Chapter 12
CLARA
The midday sun beats on the pavement as I rush through the busy street towards Nelly’s warehouse, the low heels of my sensible work shoes clicking hard against the concrete.
I tighten my grip on the garment bag containing the pantsuit Nelly lent me last night.
I’m desperate to get the thing back. It probably cost more than a year’s wages.
I can’t afford to have anything bad happen to it, and the way my house operates, mishaps are par for the course.
Although it’s autumn, the sun is bright and low, shining directly into my eyes, which are dog-tired.
I was up late last night – what a disaster, and I turned up at work early today, pretending to find the missing songbird.
Which is clearly not going to be possible if I stick to working through the mound of recordings from the two-week audition stint.
There is nothing so depressing as doing a job that simply doesn’t need to be done.
I’d also been pestering Stan all morning.
I kept leaving him messages about the CCTV tape.
I need to get to it before Marco sees it.
I’m guessing the police can’t have got hold of it yet.
As soon as they do, they’ll be hauling me in for questioning.
Then there was the club last night. My cheeks burn at the memory.
What even happened there? I am so confused.
I’m getting such mixed signals. I know what I would love to happen.
I would dearly love for Marco to wrap those wide, strong arms around me and pull me in for a kiss, but I’m not even convinced he likes me.
Oh, that needs a correction. He does like me, as long as I’m manning a stationery cupboard or organising an office.
If he knew the trouble I’d got him into, I’d be out of a job.
The thick metal door of Nelly’s warehouse creaks open, blasting me with a welcome gust of air conditioning. ‘Clara, darling!’ Nelly emerges from behind a rack of gowns, arms outstretched. ‘How was the ball? Did Prince Charming sweep you off your feet?’
I look blankly. Does Nelly know something? He can’t. ‘Prince Charming? Ball?’
Nelly waves his hands dismissively through the air. ‘Figure of speech. Don’t mind old Nelly.’ He fixes on me with his wide brown eyes. ‘How was the evening? Is the outfit intact? And Marco? Did he behave?’
‘Perfect, gent,’ I say, handing him the garment bag. ‘The outfit’s fine, not one spillage.’
‘Good to hear.’ Nelly hangs it on a rail.
‘As for Marco, it’s just a work thing. Purely professional.’
Nelly tuts, ushering me to a plush velvet stool. ‘Such a disappointment. I had hoped there might actually be a pulse underneath those flashy cufflinks of his. It certainly isn’t beating for Fitz.’
‘He’s my boss, Nelly,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s just business. And despite you being so dismissive about him and Fitz, there is some kind of relationship there.’
Nelly squeezes my shoulder; sympathy etched into his brow. ‘You say that to yourself enough times, you just might end up believing it.’ He drops his lips to my ear. ‘Not me, though. I can see you’re carrying a torch for him.’
I sink further down onto my stool. ‘Is it really that obvious?’
Nelly raises one eyebrow. ‘To anyone with half a brain.’
My breath shoots in an uneven gulp of panic down my throat. ‘Do you think he knows?’
‘No.’ Nelly shrugs. ‘It’s the half-a-brain thing.’
My mouth drops aghast.
‘Teasing, teasing,’ Nelly says, waving the comment away. ‘But bless him, he’s not very good at picking up the signs.’
‘And there’s Fitz,’ I remind him yet again.
And once again, Nelly waves away the comment. ‘I keep telling you. Despite all evidence to the contrary. That is not a thing. Marco is complex. I blame his father.’
‘Isn’t it normally the mother that gets the stick?’
Nelly winks at me. ‘I like you. You’re funny.
’ He takes my pantsuit out of the bag and begins to check it over.
‘His father was a king in business. Uber successful in life. He had the kind of Master of the Universe face that all the billboards loved. Seriously.’ Nelly stops for a moment, garments draped over his arms. ‘It was like Big Brother. The man was everywhere. Marco was always seen as “the son”, never as Marco. And…’ Nelly hangs my borrowed pantsuit on another rack.
‘Then there were the women. There were a lot of women. People took him to court, but…’ Nelly shrugs. ‘It all got hushed up.’
I can’t help wondering if Marco isn’t perhaps a chip off the old block. It really felt like he was making a play for me last night. Or, actually, was that me making a play for him? Grrrrr, why is this all so confusing?
‘Marco just needs someone to fall for,’ Nelly says wistfully.
Well, that’s not going to be me. If I ever manage to amount to anything in Marco’s mind, it would simply be the light entertainment. The hors d’oeuvres before the main course, an amuse-bouche. Besides, when he finds out I left that door open, he’ll be giving me my P45.
‘I’m thinking maybe I’ll quit work,’ I say, picking up a basket of coloured silks.
‘Hmm.’ Nelly looks at me quizzically. ‘Haven’t you only just started?’
‘It looks bad?’
‘It looks terrible.’ He laughs. ‘They’ll probably think you were behind the break-in if you leave now.’
I feel my face go a bright shade of pink. Luckily, Nelly is deeply involved in a silk halterneck. ‘Leave it six months,’ he says casually, ‘then hand your notice in.’
‘I’m not sure I can do six months.’ It’s true, the stress of falling for Marco, covering my mess up with the locked door to the studio, and the fact I’m currently involved in a search for myself is doing my head in.
Suddenly, Nelly stops in his tracks. ‘My, something is truly eating you.’ He puts one hand on my shoulder reassuringly.
‘Then yes, hand your notice in. Handwritten or typed? Help yourself to materials. There are envelopes behind that desk there.’ He points towards a long, narrow white tongue of design engineering.
‘Seriously?’
Nelly takes my chin in his hand. ‘Absolutely, Clara baby. Life is too short.’
Nelly’s right. Life can change direction in the flutter of an eyelash. I know that all too well from my parents. I should hand my notice in before I get a criminal conviction for breaking and entering, along with aiding and abetting the burglars and running a songbird hoax. It all sounds so bad!
‘Handwritten, do you think?’ I ask nervously.
‘There’s a lovely sense of raw honesty about handwritten,’ Nelly says appreciatively. ‘In the drawer, pens and paper.’ He nods towards the desk again. ‘I like the pink for a resignation. It adds that subliminal element of sorrow. But up to you.’
I stand up and trudge over to the desk.
‘I always think white is a little funereal. Yellow has to be to do with sickness. You can’t really beat pink. But…’ He waves one arm dismissively. ‘Don’t overthink it.’ He smiles at me. ‘You’ll need a drink. I’ll get you a tea.’
Left alone in the showroom, I slide open the desk.
Nelly’s right; he’s clearly a stationery lover.
He has more than enough writing paper in here to get the job done, in a rainbow of colours.
I pull a light blue sheet from the drawer and help myself to a pen.
Who should I address it to? Marco and Betsy?
At the thought, I feel my shoulders rise.
Betsy would enjoy it too much. Just Marco.
Pressing the pen onto the expensive unlined paper, I am about to write when my phone buzzes.
I stop. It’s a distraction. I should just get on with this.
It buzzes again. I stare at the screen. It’s Stan. I hit the green button.
‘Stan.’
‘Yeah, sorry, Clara. I was in late this morning.’
‘I know.’ I lower my voice. ‘It’s about the CCTV footage from the burglary. Can you get it to me before–’
‘It’s gone,’ Stan says, and my heart sinks.
‘The police?’
‘No. Mr Delagado insisted that they weren’t involved.’
Hmm, that seems odd.
‘So, who’s got the footage?’
‘Mr Delagado.’
Nothing about this is stacking up.
‘Stan, when did it get handed over?’
‘Hmm.’ There’s a brief pause. ‘Yesterday, I think.’
Yesterday! Yesterday? Then Marco must have seen me on it. Seen me going into the recording studio. If he did, he would have put two and two together. He’d know I’m the missing voice. So why hasn’t he confronted me about it?
‘You okay?’ Stan asks from the end of the line, and I realise I’ve let the conversation go dead.
‘Sure,’ I say lightly. ‘Of course, Stan. That works.’
Only it seriously doesn’t.
* * *
MARCO
It’s still sitting on my desk. I have no intention of looking through it.
Why would I? I’m just going to see my drunken self staggering back through the building late at night and lifting two valuable guitars off the wall.
Did I honestly think I wouldn’t get caught?
How drunk was I? Okay, so I know the answer to that – no-sense-of-judgement drunk. What an idiot.
Betsy leans her head around the doorway. ‘Where’s the new girl?’
I don’t want to think about the new girl. Not after last night. ‘Lunch,’ I say snappily. Hoping Betsy will disappear, I don’t look up, but I can tell she’s going nowhere, just loitering in the doorway looking for answers.
‘And?’ I say.
‘Last night, did King know anything about our little Miss Golden Vocal Cords?’
‘No. He was impressed, though.’
Betsy laughs. ‘That doesn’t get us any further. And the new girl, she’s gone through all the original auditions? The unlogged pile?’
‘Yup.’ Betsy is beginning to irritate me. ‘You can always check them yourself if you fancy.’
She gives me a sour smile. ‘Not really my job.’
‘No,’ I say. I’m actually convinced that Betsy’s job is purely to irritate me. ‘Besides, both Terry and Jeff swear they can’t remember auditioning the mystery woman and they say, with a voice like that, they would have remembered.’
‘And you?’ Betsy asks, her eyes narrowing. ‘Would you have remembered?’