‘You look gorgeous, C!’ my brother says, eyes bright. ‘Robin’s going to be blown away!’
I roll my eyes as I slide into the back seat. I’ve been in this dress all day. I certainly don’t feel gorgeous. ‘I bet he’s awful,’ I say.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Minty scoffs, his unruly hair flopping over his eyes as he pulls out into the road. The car vibrates in time with the radio. ‘I have excellent taste in men.’
I clear my throat. ‘Apart from the last three.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Minty winces. ‘But Robin’s going to be different.’
‘We can feel it!’ Tim adds enthusiastically.
I shake my head, stare at the streets sliding by the car. The city is glittering in the twilight.
Maybe, just maybe, my brother will get it right this time. Maybe this date won’t be a total disaster after all. Maybe today is the day I nail everything: dream job, dream man, dream life. In the darkness of the back seat, I take a deep breath and smile.
Only, it is a disaster. The reason Robin is in town for one night only is because he lives with his mum. That kind of thing might tick my brother’s boxes on the sensible and stable front, but the man is in his mid-thirties, and his mum does everything for him. She rang him three times whilst we were having a drink. It was a short date lasting precisely fifty-six minutes. I timed it. Not only does he live with his mum, he also works for her, and he managed to bore me rigid for over an hour, giving me details of his recent holiday – with his mum. He even showed me the accompanying snaps. It’s true, he’s good-looking enough. And okay, so he is kind of sweet, and his mum’s done a great job of bringing him up and squeezing him into a two-piece, but there’s no spark. Not even a fizzle. I have to admit, the shadow of work comes in mighty handy. It’s a relief to be able to tell him that, actually, I’ve got a lot of urgent admin to do back at the office, and would he mind dropping me off at Delagado Towers? He didn’t. Most likely, he wasn’t getting any chemistry, either.
Once again, I cross the wide marble foyer, saying hi to the night porter before pressing the golden button for the lift. It’s going to be a long night.
As I stand waiting, I pull out my phone and bring up the family group chat – Tim is also in it.
Strike.
I write.
You two are out.
That’s the last time I go on a date set up by my brother or his mate. Next time, I’m going to find my own man.
CHAPTER 8
CLARA
The office suite is empty. The only light is coming from the glow of the computer screen in front of me. I blink hard, trying to focus on the rows of thumbnail images – the last batch of auditions that I have to log before I can head home.
I shouldn’t have taken time out. I could have been home in bed by now. That’s the last time I listen to my brother and his mate. My shoulders tense. I’m feeling so stressed. It’s been a long and very odd day. The digits on the screen dance in front of my eyes. I take a moment to rub my forehead. Everything has to be perfect. Betsy will inspect my work with a magnifying glass, looking for any excuse to criticise. I might have only just met the woman today, but I know her type. If I give her an inch, she’ll make my life a living hell, along with kicking me out of this job.
I stifle a yawn and double-check the titles, descriptions, and tags on the video files.
Soprano: 22. Good stage presence.
Contralto: 30. Nervous and arrogant. Difficult.
It’s clear from the way Betsy wanted her notes taken that winning this competition is about a lot more than having a good voice. Then again, I guess they all had to have a good voice to get through the door.
At last, although my eyes are feeling scratchy and dry, I log the final entry for what has to be the biggest performance competition in the country. Within seconds, it has all been copied to the USB Betsy gave me. She seemed to have a thing about copying anything to the cloud or leaving info on the computers. Apparently, the company had been hacked a few years ago. That’s why Betsy devised her own system, and heaven help anyone who steps out of line. It’s been such a long day. I can’t quite believe that only this morning, I had been sitting in reception, not a clue as to what was going on above my head, and now I’m here with the last file in order. I lean back in my chair and allow myself a deep intake of breath. It’s all done. For just one moment, I let my thoughts wander. Closing my eyes, I imagine standing on the winner’s stage, the spotlight shining down on me, bathing me in a warm glow. All the people I helped audition are there, and once again, they are giving me a standing ovation. Only this time, it’s not for sorting out the admin; in my daydream, they’re cheering me on because of my singing. Marco’s there, looking incredible in a tuxedo, urging me to sing the last song of the evening. I tilt my head back, but nothing comes out. Not a squeak. Panic floods my model-made-up face. My jaw drops open way too wide. Everyone is waiting, waiting, waiting. But this isn’t that kind of a game. Within a moment, the stage is swamped with other women, women in expensive, sparkling dresses and cost-a-fortune hairdos. Slack-jawed, I’m toppled from my stilettos and pushed to the back, out of sight, as they all open their mouths and sing perfectly.
At my desk, the daydream vanishes, and I sink my head down onto my arms. Is this all I’m good for, tidying up other people’s mess? I scratch anxiously at the cuticle on one finger. Do I have to live my life in the background? How about if that clapping could be turned around? What if it wasn’t simply my admin skills that were getting me attention. My voice is good and clear. As good as anything I’d heard today. I feel sure the panel would love me if I only got a chance to step out on that stage and managed to sing. Only that’s never going to happen. Instead, if I’m lucky, I’ll be destined to log auditions and pick up Marco’s slack until the end of time, trapped in this dim little room that smells of stale pastries and broken dreams. My broken dreams.
‘Stop,’ I groan, grabbing my hair between both hands. I need to get home. This kind of self-sabotage is getting me nowhere. I did well today. That’s what I need to hold on to. Tomorrow, I’m going to have to be Little Miss Organised all over again. I take the USB, an SD with the tracks on, and a slim one-sheet hard copy of the log that I’ve boiled any auditions of interest down to and place it all in Betsy’s office, just as I’ve been instructed to do.
I grab Amy’s bag, then check my phone to confirm that the bike I had booked to pick the item up is still okay to collect in the morning – thankfully it is. Resting my jacket over my shoulders, I switch off the lights, ready to head home for the night. But when I open the door to leave the office suite, I stop in my tracks. The door to the audition room is open. Just a crack, but enough to see the gleam of the electric baby grand and the mic standing ready and waiting. My heart thumps in my chest. Suddenly, I don’t feel sleepy anymore.
The studio is empty and dark except for the moonlight filtering through the high windows. No one would know if I just sneaked in and recorded a track, because no one is here, which is exactly how I like it. I hesitate on the threshold, two emotions warring inside me: longing and fear. I know that this is daft. Reckless. I’ve just managed to get my foot on the stepladder to an environment I’ve always wanted to work in: the music industry. If Betsy found out I’d snuck into the recording studio, I’m willing to bet that I’d be fired on the spot. Although… my brain starts to whir, they haven’t actually hired me yet. When will I have another chance like this? That mic, standing in the middle of the room, so tall and slim, is calling to me like a siren’s song. Damn, I take a deep breath and push the door open wider. The familiar scent of wood polish, mixed with the hangover odour of over-perfumed starlets, washes over me.
This is crazy. Then again, crazy and impulsive have got me this far. Why stop now?
Heart pounding, I step into the room. The door creaks softly behind me, swinging shut. I’m alone. The studio is mine.
