Chapter 15
CLARA
‘Hey.’ Stan does a double-take, walking back out of his door and taking a full circle around in the spinning carousel. ‘I thought you’d boosted yourself off into the stratosphere.’
‘Down to earth with the proverbial bump,’ I say, trying to make it sound light. Trying to make it feel like I’m not dying inside, because I’m back, standing behind the marble reception desk.
‘So, it didn’t work out then?’ he says with a sympathetic downturn of his mouth.
‘Actually, it worked out perfectly. Only I wanted to get paid less and have less responsibility because I love your witty banter.’
Stan shrugs in a smug way. ‘Can’t put a price on a talent like mine. Speaking of which…’ He ambles over to the desk. ‘…did they find that missing songbird they were looking for?’
I feel a little back-footed, not sure how Stan knows about the missing recording.
‘No,’ I say because I’m positive they haven’t found her. She’s me. I’d know.
‘I guess it’s early days,’ Stan says.
‘Am I missing something?’ I can’t help feeling that unless Stan sits and watches the seventeenth floor’s CCTV footage twenty-four hours a day, he seems a little too in the know.
‘Are you missing something?’ he asks cooly. ‘Haven’t you seen today’s paper?’
‘Stan,’ I say, exasperated. ‘No, I haven’t. Spit it out.’
‘There’s a copy under your desk.’ He shrugs as he wanders away. ‘What would you do without me?’
‘Die, Stan,’ I say, eagerly opening the newspaper. ‘I’d die of boredom and ignorance.’
He laughs. ‘Yup, that’s about the size of it.’
But I’m not listening anymore. I’m desperately scanning down the front page.
Delagado Sounds is in the headlines, well, at least Betsy is.
Marco’s face is nowhere to be seen. But according to Betsy, the offices were burgled.
They’re looking for their songbird. They want everyone to send demo tapes.
This could be the hunt of the century. But what I don’t understand is where Marco is in all this.
The light on my switchboard begins to flicker.
Taking off my clip-on earring, I pick up the receiver.
‘Reception. Delagado Towers. How can I help you?’
My heart sinks. It’s Betsy, and she wants to see me. Now.
‘Sorry,’ I say. I’m actually not sorry at all, but sorry always sounds good if you need to stall. ‘It’s just me on reception.’
‘Stan can cover,’ Betsy says before putting the phone down. I stare at Stan, not sure that he can, in fact, cover. I’m wondering if I can pull another sicky or possibly run out of the building. They know. They must know it was me who left the door open.
* * *
MARCO
I barely slept last night. Betsy’s words kept circulating through my brain.
No, circulating is wrong. They didn’t have that kind of direction.
My thoughts were running around like a hive of poked ants: chaotic, angry, and lost. She didn’t tell me the full bad news.
She just went on and on about data protection and how just because I had the keys to the HR office, it didn’t mean I could go snooping around looking for ‘the new girl’s’ details.
I’m not quite clear why she keeps calling Clara ‘the new girl’.
It’s clearly some Betsy hang-up. I wish I hadn’t got into bed with her.
Not Clara, Betsy. Bed as in business bed.
In fact, I feel the heat searing up and out of my collar; I didn’t get Clara anywhere near a bed.
My God, it was good. Amazingly good. I’ve just got to find some way of talking to her.
She felt it too, I could tell. Unless she’s the best actress ever, which is unlikely.
The woman is just a receptionist secretary type. Perfect. Perfect for me.
I take a deep breath, but my thoughts are still doing the ant thing. I need to find out what Betsy wants. That’s what I’m in for this morning.
I grab a coffee from the shop next door.
Black. I put a spoonful of sugar in. Something has to sweeten up my day.
I’m guessing my partner found the CCTV footage.
It was in my bin, after all. I should have taken better care of it.
Dropped it in the Thames or put it in a firecracker.
A microwave would have done the trick. But no.
I’d taken the shortcut and dropped it in the wastepaper bin.
Somebody must have been snooping. Sure, it’s a problem.
The tape clearly shows me going into the office and taking the guitars off the walls.
I fast-forwarded through it till I found the right bit.
It’s obviously me. The funny thing is that the guitars are actually mine.
Dad gave them to me when I was sixteen; only I have nothing in writing.
I should have taken the damn things during daylight hours.
Explained the situation and just pulled them off the walls.
Nobody would have objected. Only now, it looks odd.
It looks like I’m stealing them. Maybe planning to put in some kind of false insurance claim.
I’m willing to bet that’s exactly what it looks like to Betsy.
So there’ll be a ticking off. She’ll slap my wrists.
I’ll say sorry. Everything will sink back to normal.
I take another slurp of coffee. It’s bitter.
The acrid smell is providing that much-needed wake-up shot.
I guess it’s best to get this over with as soon as possible.
I’ve seen the morning papers. Betsy’s offering ten grand for a tape of our missing songbird.
Ten grand. It’s a great publicity stunt.
I mean, maybe, actually, this shitshow could all work out for the best. The lift doors slide open and I stop for a moment, not taking a step out because something isn’t right.
Betsy, Fitz, and Clara are all gathered in my office.
‘Speak of the devil,’ Betsy says. Even though she’s partitioned off from me by a glass wall, I can feel her anger. Wow. That woman is mad about those guitars.
‘Come in, Marco,’ she says, which is ironic since it’s my office. ‘You know Clara.’
Of course I know Clara.
‘Sure.’ I smile at her. It’s a professional courtesy smile.
Totally unrepresentative of how I’m feeling.
I’m having to bite down on my lip to stop myself from smiling.
I’ll grab her on the way out, take her down in my lift where it’s private, where we can talk.
Where we can… images of last night flood my brain.
Her body pressed against mine. Her face tilted back in ecstasy, eyes closed.
‘Marco?’ Betsy’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
‘Yeah.’ I snap back to the present.
‘You know what this is about?’ she asks, but I’m not sure it’s a question.
‘Sure, the guitars.’
‘Guitars?’ Fitz, Betsy, and Clara all stare at me like I’m a martian.
‘The ones off the wall.’ I indicate into the reception area.
‘No,’ Betsy draws out the word before bringing her attention to Fitz. ‘Fitz, are you happy to be here?’
Fitz’s features look tight, drawn. The happy-go-lucky girl that is so Fitz appears to have disappeared. ‘I feel I have to be,’ she says shortly.
Betsy nods. ‘It’s come to our notice,’ she says, drawing in a deep breath, ‘that you have, in the past, had women up here in the studio.’
They have to be joking.
Betsy’s eyes narrow. ‘You’ve brought women up here after hours and plied them with drink.’
Clara’s gaze drops to the floor. It’s clear she can barely stand to look at me.
‘Is that right?’ Betsy says.
I run my hands around my collar, attempting to loosen it. ‘Maybe three times,’ I say. ‘Three in total. We’d…’ I glance over towards Fitz. ‘It was when we split up. That month. August, I think it was.’
Fitz raises one hand dismissively. I’m not sure what it means.
‘And I did not ply them with drink,’ I say, my voice rising defensively. ‘They all came up because they wanted to.’
‘So they were stone-cold sober?’
‘No, but…’ I shrug. ‘I mean, I didn’t do a breathalyser test. One was teetotal.
Another only drank sparkling mineral water.
I think it was me that was worse for wear, not them.
’ I run one hand through my hair, hating being put on the spot.
But I have nothing to hide. ‘Have you had complaints? I can give you their numbers.’ I reach for my phone. ‘You can call them up, ask them.’
‘Marco, stop,’ Fitz says, her expression tight and pinched. ‘It kind of goes wider.’
I slump down on the edge of my desk. I seriously don’t want to be here.
I can understand why Betsy’s grilling me.
Maybe. And Fitz is a partner in the company too.
And there’s the ghost of an emotional connection.
Okay, so we were on a break, but still. I’m guessing nobody wants to hear about interim affairs.
But Clara? Clara is something new. Something fresh.
Something glorious. I don’t want her dragged into the mud. ‘Does Clara have to stay?’ I ask.
‘The problem is, Marco.’ The way Betsy says my name is hard-bitten and sour. The woman is a serious B.I.T.C.H. I feel my anger rising. ‘The problem is that there was a complaint about last night.’
Aghast, I look at Clara. Oddly, she looks right back at me, equally aghast.
‘Someone complained. An anonymous tip that you were behaving badly towards an employee. Badly as in lecherously.’
‘What!’ I shout.
‘No.’ Clara’s on her feet.
Betsy shoots her attention towards Clara. ‘So nothing happened?’
‘I-I…’ Clara stutters. She looks so scared. ‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘Nothing.’ She glances towards me, a look of pain and hurt in her eyes. ‘Absolutely nothing. I wasn’t feeling well, so I left.’
Betsy nods. ‘But you can see the problem, Marco. You’ve been inviting women up to the studio after lights out. Let me ask you this once and ask you this straight.’ Her eyes burn like flint.
‘I seriously wish you would.’
‘Marco.’ Fitz shakes her head. ‘Anger is not going to get you anywhere.’