Chapter 17 #2
Seeing as I appear to be so hot at doling out descriptions, I’m about to rattle off the details of my smartest blue overcoat when I realise, I’m wearing it! This storytelling business can wind a person in one hell of a fix.
* * *
After spending an hour trying to locate a jacket that doesn’t exist, I give up.
I don’t want to leave my name and number ‘in case it turns up’ as I know for sure it won’t.
But helpful housekeeping insists. I leave the building with the curious feeling it’s not just the imaginary coat that’s lost; it’s me.
This is a big city. Would Clara be going back into the Towers?
But I can’t sit outside all day hoping I catch a glimpse of her.
Besides, even if she does go into work, if Betsy catches me anywhere within snooping distance of the office, I feel pretty damn sure she’ll call the police.
I haven’t done anything wrong. Not really.
I shouldn’t have come on to Clara. That was bad form.
Even if she did reciprocate. I just want to do the decent thing.
Say sorry. Hear her voice. Talk to her. Talk to her just once. Once and I’ll be happy.
I decide to try the garage. The garage at the Beaumont is underground.
The parking attendant might be wearing a suit, but he’s much more amenable.
Unfortunately, all the names of part-time staff are kept on the computer.
You need a supervisor’s key to unlock details.
I slip him three hundred quid, and he assures me he can get me info on the mystery valet.
It just might take time. As I walk away, I know this waiting around for someone to help tie up the missing dots and dashes as to who the guy is, has to be my last resort.
Time seems achingly long. Pulled out and twisted into shapes I didn’t even know it was capable of holding.
Elongated beyond all recognition without work or Clara to fill in the hours and make them sing.
Wandering back down the road, I realise I have nowhere to go.
I could go home to my fish tank apartment.
I could look down on the city from my terrace.
Watch the world going on below me; all those people sitting in their gardens, planting tomatoes, blowing up paddling pools, while all the time my large plush terrace stands empty and alone, with just Johnny-no-mates to look out over the view, mocking me.
No. I don’t want to do that. Then it hits me – Nelly.
I’ll go talk to Nelly. Maybe he knows where Clara lives.
* * *
‘I can’t believe you let that one go.’ Nelly is up to his arms in dressing a woman. ‘Breathe in just one more tiny…’
The woman does as instructed, pulling air into her cheeks as Nelly fastens some kind of cord. The woman with the dark hair and photoshoot look smiles as she drops her skirts around her legs. ‘That should hold,’ she says, patting her hips.
‘Take fifteen, honey,’ Nelly says. ‘Just don’t eat, drink, or laugh.’
The woman nods before walking stiffly off towards God knows what possible pursuits have been left open to her.
‘Now.’ Nelly turns his attention back to my sorry face. ‘Clara. What did you do to piss that lovely young woman off so badly?’
‘Sorry?’ I have no idea where this is going.
‘At the gala.’ Nelly waves his hand as if these details are oh-so-pedestrian and boring. ‘She described the event as…’ He pauses. ‘Okay, these are her words, not mine.’
I nod, eager to hear anything she had to say.
‘A disaster,’ he says simply, with a finality I’m not keen on.
‘Disaster?’ I say, confused. ‘What exactly did she mean by disaster?’
‘Her words.’ Nelly shrugs. ‘I’d say disaster is one down on the enjoyment scale from total fuck-up and one up from Armageddon. So,’ he purses his lips, ‘well done, you.’
‘Not funny.’
In sympathy with Nelly’s garage-style leather couch, I sink deeper into my shoulders. I’m feeling so grouchy. If there was a bin, I’d climb right in.
‘She was lovely. Gorgeous. Sweet,’ Nelly says, plucking at the air with his hands as he delivers each adjective, just to lay the cuts that bit deeper.
‘Nelly, stop,’ I groan, placing my hands against my ears. ‘I feel like a total fuck-up. And they’ve kicked me out of the Towers.’
Nelly looks shocked. ‘You’re joking, right?’
I shake my head.
He grabs a seat with casters and scoots up to me; suddenly, the playfulness has vanished.
‘This missing voice,’ I say, feeling irritated, feeling as if I’ve gone through this so many times. Although, having said that, Betsy has given the narrative a whole new twist. ‘Betsy says that I coerced someone. Promised them a recording deal in return for…’
‘A shag?’ Nelly offers helpfully.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Shit.’ Nelly’s permanent joy and animation seem to have slid. ‘But…’ His eyes narrow. ‘Not Clara? This has got nothing to do with Clara?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘No.’ He looks thoughtful as he eases the cuticles down on his thin fingernails, mulling the whole thing over. ‘Cos, it’s clear she’s into you and that you’re into her.’
‘I’m not–’
Nelly throws his hands up in despair. ‘Best friend here. I know you…’ He waves one wand-like finger in front of my face in a circular motion. ‘Know you inside out and upside down. You are so into her.’
I’m feeling all the tells of a desperate man, and actually seriously not giving a fuck anymore.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and for one bliss-infused moment I think it’ll be her. Even though she’s never called me, and I’m not even sure she’s got my number, still… hope is a hard beast to dampen. I glance at the screen. Hope gets put out pretty damn quick.
‘Bad news?’ Nelly asks, leaning towards me.
‘The worst. Betsy wants to see me on Thursday.’
‘I don’t know.’ Nelly slides his chair back.
I think I’ve outstayed my welcome. He’s going to want to get back to that model with the dress she can barely breathe in before the poor woman asphyxiates.
‘It might not all be bad,’ he says. ‘You need to talk to the board. You’re not a one-man band anymore.
And you do have to get back into that building. ’
Don’t I know it. But none of that matters.
I don’t care about the business. I know that Fitz will pull it through.
She might wear a wacky airhead exterior, but the woman has a heart of gold and a good business head on her shoulders.
Betsy probably hasn’t realised it yet, but Fitz never stays in the background for long. Still, that doesn’t solve my problem.
‘I’ve got to find her, Nelly,’ I groan. ‘Do you have an address for her?’
‘Oh, Marco.’ He takes my hands in his. ‘No. No, I have nothing. But…’ Suddenly, his eyes fire up, bright as sparklers. ‘I do have an idea where she might be.’
‘Yeah?’ I’m on my feet.
‘There’s this odd little café, an all-night joint by the looks of it. Smithfield Market. She seemed to be in there with a guy.’ He pauses. ‘Friend guy,’ he adds for clarification.
‘Blond hair? Five ten? On the scrawny side?’
Nelly nods. ‘Got him. It seemed like he was a regular. I’m pretty sure someone will know where she is if you head there.’
It’s worth a try.
* * *
CLARA
Evelyn’s looking washed-out. We’ve been practising since seven thirty, ever since she put Thea down.
‘Just put the air behind it. You need a little more support on the notes. It’s breathy, yes, but you don’t want to flip it too far that way. It’s casual. Lift the soft palate less. More relaxed, but clear and strong.’
‘It’s no good.’ I flop down onto her comfy sofa. ‘I just can’t get it. Can we try an easier song? Avoid the high notes?’
Evelyn fans a heap of assorted sheet music out in front of us, spreading it across the floor. The task seems hopeless. There’s almost too much. Where do we even start?
‘It needs to be something easy,’ Evelyn says as she scans the vocal scores. ‘Something you feel comfortable with, but something that shows off your voice.’
Practically all the stuff we do for the choir is religious. Hymns and things. I’m not sure that’s going to cut it for this audition.
‘The problem is…’ Evelyn says, running her eyes anxiously over the notes. ‘The arrangement, the way you sang the original song, it was different. It had that element of originality. A bit of you. That’s what they want. Only now, they’ve heard your demo track. They’re going to need something else.’
‘“Amazing Grace”?’
Evelyn shakes her head. ‘Even I know that’s not going to cut the mustard. It’s got to be something modern. They’re a music production company.’
‘We don’t have time,’ I sob. It would be fine if I were confident, but I don’t like singing in public. It’s never going to work.
‘I think you go in with a Kiri Matalixa.’
‘No way.’ Kiri has been blocking the charts for the past twelve months. She has the golden larynx and an attitude to match. ‘She’s a belter. I can’t do that.’
Evelyn sinks to her knees. ‘Clara, you’re going to have to try. It’s not just about you getting a record deal. If you can’t prove to that Betsy fire-breathing dragon woman that you were staying up all night using the studio’s equipment, Marco’s going to be in big trouble.’
She’s right. ‘Okay, let’s try the Kiri.’
* * *
MARCO
I’ve managed to down two breakfast baps and five mugs of tea.
It’s nine o’clock at night. I’m sitting in Jack’s, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the mystery guy to turn up.
If this doesn’t work, I guess I’ll have to try to sneak into the Towers, although I’m going in on Thursday.
Tomorrow’s Wednesday. Instead of taking my lift up to the seventeenth floor, I could stop by the front desk.
I’m pretty sure the door guy knows Clara.
He could get a message to her. Maybe I should write her a note.
I tap my pockets. I have no paper. Why the hell is life so complicated?
‘You sure do like those baps,’ Jack says, lifting the plate from my table.
If I sit here much longer, I’ll be on for a coronary.
‘Best in town,’ I say, wiping the ketchup from my fingers. ‘You don’t have a bit of paper, do you? I need to write a letter.’
He laughs. ‘That’s quaint. A love letter?’
‘Not really.’ I shift in my seat uncomfortably.
‘Doesn’t she have a phone?’
‘I didn’t say it was a she.’ I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t said anything to Jack, anything bar a compliment about his bacon.
‘I can give you a napkin. Very romantic, napkins. Drinks coasters are better if it’s a swanky bar, a bar with kudos. But you can’t fit much on a coaster. You can get a hell of a lot on a napkin if you don’t press too hard. Have you got a lot to write?’
I sigh. ‘Not sure. Think so.’
‘Then you’re definitely best with a napkin.’ He goes to the grill station and pulls out three, smoothing them down with his hand before passing them to me.
‘And…’ He pulls a pen from behind his ear. ‘You’ll be needing this.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, grasping the pen firmly and lining up the napkin as he walks away.
I’m not good at this. The only real relationship I had, or thought I had, was with Fitz, and that was born out of growing up together.
We were literally thrown together, and then parental pressure and expectations kept us there.
There was never really any choice. What I’m feeling now is different.
Less than a week ago, I met the most amazing woman in the history of the universe: beautiful, kind, funny, intelligent.
The kind of woman you want to be with for the rest of your life, and it all went so well.
So brilliantly. That night at the gala, it couldn’t have gone better.
If I hadn’t had to run off to protect her from Fitz’s parents, it would have all worked out okay.
A letter is the only way I can get across exactly what I’m feeling.
I start to write, making sure not to press too hard.
Hi Clara,
I know this is kind of strange. We’ve only just met, but since that day in my office, my whole world has been tipped upside down. I’m sorry we had to part so suddenly at the gala. That would not have been my choice. I would never have given you up. I just wanted to protect you. Works gone…
I pause. Can I write batshit?
‘You okay, Shakespeare?’ Jack asks as he cleans down the grill.
‘Yeah, just wondering, can I put work has gone batshit? I mean, is that okay?’
Jack stops with the grill scraping, sucks in his cheeks as he mulls it over. ‘I’m not sure you want to bring work up in a love letter.’
‘Well, it’s more of an apology. A declaration of intent.’
‘Intent.’ Jack nods. ‘I think batshit’s fine.’
I write batshit and call me and add my number.
‘Done?’ Jack asks.
‘Done.’ I fold it into my pocket and pull my cigarettes out.
‘Oh no. Not in here, mate.’
‘Course.’ I stand, pushing back my chair. ‘Is it okay if I leave my stuff at the table?’ I indicate back to my chair, my coat, my bag.
‘Knock yourself out,’ Jack says.
Wearily I head out onto the street. Most of the shops are closed, and there’s a late summer nip in the air.
Directly opposite, the last greengrocer is taking in his veg, pulling down the awning, getting ready to wind down the blinds.
I take a cigarette from its packet. I don’t really smoke.
Not anymore. Not much. As I get my lighter out I wonder if Clara smokes.
I could give up. I can give up tomorrow.
I’ll deliver the letter on Wednesday. Probably, I’ll transfer it and put it on some better paper.
Maybe get some nice stuff. Nelly has nice stuff.
I could always… Then out of the corner of my eye, I see him.
The scrawny blond-haired man. The valet parking guy.
The guy who knows her. He’s heading towards Jack’s.
Just before he’s about to step onto the road, he turns his head to shoot a line of banter to the guy packing his veg away.
It’s just a line. I don’t catch it, but what I do see is the van.
The van reversing into the street, reversing into the path of the valet guy.
‘Stop!’ I shout. But he doesn’t, and the van doesn’t.
In a split second, without thinking, I lunge into the road.
The valet guy looks at me. His eyes widening as my outstretched hands hit him hard in the chest and he falls back into the stall.
Veg is flying. I’m flying. Nothing is right. And then everything is dark. Very dark.