Chapter 5
MARCO
Another day. Morning already. It’s light outside, and I can hear the lift shaft’s constant whir, so I guess the workers in the Tower must be arriving.
Arriving! Lucky buggers. We didn’t even get to leave last night.
This whole process is proving to be chaos.
All of those people throughout the building, managing to clock in, clock out.
But not here. Not on the seventeenth floor.
Not in the music business. If just one person could manage to do their job properly, I swear I’d give them the keys to the kingdom.
Nobody has had enough sleep, and everyone is irritating.
By that, I mean even more irritating than normal.
Terry, on keyboard, keeps saying ‘star quality’.
He says it about everyone. It is so clearly not true.
The sound these singers are making is not even in the same region as heavenly.
Not even orbiting. Not even out of the gravitational pull of piss poor.
This is making me think Terry must have something else feeding into his headphones.
Or maybe he’s just lost his marbles, or his hearing.
It’s possible. He never gets emotional, and I swear his piano’s out of tune.
Okay, so it’s electronic, but he’s playing it flat.
Then there’s Jeff. What the hell is up with Jeff?
He seems unable to get the right sound mix.
Luckily, I’m here to keep him in line. Even so, the musicians aren’t the key problem – are they ever?
It’s the starlets, they would sound better if they sang through their noses.
Sadly, that is no word of a lie. I’ve had two hours’ sleep.
Maybe less. So, yes, my temper is running a bit short, but there is nada wrong with my hearing.
And then Amy, my assistant. If she hands me one more glass of water, I swear, she’ll get it thrown over her.
I’m not a fish. I don’t need water. I do not need to hydrate.
I don’t have time because today is the last day of auditions.
That’s why we worked through the night. I took that decision.
This evening I’ll have to do the announcement in front of the Tower.
Standing next to the dewy-eyed hopeful that I’m about to jettison into the fame stratosphere.
So no, I do not have time for anything apart from finding that voice.
But all I hear every time anyone steps into the booth is some sub-standard regurgitation of somebody else’s sound.
‘I need another drink,’ I call out to that no-good Amy, rolling an empty whisky bottle away from my feet.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she says, which is kind of funny because I was not asking her if she thought it was a good idea.
‘Yeah, well, thanks for the input, Amy, but no thanks. Get me another bottle. Then line up the next embarrassment of riches.’
Amy’s looking flustered. When she talks again, her voice is lower. I barely get one word of what she’s saying. ‘Don’t mumble.’
She looks embarrassed, hisses back, ‘They can hear you.’
I glance around. Does she think that I care? ‘Where’s the new sound?’ I say, wringing my hands in frustration. ‘Give me something from the soul.’
‘Sure.’ Some kid with braids steps forward. ‘I can do that, sir.’
‘Me too.’ It’s the girl with the horse’s head. What’s she still even doing here?
‘I’m all soul,’ says some blonde who looks like Marilyn Monroe, only a cheap version.
The kind you might get out of a Christmas cracker – if a Christmas cracker was big enough.
I swear, if the woman sings ‘My Heart Belongs to Daddy’ one more time.
And what is it with the breathiness? Why is everyone breathing down the mic every time they get close?
‘Where’s the voice, for Christ’s sake? The voice! ’
Amy’s tugging at my arm gently. Gently, but it’s still a tug.
‘Get your hands–’
‘Maybe we should take a day off. Come back tomorrow?’
I pull away. ‘Seriously, honey.’ I fix her with my eyes. I can tell they’ve gone flint-like, and so I have to carry it through. ‘Tomorrow is going to be difficult because you, you, Amy, are fired today.’
There’s a gasp in the room, then absolute and utter silence, which is great because all I want is silence.
But it doesn’t last because then comes the sob.
The Amy girl is wilting, or melting, or whatever else unattractive thing she happens to be doing, and off she goes, running for the door.
‘Great,’ I say, calling after her. ‘And don’t bother coming back. ’
After that, things get a bit cloudy. Or maybe it would be better to call it raucous.
I kind of envy Amy. I wish I’d taken the lift down.
People are pestering the hell out of me with questions.
The schedule seems to have slipped out of control.
I’m about to tell them what a talentless bunch of imbeciles they all are when suddenly I turn around, and there’s this woman behind me.
She can’t have been there for long. She looks like she’s slept.
She’s not like the others. She has this golden hair hanging over her shoulders, I mean a lot of hair, wavy stuff, and a body to die for.
She kind of looks familiar. Kind of, almost. The world seems to still, and the wonderful thing is, there are two of these creatures.
I close one eye, no, it’s one. I open both eyes.
No, two of them. I scrunch one eye again – definitely one.
‘And who would you be, my little darling?’ I always use the word ‘darling’ if I’m feeling out of kilter.
It’s got a lovely echo of superiority that might just give me an edge, seeing as I’m so desperate not to slur.
And I am hoping against hope that this beauty has come to audition.
But when she looks back at me, there’s no deference there, which is odd.
I’m used to deference. I get it all the time, but with her, there’s none of that.
Instead, she lifts her chin and meets my gaze straight on.
‘I’m not your darling, sweetheart,’ she says.
Seriously, she called me sweetheart! Which, I have to admit, tops it hands down on the patronising scale.
‘I’m Clara.’
I like the name. It’s got that clean, fresh ring to it. It suits her.
‘And I’m here to make sure your auditions run on schedule.’
I have to fight really hard not to smile.
Part of me just wants to burst out laughing.
This pint-sized – okay, so she’s attractive – but this pint-sized, attractive ball of energy has just slam-dunked me with a hardcore dose of my own slice of good old-fashioned passive-aggressiveness.
Suddenly, I realise there’s a pause going on.
People are watching. I’m no longer in control.
‘You…’ I say, managing not to slur, pointing towards her chest. ‘You…’ And what I’d like to say is, you can just run away with me.
Take that hard-boiled attitude, drop it in the bin on the way out, and fly off with me to some place with bucketloads of sunshine-infused paradise.
The thought of that blonde vision in blue, in a bikini, with her soft skin under a warm sun starts circulating around my brain.
Suddenly, I realise I’ve been standing there swaying, with the full attention of all those star-struck hopefuls who didn’t make it out of the studio last night.
Oh dear. This has all gone badly wrong. It feels like I’m way down deep in a black hole and have no idea how to pull myself out.
‘You do as you like.’ I say – which seems like the safest bet.
‘Just,’ again there’s a pause, everybody hanging off my every word, ‘make sure I have talent in front of me within the hour, or…’ I squint.
Why are there two of them? ‘Or you’ll both be out of a job. ’
With that, she claps her hands sharply for attention.
It was that easy. That easy for this, whoever she is, to lick them all into shape.
I sink back onto the red couch, grabbing a handful of nuts and a bottle of water.
It’s been a tough night. Why did the auditions carry on right through the clock?
Hmm, was that a case of me being an arsehole?
Maybe. Thank Christ, the fireball with the clapping hands has finally got it under control.
The goblin woman, I mutter to myself as I fall asleep, tugging at the edges of my brain.
Of course! I laugh. She’s a goblin. Then everything goes velvet-black.