so that it carries. ‘The auditions will begin in thirty minutes. Please sign in and then warm up your voices. Let’s make some music!’ I’m beginning to sound like Evelyn.
A ripple of excitement moves through the group.
Marco snorts and collapses onto the couch, grabbing a handful of cashews.
I ignore him, moving to the sign-in table and straightening the stacks of paperwork.
The penthouse studio is a mess, and Marco Delagado is a menace.
But if I can pull this off, it might just be my big break.
Okay, so maybe I don’t get to be on the mic side of the action, but this, for all its crisis and colour, is the music business. I smile, ready to face the challenge.