CHAPTER 1
CLARA
The golden doors of the lift glide open, and out spills yet another wave of gorgeous women clad in designer heels and clingy dresses. People might find it odd, but I could seriously watch this kind of show all day. It’s times like this that I love my job on reception. This place can be so swanky. It’s like being at some high-end fashion event, and from the hungry look on Stan the doorman’s face, I figure he feels the same way. Only most likely for different reasons. Is that a twitch of his lips? He surely can’t be about to whistle.
‘Stan,’ I hiss.
He winks. As usual, he was pulling my leg. The man is sixty if he’s a day, and a full-on joker. I have to watch myself constantly because Stan’s main remit, after opening doors and tipping that peaked cap of his, appears to be to make me laugh. I sometimes think working the door all day has turned Stan’s poor old brain into jelly. It’s the boredom. Because when there are no auditions, that revolving door can be kind of quiet. If I stay here too long, I could end up just like him – squeezing the everyday for just a squidge of funny.
I’ve been here almost a year now. It was okay at first. Initially, there was a lot to do, and I like being busy. The steel and glass building of Delagado Towers may have only been up for ten years, and the fittings might still be fancy, but when I arrived here, the systems were antiquated. As soon as I got my feet under the desk, I gave the entire reception area a total revamp. First, I tackled the call centre, working through the operator panels and switchboards in the rented offices. With a bit of help from tech support, I gradually figured out how everything connected. So, if clients called up, I could see who they were on my screen, and if I knew which firm they represented, I could normally figure out who they wanted before I even picked up the phone. I’d then answer with the name of the relevant company and direct them with absolutely no fuss to the right person. I can’t help it; organisation is my thing. I love it when a system works effortlessly, any kind of system. I was brought up by my older brother, Minty, who I absolutely love to bits, but when sensible was being handed out, that boy must have missed the memo. Chaos when describing my brother is an understatement. His mind is permanently tied up with something else, so ever since I could push a Hoover, wipe a pot, or puff a sofa pillow, organisation on the home front landed at my door. That’s why, when I first got the job here, it was a perfect fit. There was plenty to overhaul. After I’d tackled the call centre, I sank my teeth into the booking procedure for the conference rooms. I even introduced a new online system so anyone wanting to reserve a room could find availability in just a few clicks. Modern tech, I just love it. And don’t even get me started on the front desk. When I first arrived, there were drawers stuffed with a host of curiously useless things, but I cleared them all out – every last forgotten paperclip. These days, everything is running smooth and sleek, just the way I like it.
Only now that it all works like a dream, guess what? I’m as bored as it’s possible to be without finding yourself six feet under, and Stan, since he stands there watching me for most of the day, knows. He gives the wide, glass revolving door to the outside a jaunty push with his white-gloved hand in anticipation of the next batch of ladies. Of course, he’s spun it too hard. If the bevvy of beauties heading to or from the top floor were to put one kitten-heeled shoe into that swing-door matrix, they’d get caught in a whirlwind of centrifugal force. Luckily, the last batch deposited from the lifts are strolling across the wide marble atrium in front of me. It’ll be a while before they get to Stan and his white-gloved antics. He’s just trying to get their attention; he’ll be tap dancing for them next.
‘Lanyards,’ I call, as they move past in a cloud of scent.
The beauties giggle, unwinding the straps of their day passes from their long, elegant necks.
‘Oh my gosh,’ a tall girl with hazel eyes as wide as a forest says. ‘You are so lucky working here.’
I smile as if to say, yes, aren’t I? But I know that I’m just a nothing and a nobody, just a face people walk past.
‘How did it go?’ I ask, eager for news of the seventeenth floor, the music emporium of Delagado Design.
‘Oh, fantastic.’ A beanpole of a woman clutches her hands across her tanned, stretched chest. ‘Fingers crossed.’
‘Thank you soooo much,’ one hazel-eyed stunner intones.
‘Yes, so much,’ the other women chorus.
And peeling off their lanyards, every one of them nods appreciatively at me as they click-clack past, forgetting my existence once I’m out of sight.
I guess I’m kind of the gatekeeper here at Delagado Towers, which is pretty impressive if you’re from Middle Earth. Gatekeepers have big business in the Tolkien storyline, but it’s not so impressive if you happen to be living in Wapping. Gatekeeper, receptionist. I may have sorted out the admin system for the building, but on the seventeenth floor, they remain oblivious to my existence. The women floating past my desk, on the other hand, love me fleetingly because they are gloriously unaware (and uninterested) as to the fact that I have nothing to do with Delagado Design – the high-end music production suite that straddles the entire top floor of the building – the place where they’ve all just been auditioning, singing their hearts out.
I grab my clipboard, ready to mark off more incoming lanyards. That’s all part of my job: I check them in and check them out. I have a mountain of work to do before I can knock off tonight. It’s our busy time. With my hands wrapped in the stiff black cords of the photo IDs, I gaze wistfully after the women. Some girls get all the luck. I glance down at the list of women auditioning who haven’t checked back out. I have a heap missing in action. There must be a party load still up there on the seventeenth floor. I sigh, sinking down onto my hard but sleek bar stool seat, pillowing my chin on my hands as I stare towards the bank of golden lifts. If only I had the guts to join them, wander over to the elevator doors, those portals to stardom, and zoom into the stratosphere. Because I can sing. I love to sing. It’s the one thing that I seriously enjoy. Only…
‘Oi, you.’ Stan beams at me. ‘Quit your daydreaming. There’ll be another gaggle along soon.’
Heat floods my cheeks. Trust Stan to catch me when my brain’s addled and on a time-out vacation. A person could spend their life dreaming away the hours on reception. But that’s not going to do anyone any good. I straighten, grabbing a stack of visitor passes with a sniff.
‘Receptionist by day,’ he says jovially, ‘songbird by night.’
I shouldn’t have told Stan about my secret passion. He loves to tease, but I’ve never said I had designs on being a diva. That’s not for me. Not with my stage fright.
‘I do love singing, Stan,’ I say firmly, ‘but only in the choir.’
‘Choir.’ He shrugs. ‘How different can it be? You’re using the same instrument. Those, what are they called? Vocal cord things. Why not take the lift up? Throw your hat into the ring. Confidence, Clara, my sweet, that’s all you need.’ He chuckles, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘You could catch on the tail end of this little lot here,’ he whispers as a further bevy of beauties pours through his door.
I shoot him a wry look. ‘Couldn’t go leaving my desk. I’m an integral part of the process.’
‘Come on, Clara,’ he says, grinning. ‘Why not show us what you’ve got? Use that golden voice of yours and direct this next batch to the right floor before we get a queue down the street.’
I craftily stick my tongue out at him before plastering on a smile to greet another flock of starlets. Of course, he’s right to bring me back to earth. By suggesting I hop in a lift and take a bid for stardom, he’s challenging me, and it’s a challenge I’m not about to take. There’s no point in crying over missed opportunities. I need to get on with the job in hand. In truth, it’s about time I woke up to the fact that my voice is only fit for being helpful. I am the nice woman at the end of the telephone line, the meet and greet over the reception desk – I couldn’t do what they do. Yes, I sing in a choir, but singing solo, standing up on some stage with just a mic, I’d never have the nerve. Besides, I look nothing like these women. We are poles apart. They could, in fact, be a different species. These women are magazine perfect, with their flawless skin, hair and teeth, and I’m… Hmm, I tilt my head to one side and stare at my reflection in one of the long windows. As always, I feel disappointed by what I see – a short, everyday-looking young woman handing out passes to a bevy of glorious beauties. I guess my hair’s pretty: blonde, long, wavy. But then again, my body’s kind of wavy too, and I’m not convinced bodies are supposed to be wavy. Certainly not the way mine is. Compared to the women auditioning, I know I’m not worth pausing to look at.
I give myself a shake. That kind of mindset is not helpful.
‘I think I’m going to tidy out the cupboards,’ I say to Stan.
‘To your heart’s content,’ Stan calls after me as I scoot my way along to the end of my desk and open the cupboard I use for stationery. I should make a new order. I grab a manuscript pad, but as I do, an item I gained courtesy of my older (less sensible) brother falls to the floor – a Halloween mask. It was on my first day working here that my brother Minty showed up at the Towers wearing the mask. He is an impossible joker with a seriously unfunny repertoire. So much worse than Stan’s. My brother is always plotting up some funny scheme and itching to play me. Practical jokes are part of the guy’s DNA. So, it’s something I know I have to grin and bear because underneath all the whoopie cushions, electric handshakes, and cling film over the toilet bowl, my brother has a heart of gold. Okay, so he’s a wee bit messy to live with and has a problem throwing anything out, but he’s been everything to me all through my life. With my parents gone, it can’t have been easy in his situation, staying at home to babysit your sister when all your mates are going out. The practical jokes were a small price to pay. Besides, Minty was easy to spot when he had a joke brewing. Normally, you caught his laughter before you saw what he was up to. I’d managed to confiscate the mask as soon as I saw him coming through the glass doors. I should have hurled it by now, but just like my brother, I do hate to throw things away. Only, unlike Minty, I believe in re-housing. Someone will be glad of it. The thing needs to grab a lift to a charity shop. If it finds its way home, Minty’s bound to do something daft with it again.
