Chapter 13
CLARA
Nelly insists on dropping me off at the gala, but when he takes me by the hand and floats me out the back of his warehouse, I have to do a double-take.
His idea of wheels is just about as cool as it gets.
If my brother could see me getting into this, never mind the dress, he’d be all over the engine. ‘Is that a Stingray?’
Nelly turns towards me, his face bemused. ‘Hmm.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I am seriously impressed.’
‘Right back at you. You have an eye for high-end motors?’
I stare him squarely in the eyes. ‘Any kind of motor.’ I’ve had the best kind of brotherly obsessive training.
‘Make and model?’ His eyes narrow.
‘Chevrolet Corvette.’ I pause, running my eyes over the body, the slashed air vents on the front panel, the sparkling multi-spoked wheel caps. ‘1964?’
He nods in heartfelt praise. ‘So not just a pretty face.’
I laugh. ‘Full of surprises,’ I say as I swing the layers of cloud-like tulle that I’m wrapped in. ‘But a bigger surprise might be how is all of this going to get into that.’ The inside of the car is tiny. All streamlined.
‘Don’t you worry,’ Nelly says breezily as he walks around to the passenger door and swings it open. ‘I’ve been doing this a long time. Come, my lady, let me wrap you perfectly for presentation.’
It’s a five-mile jaunt across town. I have to confess, I’m not as into cars as my brother but Nelly’s Corvette is seriously cool, and luckily the traffic is kind to us – no sitting in jams. We’re there in the blink of an eye.
‘Thank you so much for everything, Nelly.’ I gently touch the beautiful skirt, the one that’s graduated and graded like an ocean, whilst holding me tightly and comfortably as a cocoon.
‘My absolute delight, darling,’ Nelly says, checking the rear-view mirror as he pulls into the line of expensive black limos that are heading under the wide awning of the Beaumont drive-through canopy.
‘Just make sure, if anyone asks, you tell them you got it from Nelly’s.
Actually.’ He wraps his hands against the steering wheel and shoots me a cheeky smile.
‘Sod them asking, you tell them anyway.’
I place my hand over his and give it a squeeze. ‘I will, Nelly, seriously, I will.’
He pulls on the handbrake. ‘Well, go, girl, go.’
I lean over and plant a kiss on his forehead and his face crinkles in mock delight.
‘Not my princess, princess. Go find that Prince Chumpworth.’ He rubs my shoulder firmly. ‘And remember, you don’t have to be back by twelve.’
I wish that were true. My brother will be on my case if I haven’t got a good excuse. Is this a good excuse? I glance out of the window, feeling like the world is at my feet.
‘You better be quick,’ Nelly says, staring out at the forecourt. ‘That valet’s itching to park me.’
I unbuckle my seat belt, grab my bag, glance out at the forecourt, and my jaw drops to the floor. Oh no. It’s my brother’s mate, Tim.
Tim’s rushing towards us, wearing a peaked cap and a tight red jacket. Luckily, he’s more interested in the car than he is in me. He’s straight round to the driver’s door.
‘Fine. I’m fine,’ Nelly says, holding up one decisive halt-style hand.
Tim’s face caves in disappointment.
‘Not stopping,’ Nelly adds with a brief smile.
Neither am I. I open the car door and slip out.
If Tim’s here, my brother will be too. He might be able to cope with me working on the reception desk at Delagado Towers, but he wasn’t keen about the upgrade to the seventeenth floor.
He hates unpaid overtime, and he’s always had a bee in his bonnet about the music industry.
It was the trap that my parents got caught up in – the promise of fame, the overworked nights.
Life with an empty fridge, with only enough money for pick-me-ups that you can all too easily get hooked on.
I can’t have Minty knowing what I’m up to.
‘Great car,’ I hear Tim say behind me as I pick up my skirts, angle my face towards the red carpet, and head for the large glass doors of the Beaumont.
‘Hey!’ I’ve walked smack bang into a growling tuxedoed man. I grab his jacket to steady myself.
‘Sorry,’ I say, cringing and glancing up from my diamond shoes.
‘Clara!’
It’s Marco. Marco Delagado is staring at me. Darkly handsome, wearing a well-tailored dinner jacket that fits so effortlessly it could easily be a second skin. His gaze travels the length of me in a way that makes me feel like a fairy princess wafted down from the heavens.
‘You look…’ he pauses, as if catching his breath, ‘…amazing.’
I can feel my smile lighting up my face. In fact, lighting me all over as if a beam is radiating from my body. Move over, Lady Liberty, no torch needed. I just shine.
Marco clears his throat awkwardly. ‘Yeah, that Nelly, he could make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear.’
My face falls.
‘Oh, Mr Delagado?’ a woman with a camera that’s more lens than body calls out to Marco. ‘Any news on the Voice of the Year?’
He turns to answer her whilst I hurry up the steps towards the door, feeling like a fool.
Sure, I know the dress is gorgeous, Nelly is a genius.
I know all of that, but… tears sting my eyes as I tumble towards the glass doors.
I need the bathroom. I have to take a few minutes.
Grab myself a few breaths. Stop feeling like I’m in a borrowed dress and have no right to be there.
I’m here to work, I reassure myself. Suddenly, my arm is yanked gently back.
If he thinks he can just say something like that, and then…
I turn, and a surge of heat rushes to my cheeks because standing on the step below me, my elbow held gently in his hand, is Minty.
‘Clara? What are you doing here?’ His brow furrows as he takes in my floor-length gown and hair gloriously upswept with the pearl and tortoiseshell clips.
‘I’m, um, I’m here for work,’ I stammer.
‘Dressed like that?’ Minty gapes. Gently, he holds my arm and ushers me to the side, his face perplexed and hurt. ‘Sis, have you got yourself mixed up in something dodgy?’
I glance behind me. In the foyer of the Beaumont there are banners advertising music awards. I cringe.
‘No, it’s just…’
‘Escort work?’ he says, still looking hurt.
‘What!’
I glance down at the forecourt. Tim is still swooning after Nelly’s disappearing taillights and Marco’s spinning fairy tales to the press a ‘so many great voices’ kind of thing, stating that in such a talented year, it was difficult to judge.
‘Cos escort work,’ Minty continues, shaking his head, ‘is just a small slip and slide to prostitution.’
‘Minty!’ That’s clearly not true, but he is ridiculously overprotective, and okay, yes, he’s led a sheltered life. It’s not what he thinks, but how can I tell him the real reason I’m here? For Minty, the music industry is as bad. It chewed up our parents and spat them out.
‘It’s the choir,’ I say with a blinding flash of inspiration. ‘The choir’s singing.’
‘Ah.’ Relief floods his features.
Minty will have no idea that the dress I’m wearing is couture and the pearls in my hair happen to be real.
‘Of course.’ He grins. Grins before he looks sheepish and awkward. ‘That’s great. I’m sorry, sis. Didn’t mean to insinuate.’
I wave one hand dismissively; what’s an accusation of prostitution between siblings? Nothing.
He sighs. ‘Honestly, you would not believe the day I’ve had.
’ He glances around at all the fancy cars.
He’s clearly out of his comfort zone. With Minty, cars are normally cheap and cheerful.
Something to be fixed. He’s like a fish out of water with all these high-end vehicles. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to…’ he repeats.
Below us on the steps, Marco has finished talking to the press.
He’s smiling that wide confident, entitled smile that he seems able to switch on at will as he moves towards me, two steps at a time.
Nelly’s taillights have disappeared. Tim is about to turn, eager to find my brother and tell him all about the car.
‘Got to go, Minty.’ I clear my throat. ‘Warm-ups.’ And I bundle myself in a totally ungainly fashion, a fashion my dress absolutely does not deserve, through the wide gilt and glass door into the lobby.
* * *
MARCO
The limo inches forward in the traffic, hemmed in on all sides by paparazzi and fans – a lot of talent will be playing tonight.
I just hope we can find ours. Instinctively, I tug at my collar as I offer up a silent curse to Fitz for forcing me into this penguin suit.
The old one I had was just fine. This one is way too flashy, too sleek.
When the wheels of the car finally stop inching forward, and a host pulls open the door right beside the red carpet, a swell of shouts erupts from the waiting journos.
A noise that makes me want to sink back into the safety of the limo and hightail it out of there.
The attention is too much. Mostly, they want to find out about the auditions.
We should have announced the winner by now, but there are other questions, too, like: ‘How is the company holding up in the current financial crisis?’ ‘Is there really money in music anymore?’ Do they know something?
Possibly. It’s difficult to keep anything quiet in this town.
Along with questions I’d rather not answer, there’s also the inane drivel that the media thinks up: ‘What are my views on…?’ In short, once that door is open, I’m met with a barrage of questions.
The odd thing is, I’m not even convinced any of these people actually want answers.
Well, maybe about the auditions. The whole country wants to know how we’re doing with that.
But the one thing I cannot do, under any circumstances, is let on to the world that there’s any kind of a problem.