Chapter 9
CLARA
The next morning, I click-clack my way through the swinging doors to the Tower, feeling a swell of excitement. Last night went well. I’m heading straight for the lifts. No more stopping at the reception desk.
‘Hey, look at you,’ Stan says, winking as I pass. ‘Hear you saved the day yesterday.’ He claps an appreciative burst of applause. ‘That’s my girl.’
‘Thanks, Stan.’ I stop to give him a hug.
He laughs.
‘Was it okay, though?’ I seriously don’t want to put anyone out. ‘Did you get cover for me?’
‘Hmm.’ He pulls back, giving me a hard look.
‘Replace you? Not possible.’ The stern face fades, and he cracks a smile.
‘But yeah, the stand-in turned out okay.’ He pats my shoulder.
‘We managed. We will always manage. You set up the system so everything works. Glides along. So, now,’ he leans in towards me conspiratorially, ‘now you go on and fly, girl, just as high as those wings will take you. Everyone’s rooting for you.
All the kids who came down from that audition yesterday had nothing but praise. ’
I grin from ear to ear. It’s nice knowing you’re appreciated. It’s worth almost as much as my pay cheque, which reminds me, I need to find out who’s responsible for that now.
In the lift, I have to pinch my cheeks to stop myself from smiling.
Wow, what a day yesterday was, but I survived.
More than that, the project survived. No complaints.
In fact, there’s only been praise, and today, what I’m hoping for is a little more time to enjoy the full-on glamour of working in one of the leading recording studios in the capital.
Without the tail end of the auditions, everything has surely got to be fifty per cent calmer.
I take a sigh of relief and pat down my golden curls as I turn to face the sliding door.
Curls that have been tonged to a 250-degree inch of perfection this morning.
With my smile coming into line just as the golden doors pull back, only then do I realise I’m not going to get my wish for peace.
The office is a war zone: papers strewn everywhere, desks overturned, coffee mugs shattered on the floor. My blood freezes in my veins as I scan the chaos. What the hell is going on?
Marco storms past. ‘Thank Christ for that. You can help us search,’ he says, pulling the seat cushions off all the sofas.
‘Well, they won’t be there.’ Betsy is standing in the doorway to her office, a scowl already on her face and it’s not even nine o’clock.
‘W-what?’ I stutter.
‘The auditions,’ Marco growls, pushing Betsy out of the way. ‘They’re missing. The ones you were logging last night.’
Betsy gives me a hard look. ‘It’s all your fault.’
Oh no. My heart is fluttering in panic mode.
I’m dead. Marco is going to kill me. Just as that thought skitters through my head, I’m forced to duck under the nearest desk to avoid a projectile flying fast across the room.
A stapler, by the looks of it. Marco’s rage certainly does manifest itself in many forms.
‘Who left the blasted door open last night?’ his voice thunders through the room.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Betsy shakes her head. ‘When that woman,’ she points to me, still cowering under the desk, ‘finished logging stuff. She should have put it on the USB, in my in-tray, out of sight. Like I showed her.’
Cowering under the desk, my face burns as I scan quickly back through my mind.
It had been late. I grabbed my coat. I’d stopped off in the studio.
I was so sure I’d dropped everything in Betsy’s office when I’d finished.
But that didn’t matter, because I couldn’t remember if I had closed the door to the studio when I left.
Hot tears prick the back of my eyes. I just can’t remember.
I’m so tired, I seriously can’t remember.
Marco storms over, grabbing me by the ankle.
‘Don’t yank her,’ Betsy says. ‘If you yank her, HR will get involved, and then it’ll all turn into some poor-me intern saga.’
‘I wasn’t going to yank her.’ His voice sounds mad as hell.
He pushes my ankle gently to one side so my body twists around to face him, throwing one hand towards me to help me out.
‘I can’t interrogate her if she’s under the bloody table, can I?
What would HR think about that?’ Gently, he pushes his arm towards me again.
I seriously don’t care what HR will think about it. This is terrifying.
Betsy throws her arms up in the air and raises her eyes in a ‘don’t shoot me’ gesture as though washing her hands of the interaction in case it gets nasty while I take the hand Marco’s offering.
My first thought, which is so not what my first thought should be, is wow, he has such soft skin.
Maybe it’s because I’m terrified. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had enough sleep, but either way his touch feels…
gorgeous. My brother’s always tinkering with cars.
His friends are always tinkering with cars.
I didn’t know men could have hands that soft.
And as I’m eulogising about this man’s hands, I feel my brain throwing self-doubt and irritation into the mix; I cannot believe I’ve blown everything, this job, everything.
As I crawl ungracefully to my feet, I wince, bracing myself for the impact of his words. Yet, his tone is softer than Betsy’s. Gentler. Less judgemental. ‘Did you see anything, Clara?’
I stare up at him, wide-eyed and trembling.
How can I admit it was me? I had doubled back to the office, worked late, used all of his million-dollar equipment to record myself singing, and then left the door open so a crack team of cat burglars could lift everything!
He’ll sack me on the spot. I need this job.
It was supposed to be my first step on the music production ladder.
Besides, he also has the power to sack me from my reception job.
I have rent to pay and a brother to clear up after, and…
‘Clara!’ Marco gives my hand a light shake.
Why are we still holding hands? I’m not sure.
‘The recordings…’ he says softly. ‘Did you see anything?’
‘I-I’m sorry, Mr Delagado,’ I stammer. ‘I didn’t see anything. I got here just now, same as you.’
The lie slips out before I can stop it. But I refuse to correct myself.
I’m simply not brave enough. I have no intention of telling him about my late-night visit.
My heart hammers so loud against my ribs I swear it’ll give me away.
Marco searches my face and for one long, hard moment, I’m convinced he is absolutely going to see through me.
What is it that liars do? Avoid eye contact?
I think so. I think that’s it. I stare straight back at him, unflinching, feeling my body cave with relief as he releases me with a snort.
‘Useless,’ he mutters, kicking a chair aside. ‘All of you, useless!’
I breathe a quiet sigh of thankfulness. If there is a God, believe me, I am praying.
Even though my hands are shaking and I’m feeling wrecked by my panicked surge of adrenalin.
I’ve bought myself a little more time to fudge myself out of this situation, but if I don’t find those audition tapes, I know I’m done for.
* * *
MARCO
An hour later and we’re still all huffing and puffing around the office. ‘This is unbelievable,’ I vent. ‘All that work, all that hassle, all those people.’
Betsy raises one eyebrow. ‘All that smiling?’
‘I managed to prop up my smile just fine,’ I say, emptying the drawers in reception, all of them.
‘It’s that girl,’ Betsy mutters under her breath. There’s no need for the thinly veiled passive-aggressive attitude, though a lower tone might have been handy – Clara is in the studio, looking under all the equipment.
Betsy glances in Clara’s direction. ‘The other one was fine.’
I don’t need to look at Betsy to know she’s scowling. Nothing and no one will ever be good enough for Betsy.
‘I leave you for five minutes,’ she barks.
She’s doing her usual and getting right under my skin. I decide to toss the blame back. ‘Why do you have to have such a complicated way of storing stuff? Who even uses USBs anymore?’
Betsy shoots me a withering look. ‘I’ve had stuff crash on me many times. Even the cloud’s not totally reliable. Not after the last incident they had here. Call me old-fashioned, but a hard drive is safer.’
I can’t say anything to that. Nothing. It is so clearly not safer.
‘So, what do we do, start from scratch? Weeks of work, wasted. Because it’s not just the audition, it’s calling the buggers in, setting times.
Stroking egos.’ I feel like I’m going to throw up.
I’m not good with people. The audition season is about as bad as it gets for me.
‘Not to mention getting the musicians on call!’