I walk towards the mic as if in a dream, my heels clicking on the polished wood. Running my hands along the piano as I pass, feeling the cool ivory keys under my fingertips. This is my moment. I can sing anything I want. But I should probably be quick. I glance at my wristwatch. It’s half twelve already. If I’m going to do this, I need to do it now.
I make my way to the control booth and flick on the lights, blinking in the sudden brightness. I’d watched Jeff earlier as he set everything up. I’m pretty sure I can remember which buttons to press. Under my fingers, the equipment comes to life with a satisfying buzz and a wink of lights as my heart races. I honestly could record something now. Give me an hour, and it would all be done. What harm could it do? A demo. Just one single track to show myself what I can do. No one has to know. I wouldn’t even have to play it to anyone, but I would always have it – know that it could be done.
With trembling fingers, I reach forward and flick on the master switch. The recording equipment hums, ready and waiting. The next stop is the monitor. Within minutes it’s on, bathing the room in a blue light. Quickly I scan through the tracks on the computer, searching for something that speaks to me. I just need a cover. Something I’m already familiar with. Jeff had set up a recording earlier in the day for a Donna Summer track. A soulful piano ballad with a driving beat and emotional lyrics about love, heartbreak, and finding your voice. Perfect.
Once I locate the track, I press play and step up to the mic as the music fills the booth. I close my eyes, letting the melody wash over me, feeling the rhythm in my bones. When the time is right, I open my mouth and sing. At first, my voice trembles, uneven and breathy. But with each note, it grows stronger, surer, until I’m pouring my heart into the music. Glancing up at the corner of the studio, I see the red light blinking above me, recording the riff. It doesn’t get much better than this. I’m really doing it – singing professionally in a real studio. Even if no one ever hears this, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve made it.
CHAPTER 9
CLARA
The next morning, I click-clack my way through the swinging doors to the Tower, feeling a swell of excitement. Last night went well. I’m heading straight for the lifts. No more stopping at the reception desk.
‘Hey, look at you,’ Stan says, winking as I pass. ‘Hear you saved the day yesterday.’ He claps an appreciative burst of applause. ‘That’s my girl.’
‘Thanks, Stan.’ I stop to give him a hug.
He laughs.
‘Was it okay, though?’ I seriously don’t want to put anyone out. ‘Did you get cover for me?’
‘Hmm.’ He pulls back, giving me a hard look. ‘Replace you? Not possible.’ The stern face fades, and he cracks a smile. ‘But yeah, the stand-in turned out okay.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘We managed. We will always manage. You set up the system so everything works. Glides along. So, now,’ he leans in towards me conspiratorially, ‘now you go on and fly, girl, just as high as those wings will take you. Everyone’s rooting for you. All the kids who came down from that audition yesterday had nothing but praise.’
I grin from ear to ear. It’s nice knowing you’re appreciated. It’s worth almost as much as my pay cheque, which reminds me, I need to find out who’s responsible for that now.
In the lift, I have to pinch my cheeks to stop myself from smiling. Wow, what a day yesterday was, but I survived. More than that, the project survived. No complaints. In fact, there’s only been praise, and today, what I’m hoping for is a little more time to enjoy the full-on glamour of working in one of the leading recording studios in the capital. Without the tail end of the auditions, everything has surely got to be fifty per cent calmer. I take a sigh of relief and pat down my golden curls as I turn to face the sliding door. Curls that have been tonged to a 250-degree inch of perfection this morning. With my smile coming into line just as the golden doors pull back, only then do I realise I’m not going to get my wish for peace.
The office is a war zone: papers strewn everywhere, desks overturned, coffee mugs shattered on the floor. My blood freezes in my veins as I scan the chaos. What the hell is going on?
Marco storms past. ‘Thank Christ for that. You can help us search,’ he says, pulling the seat cushions off all the sofas.
‘Well, they won’t be there.’ Betsy is standing in the doorway to her office, a scowl already on her face and it’s not even nine o’clock.
‘W-what?’ I stutter.
‘The auditions,’ Marco growls, pushing Betsy out of the way. ‘They’re missing. The ones you were logging last night.’
Betsy gives me a hard look. ‘It’s all your fault.’
Oh no. My heart is fluttering in panic mode. I’m dead. Marco is going to kill me. Just as that thought skitters through my head, I’m forced to duck under the nearest desk to avoid a projectile flying fast across the room. A stapler, by the looks of it. Marco’s rage certainly does manifest itself in many forms.
‘Who left the blasted door open last night?’ his voice thunders through the room.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Betsy shakes her head. ‘When that woman,’ she points to me, still cowering under the desk, ‘finished logging stuff. She should have put it on the USB, in my in-tray, out of sight. Like I showed her.’
Cowering under the desk, my face burns as I scan quickly back through my mind. It had been late. I grabbed my coat. I’d stopped off in the studio. I was so sure I’d dropped everything in Betsy’s office when I’d finished. But that didn’t matter, because I couldn’t remember if I had closed the door to the studio when I left. Hot tears prick the back of my eyes. I just can’t remember. I’m so tired, I seriously can’t remember.
Marco storms over, grabbing me by the ankle.
‘Don’t yank her,’ Betsy says. ‘If you yank her, HR will get involved, and then it’ll all turn into some poor-me intern saga.’
‘I wasn’t going to yank her.’ His voice sounds mad as hell. He pushes my ankle gently to one side so my body twists around to face him, throwing one hand towards me to help me out. ‘I can’t interrogate her if she’s under the bloody table, can I? What would HR think about that?’ Gently, he pushes his arm towards me again.
I seriously don’t care what HR will think about it. This is terrifying.
Betsy throws her arms up in the air and raises her eyes in a ‘don’t shoot me’ gesture as though washing her hands of the interaction in case it gets nasty while I take the hand Marco’s offering. My first thought, which is so not what my first thought should be, is wow, he has such soft skin. Maybe it’s because I’m terrified. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had enough sleep, but either way his touch feels… gorgeous. My brother’s always tinkering with cars. His friends are always tinkering with cars. I didn’t know men could have hands that soft. And as I’m eulogising about this man’s hands, I feel my brain throwing self-doubt and irritation into the mix; I cannot believe I’ve blown everything, this job, everything.
As I crawl ungracefully to my feet, I wince, bracing myself for the impact of his words. Yet, his tone is softer than Betsy’s. Gentler. Less judgemental. ‘Did you see anything, Clara?’
