Chapter 9 #2
I kick an empty coffee cup, deliberately, sending it skittering across the floor, dregs of coffee slopping out onto the carpet in a curiously irritating pattern.
Sod’s law, just my luck, Clara chooses that very moment to come back into the reception area.
I must look like a grade-A arrogant idiot.
She flinches. I don’t blame her. The poor woman has already narrowly missed a stapler this morning.
No way is she going to want to be hosed down with cold coffee.
I have to get a grip. But every inch of my body is taut as a wire about to snap.
Any other year, this kind of admin mess-up wouldn’t have mattered.
It would have been a pain, but I would have been able to work my way out of it.
When Dad dropped out of the picture, I just had to please myself.
But this year, I have shareholders watching my every move.
Shareholders in the dragon lady forms of Betsy and Fitz.
Fitz, I can handle. Probably. Only sometimes, I can’t help but get the feeling that everyone would dearly love for me to fail.
Isn’t that the story people can’t get enough of?
Inherited everything and blew it away in next to no time. Don’t people love that old chestnut?
One by one, the others are filtering into the studio. Terry and Jeff are exchanging wary looks. They’ve been on the wrong side of my temper before, but I refuse to pull back; this situation is a mess.
‘Did any of you see the SDs last night?’ I practically bite their heads off.
Terry shrugs. ‘Hey, not my department.’
Jeff shoots the new girl a look. Sometimes, Jeff is such a sneak.
‘And?’ I say, giving him my mean eyes, the ones I perfected at boarding school. The ones that say, don’t mess with me. Spit any accusations you have out on the table. If words could kill, Jeff would be a pile of ashes now. He shrugs.
‘I logged everyone in,’ Clara says, so quietly I can barely hear her.
‘If we need to re-audition. I’ve got all their names on the front desk.
Well, most of them. And maybe, if you can remember who you thought was good that would help.
Even if you can’t remember names, what they were singing, wearing, I could possibly trace them through that. ’
I sink back onto the leather couch. Feeling thankful as hell that at least someone has some kind of solution.
But I’m not one to show any sign of gratefulness.
Gratefulness is for the weak, that was one of my dad’s mantras.
There’s no need to be grateful when you pay people.
My dad may have been the worst person in the world, but somehow, those mantras of his, they just kind of stuck.
‘Go on then,’ I grunt, pulling my phone from my pocket. ‘Get busy.’
* * *
CLARA
Marco leans back in a leather swing chair so large it looks like it belongs to some kind of Masters of the Universe cartoon character.
His muscled arms are clasped casually behind his head as he tells us all to get busy.
I’m not totally convinced that anything he’s saying right now is helpful, but it seems like when Marco says jump, we all have to do just that.
‘What the f-ing hell.’ A new voice cuts into my thoughts.
I turn to see the most gorgeous young woman standing in the doorway, tall and skinny with shiny black hair so glossy you can practically see your face in it.
It hangs in a shimmering curtain right the way down to her hips.
I can almost hear it swish as she walks.
She looks like some kind of human-sized doll.
Can skin seriously be that flawless without photo editing?
Only, the odd thing is, out of the corner of my eye, I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but Marco seems to bristle.
I mean, he was bristling before, but with the entrance of this uber-goddess, the man is practically growing porcupine spines.
‘Fitz,’ he says gruffly. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
He jumps up from the chair, leaving it swinging in his wake, and slips an arm around the woman’s skinny, bare shoulders.
She’s wearing practically nothing. Then again, if I had her body, I’d be doing the same.
Are they an item? It feels like they kind of are.
They look amazing together. Two peas out of the same classy pod.
She’s sporting this gorgeous crochet crop top vest and a suede mustard skirt.
Both items have barely more width than a belt.
I suppose the boots are doing a lot of coverage.
They’re thigh high, suede, laced, and with platforms so thick, this woman is almost skimming the clouds.
‘Hey.’ She shakes his arm loose and strides into the room. ‘New girl?’ she says, peering at me over the top of her pink-tinted glasses.
‘Clara,’ I say, because I feel I need to say something, just to prove that I do actually speak.
‘Oh wow.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘He sure gets through them.’
Betsy pulls her large lips into a pout. ‘Well, this one here might just be the quickest exit in the planet’s history. She’s lost everything. The whole damn show.’ Betsy scowls.
I squirm.
‘Hey,’ Terry says, coming to my rescue. ‘Actually, that’s not strictly true. Someone broke into the studio late last night. The place was burgled. The logs, the recordings, it’s all missing.’
I like Terry’s story so much better.
‘Oh dear,’ Fitz says on an exhale that’s practically a yawn. ‘Bang goes the big promo breakfast bash tomorrow. Shame, my dress was wowzer.’
She could wear an Elastoplast and it would look wowzer.
She tilts her head to one side. ‘Cancelling, that’s going to look sooo bad.’
I can see why Marco doesn’t want her here. She has an awkward habit of stating the obvious with the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
‘It might not be a total wipeout,’ Marco says, taking in a deep breath.
Curiously, I notice that this goddess woman is as slippery as an eel every time he walks towards her. She simply seems to evaporate away.
‘We can bluff through the breakfast, Betsy.’ Marco shoots a look towards her. ‘Call the press, make some kind of excuse.’
Betsy puts her hands on her wide, gate-like hips. ‘Do I get a please with that?’
‘I can give a noncommittal press statement,’ I say. What with all the bickering and blame bouncing around, this is going nowhere. Someone needs to take control of the situation. They all stare at me like I’ve just teleported down from Mars.
There’s an awkward pause in which everyone seems to be wondering what the next step should be.
Then Fitz shoots me a wide smile. ‘Fab, this young woman can do the press thing. Because you,’ she snakes her arms around Marco’s neck, ‘are taking me out for breakfast.’
My heart sinks. So, I was wrong about the avoiding thing, they’re clearly keen to get their hands on each other. Maybe they’re just not keen on company? Of course, he’s in a relationship and, of course, she’s gorgeous. With his looks, she has to be. Only…
‘Now?’ Marco’s forehead criss-crosses into a thousand worry lines. ‘But I have to–’
‘Shareholders meeting,’ Fitz says lightly, but there’s an authoritative air of finality about her tone. She shrugs. ‘Let the others sort out the mess. I’m a shareholder. I demand attention.’
I’ve never seen anyone look so irritated. Marco’s face is colouring an odd shade of puce. His arms flapping around his body like a drowning man tangled up with a man-eating octopus. Most likely, he’s keen to sift through what we have left of those recordings and nail down some recalls.
‘It’ll wait,’ Fitz says languidly. ‘But my stomach won’t. I need pancakes.’
How on earth she manages to keep that figure and eat pancakes mystifies me more than the fate of the audition tapes.
Betsy’s eyes narrow as she fixes Marco under her gaze. ‘I just want it sorted. End of,’ she says before storming out, not offering up her breakfast plans.
‘Has anyone checked the CCTV footage?’ I ask, hoping against hope that the floor doesn’t have any kind of surveillance.
Everyone turns and looks at me blankly. Perhaps I’m in luck.
I take a beat. Maybe they didn’t understand because, surely, looking at the CCTV footage would be the first thing anyone in their right mind would do?
‘On it,’ Marco says, pulling one hand through his dark curls. ‘Yup.’ He nods. ‘I’ve asked security.’
This could be very bad for me. It was okay working late, they all knew I had done that, but I had returned to the office after hours.
I’d switched on all the lights, tied up the work, then opened the studio and ran myself a session.
How was I going to explain that? But things are already moving forward.
I have to keep up; any minute now, they’re going to find out about my midnight singing, and I need to be ready.
‘Does anyone know exactly what’s missing?’ Jeff says, glancing around the studio, puzzled.
Marco sighs. ‘Mainly stuff from Betsy’s office.
That’s where all the finalised audition tapes were.
All on one SD card. And there were a couple of Heritage guitars.
None of the mixing equipment. There are other bits and pieces of recordings, but nothing’s organised.
You’d have to listen to two weeks of duds to make any sense of it.
’ He flicks a case on the desk. ‘Not logged, but…’
‘I can do all that,’ I offer. ‘I can listen and log. I can probably remember some of the comments.’
‘Well,’ Jeff says, ‘that’s a plus. I thought the girl with the tattoos yesterday was good. Liked her style. She was singing a Madonna song.’
Marco pushes a tape idly into the deck.
‘And I’m pretty sure there was a girl on Monday,’ Terry pipes up. ‘Hmm.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘Could have been Wednesday? Taylor Swift number.’
Both men shake their heads. From my stint of logging the auditions, I remember there were a lot of Taylor Swift numbers. That’s not going to help narrow things down.