After placing Amy’s bag in a locked cupboard, I text Stan, who’s in the lobby, urging him to get cover for the day. This is not going to be tied up anytime soon. Then I do a super swift room tidy before I go through the call sheets, noting the names of the production staff. I make sure they have everything they need for the next raft of auditions. At the sound deck, I have a beanie-wearing technician called Jeff. He has a lot of facial hair and carries with him the curious smell of damp towels. I’m not sure if that’s because of the late night they’ve all had or because that’s just Jeff. Either way, he’s friendly enough, and in my book, friendly works. He’s also efficient, so, wet towels or not, he’s getting full marks. He’s collected all the recordings from the previous day’s auditions. Everything is ready for mixing and a light edit. I don’t know how this competition works, but I do know I need to ensure the judges have high-quality recordings to review. Some of the contestants have travelled miles, and I can’t let them down.
After a pretty frantic hour, I glance around the studio, checking everything’s in place. The space is uncluttered. Jeff and Terry, the keyboard player, have set the equipment up in the studio, and the contestants are ready and waiting. Everything seems in order. I can’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction at how I’ve pulled the situation around. What will the great Marco Delagado think when he comes to? Maybe he’ll give me a permanent job. Perhaps this is just the push I need.
I look over at Terry, a sweet-looking guy in a white shirt and waistcoat. He’s sitting at the piano in the recording studio, idly playing a few notes.
‘Terry, are we all set? Do you have all the music for the auditions?’ I ask, peering around the door.
He nods, his fingers dancing across the keys. ‘Yep, all tuned and ready to go. It’s actually electric, so–’
‘No tuning,’ I say.
He points at me, ‘you-got-it’ style. ‘And the acoustics are always perfect in here.’ He glances admiringly around at the studio. ‘You have to say that about Marco. For all the chaos, everything he owns is quality.’
Luckily, I managed to locate the camera, which is in a flight case. It doesn’t take me long to fix it on a tripod, positioning it for optimal view of the stage area. The angle looks great. I may have to adjust for height, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got most scenarios covered. I hook it up to a monitor and turn it on to test the feed. The red light blinks, signalling it’s recording. This is nothing that I haven’t done before with my brother for his TikTok page. He sells bits of old cars on social media platforms. It sometimes amazes me how many ways there are to make a living. Then again, my brother never did fit into the school career path model. He just followed his interest, his passion, and everything worked out all right.
Soon, the studio is prepped and the equipment primed. Stan sent up a team from housekeeping to deep clean the parts of the office that I hadn’t got to, so we are at least looking presentable. Although I’m not sure the red wine stain is coming off the wall anytime soon. But that can’t be my worry. My main focus has to be the auditions. The contestants all have their cues and know the approximate time they’ll be called for their slot. Some have even managed to nip out for a coffee. Sticking to a tight schedule is best for everyone. I survey the room with a satisfied smile. If Marco Delagado ever wakes up, he is surely going to be impressed with how I’ve taken charge of the situation. Or so I think. Unfortunately, it’s just then that Marco pulls himself, bleary-eyed, up from the couch. He yawns loudly and scratches his head, before glancing around in total confusion.
He blinks at me, dazed. ‘The auditions. Right?’ Marco shakes his head as though trying to clear the cobwebs. ‘Who are you?’
‘Clara.’ I feel my confidence draining away.
‘Great,’ he says, pulling one large, tanned hand through his thick hair. ‘Well…’ He looks at me appraisingly, as if realising the whole turnaround is down to me and seems pretty impressed. I think he’s going to say something. A thanks would be nice, but instead, he just nods. ‘Okay… and yeah… yeah, let’s get this show on the road.’
The contestants clap. A genuine show of approval, and despite the fact he has been sound asleep on the sofa, Marco basks in it, turning side to side, smiling, drinking it up. Very sweetly, a few of the braver souls shoot me kind looks. I may be the unsung hero, but I know what they’re thinking – without me, this entire day would have been a total disaster.
‘Hey.’ Marco looks at me, those brown eyes so sincere, so inviting. And for an intense moment, I just know he’s going to say something, congratulate me on pulling it all into shape. He smiles.
‘Clara.’ I nod eagerly offering my name once again.
‘Clara,’ he repeats. ‘Since everything is under control here, can you run yourself out to get some breakfast sandwiches?’
My heart sinks. Despite all I’ve done, I’m still just the skivvy.
‘I didn’t have time to eat this morning,’ he adds in explanation.
I try to smile, honestly, I do, but this feels like a total slap in the face. The man has zero manners. My brother is so right. Bad boys are not all they’re cracked up to be. This particular specimen would be a nightmare to date. I’m about to give him a mouthful when an icy voice cuts through my thoughts.
‘Well, isn’t this cosy?’
I turn to find a woman in her late forties peering at us with narrowed eyes. She’s impeccably dressed in designer clothes and heels, her auburn hair swept into a sleek chignon. Everything about her screams wealth and status so loudly that I feel like I might come down with tinnitus. My smile falters. Suddenly, I feel ridiculously underdressed, even though I’m wearing my best peacock-blue wrap dress. I have no idea who this woman is, but I can already tell she doesn’t like me.
‘Betsy,’ Marco says, getting to his feet.
Betsy… Betsy. I scan my brain. Of course, this must be Betsy Miller. Marco’s business partner. I’ve only ever seen pictures of the woman, her stern face staring out from our website.
‘I thought you didn’t come in on Fridays?’ Marco yawns.
Unsurprisingly, the man is suffering from a serious case of whisky breath.
Betsy crinkles her large, flat nose. ‘It’s the auditions. Last day. The biggest vocal contest in the country. Sod Fridays.’ She shakes her immaculately coifed head, irritated. ‘You know, Marco.’ She sniffs. ‘Has anyone ever told you, you stink?’
‘Frequently.’ He laughs. ‘Betsy, this is…’ He waves his arm towards me.
‘Clara,’ I say helpfully.
‘Clara,’ he repeats, ‘she works here now.’
‘I don’t, not officially,’ I find myself stuttering. This woman makes me feel like a child. ‘Actually, I work on reception downstairs.’
