Chapter 13 #3
I find myself bumping back to earth to see Marco standing behind me.
He looks seriously gorgeous in that black tie and jacket, and he smells so clean – fresh from the shower rather than the garage like my wonderful brother and his mates.
Despite the fact this man appears ever ready to fling an insult, my heart flutters.
Seriously, it does, like a butterfly in a net trying to pull itself away from the trap.
I know Marco Delagado spells trouble, but he is just mesmerising.
His dark eyes search mine and I find myself never wanting the moment to stop.
‘Look,’ he says abruptly, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I mean the carpet thing. My comment. You look… You look lovely. Nothing to do with Nelly. Everything to do with you,’ he says, running a hand through his stylishly messy hair.
It’s as if not one second has passed since we met on the red carpet of the Beaumont’s steps. Space and time have collapsed into a single moment that is all about now, and I like this, especially when he follows it up with a: ‘You’re beautiful, Clara. Really beautiful.’
I feel the heat in my cheeks. ‘Thank you.’ I’m truly glowing, my heart rising so far in my chest I half expect it to grow a pair of wings and fly me off.
But I have to make some kind of reply. I’m not a child, so I shake one hand dismissively.
‘It’s all right about earlier,’ I say. And then an odd thought strikes me, could he be nervous?
Could that be why he keeps slipping up? The insults, the bossiness, is it all just bravado?
I glance away as I feel that glow I had been feeling turning into a neon-bright flush, making me feel as self-conscious and floundering as a streaming flare shot into a dark sky.
This entire relationship is hit and miss.
‘No, it’s not all right,’ he mumbles, clearly irritated with himself. ‘I apologise. Sadly, I can’t help it; arsehole is kind of in my genes. It’s in my veins.’
I laugh. I have no idea what’s flowing through mine. Most likely motor oil.
‘Forgiven,’ I say with the easiest smile I’ve ever had to find.
Because he is absolutely forgiven. I just want to be close to him, close to him for as much time as humanly possible.
‘Besides, you were kind of right.’ I run my hands over the weightless tulle web of my dress.
It feels as though I’m wearing nothing but air. ‘Nelly is amazing.’
‘May I?’ He smiles, offering me his arm.
‘I think that you may, kind sir.’ I even allow myself a little bow.
‘We have work to do,’ he says seriously.
My smile drops a little. Work. Looking for myself. Unfortunately, I can see all kinds of problems with that.
Luckily my mood doesn’t stay short of euphoria for long. The Beaumont is possibly the most beautiful hotel I have ever been to in my life or, indeed, in my dreams.
‘Connaught Room first,’ Marco says, lifting a glass of champagne from a waiter as we pass and pressing it into my hand. ‘They have the best voices in there, closest to the foyer. If our mystery songbird is here, my bet is that’s where we’ll find her.’
That kind of goes without saying. The woman is going to be following us around all night, but poor Marco doesn’t need to know that. His flat palm finds the small of my back, a casual intimacy that makes my pulse jump. One evening in heaven before it all comes crashing down. Is that too much to ask?
It’s no wonder the best voices tend to be found in the Connaught Room.
It’s spectacular, a bejewelled treasure of a room.
High stuccoed ceilings. Long golden mirrors.
A gleaming wooden floor and packed to the brim with beautiful people.
There’s a gorgeous-looking woman in her late thirties about to take the mic.
She has a full Afro and the kind of figure I, and most likely the majority of the other women in the room, would die for.
This girl doesn’t need couture. Strip her naked, and she’d look even better.
‘This could be her,’ Marco says eagerly. His eyes brightening in anticipation.
‘Umm hmm,’ I say, grabbing a bite-sized delight that just so happens to be sailing past on a silver tray – a sliver of raw beef with horseradish in a hat of fresh parsley.
Delicious. I find myself wondering if there is any way I can sneak a couple home for Minty and Tim.
No, maybe not. It’s not quite the serious woman-about-town image I’m trying to cultivate.
More the fugitive vibe which, once they discover it was me who left the door to the studio open, will fit me like a glove.
I turn back to the stage just as the young woman starts to sing, and she truly has the voice of an angel. Light but resonant, with this wonderful touch of clear funk laced through.
‘She’s great,’ I whisper into Marco’s ear.
As my lips touch his skin, I feel my heart rise in my chest. Rise so completely, like a solid block of beating muscle, that for just a moment, it threatens to short-circuit my breathing.
He rests one arm around me, encircling my naked shoulders.
With this small, possibly casual, touch, every inch of my body fires into life.
‘But she’s not our girl,’ he says simply.
In truth, I no longer care. I just want to stand there with him forever. Then I remember Fitz, and it’s almost as if he can hear the thoughts circulating around my brain because he pulls away.
‘I was just wondering…’ I say as the room begins to buzz again with light conversation. I pull my top lip over my teeth, steeling my nerves. ‘So, um… Fitz. Are you two–?’
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ he says firmly. Pulling away from me slightly. ‘Force of habit. Parental pressure. We were kids. School kids when we er…’
I cringe at the er, hoping he can get through it quickly. Luckily, he does.
‘I mean, we still see each other, but it’s more like brother and sister.’
Being an only child, I doubt Marco has any idea what that’s like.
Besides, I can’t help feeling there’s a note of guilt in his eyes.
Does Fitz think that’s what they’ve got, some kind of sibling relationship?
But it looks like I’m not going to get to the truth anytime soon, because the bugger goes for a conversation shift.
‘And you?’ he says, taking a step away and examining me curiously. ‘Is there someone in your life?’
I laugh, shaking my head. ‘No, not at all.’
There’s a long, awkward moment. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but something is certainly going on behind those dark eyes of his. Luckily, he breaks the mood.
‘We should push on.’ He glances out of the Connaught Room into the intricate labyrinth of passageways that the Beaumont is so famous for. ‘Come.’ He offers me his hand. ‘Have you been here before?’ he asks, as we step out of the room.
‘No,’ I say, managing to wangle in a note of surprise in my voice as though it’s the oddest thing in the world that I haven’t graced the hallowed halls of the Beaumont with my presence before whilst knowing full well that this hotel is well above my league.
‘It was the Earl of Ashbourne’s place before it was called the Beaumont. Have you heard of him?’
‘I don’t think so. Ashbourne?’ I say, drawing out the name uncertainly. If it wasn’t someone attached to the First World War, Second World War, Fire of London or the Black Death, my knowledge of historical figures and events is pretty slim.
‘He was a notorious philanderer. Hence all the passageways. It’s easy to get lost.’
I can see that Marco’s right. The passageways seem identical but spin away endlessly in all directions. ‘It’s quite a place.’
‘Yeah.’
I take a deep breath, knowing I should level with him a little.
The idea of us hunting down a mysterious voice, one that he’s already attached to, is just ludicrous.
‘About this voice that you’re looking for…
Couldn’t you just use someone else? That woman in the Connaught Room was amazing.
Couldn’t you just…?’ There’s a long pause, in which we continue to walk down one of the long corridors, and I can’t help but feel there’s something he’s not telling me.
Which I guess is kind of fine because there’s a hell of a lot I’m not telling him – call me nosy, but I can’t help but be curious.
He glances around him, lowers his voice, and leans in towards me. ‘The company is not doing too well.’
I’m surprised at his honesty, but then remind myself that I work for him. I’d had to sign an NDA. But actually, it kind of all makes sense. The company used to be family owned. Times have changed. ‘Hence the shareholders?’
‘Exactly. I had to take people on. Oh, hang on a minute.’ He stops, glances down a corridor to our right, and suddenly seems amused. ‘If you haven’t been here before, you have got to see this.’
Grabbing my hand, he hurries me down a corridor, the sounds of voices and music fading behind us.
‘Are you sure we should just…?’ I look nervously back over my shoulder.
‘No. Honestly. This has to be seen to be believed. And hardly anybody knows it’s here.’
So much for looking for that missing voice. I mean, I’m not too worried about that, anyway. Besides, I’m seriously enjoying the guided tour. Whatever the Earl of Ashbourne’s motivations were, he certainly knew how to build a palace.
‘Here,’ Marco says, once we arrive in a large, white, empty room. At the far end is a row of what looks like floor-to-ceiling curtained windows.
‘Here?’
Marco pushes forward.
I glance back over my shoulder, not convinced that we should even be here. It feels a bit backstage.
‘Clara.’ He reaches out his hand, and so much for resistance – I might as well have had a spell cast over my body.
My own hand raises up towards his. I practically glide in his wake as he pushes open the doors at the back of the room and we find ourselves standing on an intricate wrought-iron balcony.
One that’s covered with trailing jasmine in full bloom.