Chapter 8
CLARA
The office suite is empty. The only light is coming from the glow of the computer screen in front of me. I blink hard, trying to focus on the rows of thumbnail images – the last batch of auditions that I have to log before I can head home.
I shouldn’t have taken time out. I could have been home in bed by now.
That’s the last time I listen to my brother and his mate.
My shoulders tense. I’m feeling so stressed.
It’s been a long and very odd day. The digits on the screen dance in front of my eyes.
I take a moment to rub my forehead. Everything has to be perfect.
Betsy will inspect my work with a magnifying glass, looking for any excuse to criticise.
I might have only just met the woman today, but I know her type.
If I give her an inch, she’ll make my life a living hell, along with kicking me out of this job.
I stifle a yawn and double-check the titles, descriptions, and tags on the video files.
Soprano: 22. Good stage presence.
Contralto: 30. Nervous and arrogant. Difficult.
It’s clear from the way Betsy wanted her notes taken that winning this competition is about a lot more than having a good voice. Then again, I guess they all had to have a good voice to get through the door.
At last, although my eyes are feeling scratchy and dry, I log the final entry for what has to be the biggest performance competition in the country.
Within seconds, it has all been copied to the USB Betsy gave me.
She seemed to have a thing about copying anything to the cloud or leaving info on the computers.
Apparently, the company had been hacked a few years ago.
That’s why Betsy devised her own system, and heaven help anyone who steps out of line.
It’s been such a long day. I can’t quite believe that only this morning, I had been sitting in reception, not a clue as to what was going on above my head, and now I’m here with the last file in order.
I lean back in my chair and allow myself a deep intake of breath.
It’s all done. For just one moment, I let my thoughts wander.
Closing my eyes, I imagine standing on the winner’s stage, the spotlight shining down on me, bathing me in a warm glow.
All the people I helped audition are there, and once again, they are giving me a standing ovation.
Only this time, it’s not for sorting out the admin; in my daydream, they’re cheering me on because of my singing.
Marco’s there, looking incredible in a tuxedo, urging me to sing the last song of the evening.
I tilt my head back, but nothing comes out.
Not a squeak. Panic floods my model-made-up face.
My jaw drops open way too wide. Everyone is waiting, waiting, waiting.
But this isn’t that kind of a game. Within a moment, the stage is swamped with other women, women in expensive, sparkling dresses and cost-a-fortune hairdos.
Slack-jawed, I’m toppled from my stilettos and pushed to the back, out of sight, as they all open their mouths and sing perfectly.
At my desk, the daydream vanishes, and I sink my head down onto my arms. Is this all I’m good for, tidying up other people’s mess?
I scratch anxiously at the cuticle on one finger.
Do I have to live my life in the background?
How about if that clapping could be turned around?
What if it wasn’t simply my admin skills that were getting me attention.
My voice is good and clear. As good as anything I’d heard today.
I feel sure the panel would love me if I only got a chance to step out on that stage and managed to sing.
Only that’s never going to happen. Instead, if I’m lucky, I’ll be destined to log auditions and pick up Marco’s slack until the end of time, trapped in this dim little room that smells of stale pastries and broken dreams. My broken dreams.
‘Stop,’ I groan, grabbing my hair between both hands.
I need to get home. This kind of self-sabotage is getting me nowhere.
I did well today. That’s what I need to hold on to.
Tomorrow, I’m going to have to be Little Miss Organised all over again.
I take the USB, an SD with the tracks on, and a slim one-sheet hard copy of the log that I’ve boiled any auditions of interest down to and place it all in Betsy’s office, just as I’ve been instructed to do.
I grab Amy’s bag, then check my phone to confirm that the bike I had booked to pick the item up is still okay to collect in the morning – thankfully it is.
Resting my jacket over my shoulders, I switch off the lights, ready to head home for the night.
But when I open the door to leave the office suite, I stop in my tracks.
The door to the audition room is open. Just a crack, but enough to see the gleam of the electric baby grand and the mic standing ready and waiting.
My heart thumps in my chest. Suddenly, I don’t feel sleepy anymore.
The studio is empty and dark except for the moonlight filtering through the high windows.
No one would know if I just sneaked in and recorded a track, because no one is here, which is exactly how I like it.
I hesitate on the threshold, two emotions warring inside me: longing and fear.
I know that this is daft. Reckless. I’ve just managed to get my foot on the stepladder to an environment I’ve always wanted to work in: the music industry.
If Betsy found out I’d snuck into the recording studio, I’m willing to bet that I’d be fired on the spot.
Although… my brain starts to whir, they haven’t actually hired me yet.
When will I have another chance like this?
That mic, standing in the middle of the room, so tall and slim, is calling to me like a siren’s song.
Damn, I take a deep breath and push the door open wider.
The familiar scent of wood polish, mixed with the hangover odour of over-perfumed starlets, washes over me.
This is crazy. Then again, crazy and impulsive have got me this far. Why stop now?
Heart pounding, I step into the room. The door creaks softly behind me, swinging shut. I’m alone. The studio is mine.
I walk towards the mic as if in a dream, my heels clicking on the polished wood.
Running my hands along the piano as I pass, feeling the cool ivory keys under my fingertips.
This is my moment. I can sing anything I want.
But I should probably be quick. I glance at my wristwatch.
It’s half twelve already. If I’m going to do this, I need to do it now.
I make my way to the control booth and flick on the lights, blinking in the sudden brightness.
I’d watched Jeff earlier as he set everything up.
I’m pretty sure I can remember which buttons to press.
Under my fingers, the equipment comes to life with a satisfying buzz and a wink of lights as my heart races.
I honestly could record something now. Give me an hour, and it would all be done.
What harm could it do? A demo. Just one single track to show myself what I can do.
No one has to know. I wouldn’t even have to play it to anyone, but I would always have it – know that it could be done.
With trembling fingers, I reach forward and flick on the master switch.
The recording equipment hums, ready and waiting.
The next stop is the monitor. Within minutes it’s on, bathing the room in a blue light.
Quickly I scan through the tracks on the computer, searching for something that speaks to me.
I just need a cover. Something I’m already familiar with.
Jeff had set up a recording earlier in the day for a Donna Summer track.
A soulful piano ballad with a driving beat and emotional lyrics about love, heartbreak, and finding your voice. Perfect.
Once I locate the track, I press play and step up to the mic as the music fills the booth.
I close my eyes, letting the melody wash over me, feeling the rhythm in my bones.
When the time is right, I open my mouth and sing.
At first, my voice trembles, uneven and breathy.
But with each note, it grows stronger, surer, until I’m pouring my heart into the music.
Glancing up at the corner of the studio, I see the red light blinking above me, recording the riff.
It doesn’t get much better than this. I’m really doing it – singing professionally in a real studio.
Even if no one ever hears this, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve made it.