I couldn’t agree more. I reach out to take her hand, then pull back as if I’ve been stung. I am not my father. I will not take advantage of people who work for me. Shit! Why did I get her to sign that contract?
Confused, she glances down awkwardly at her hand.
Luckily, Nelly is there as always with something light and acceptable to break the mood. ‘Just don’t get ketchup on the suit,’ he says wryly, dusting her shoulders down as if she’s a doll.
‘Ketchup!’ Clara laughs, the intense moment shattered.
‘Oh, yes,’ Nelly says, his features pulled into a serious frown. ‘That guy might look like class.’ He points one long finger towards me. ‘But his tastes are positively pedestrian. Speaking of which, I called you a cab. She can’t walk in those.’
We all glance down at the steeple-high, diamanté encrusted sandals that Clara’s wearing before Nelly pushes past and slides open the door. ‘Give my love to King,’ he says brightly. ‘Tell him he still owes me a bottle of Dom P for that nightmare of a woman he sent my way last month.’ Nelly raises his eyes and shivers. ‘I had to practically use scaffolding on the poor blob.’ He grabs Clara’s hand gently between his own. ‘Not so for this little one, I tell you. She is an absolute keeper.’
‘Oh, we’re not…’ My voice clashes with Clara’s. She’s also protesting, which makes me feel curiously hurt – what’s wrong with me?
Seeing the confusion, Nelly laughs, glinting a mischievous look towards us and placing both hands in an attitude of secrecy across his chest. ‘Course not. Okay.’ He sighs. ‘Fairy tale done.’ He flicks his hands towards us. ’Shoo, shoo, people. Have fun.’ He blows us a kiss before manhandling us out of the door and sliding it shut behind us.
CHAPTER 11
CLARA
The walls are black and adorned with framed portraits of jazz legends and magazine-worthy young men wearing the slickest, trendiest suits. Whereas Nelly’s world was all fashion and flounce, this world is totally male. King looks like some kind of gangster lord with skin that has the appearance of chewed leather. His fingers are overly large, as if muscled by piano playing, and adorned with gold signet rings the size of dinner plates. Well, okay, not that big, but big enough. The man must be nearing seventy, but has so much hair sprouting out from the top of his wide, square head, it’s surely got to be a wig. In one hand, he holds a tilted tumbler of whisky. Someone, somewhere, is apparently fixing Marco and me drinks. No one asked what we wanted. King simply told us we’d love the night’s special. So, the special it is. I’m truly not fussed, anything that calms my nerves works just fine. In contrast, King doesn’t appear to have nerves. He’s rock steady. Just like his office, the man is immaculate. His black shoes polished to within an inch of mirror-glaze perfection. His unbuttoned shirt hangs open slightly. But, in a way, that looks so totally cool and smart that you wonder why everyone isn’t doing exactly the same thing. Even his tie is casual and cool, knotted and thrown over one shoulder. Worn there purposely? Or forgotten? Who would know? It all just looks fab.
I’m not feeling so cool even though the outfit Nelly fixed for me is absolutely gorgeous, and my make-up has never looked better. I didn’t even know it was possible to look this good. I should be feeling a million dollars confident, only there’s a big cringeworthy problem looming over the evening. I know that any minute, my pre-recorded voice is going to come warbling out of King’s speakers, and I’m going to want the world to swallow me up. So, I’m perched on a red velvet banquette opposite King, hoping we can just get this over with really quickly and that someone is going to push a margarita into my hand to help me through the process. What’s perhaps even more surprising is that Marco is not exactly looking cool, calm and collected himself. He’s pacing. I guess there’s a lot at stake for him. Sure, I can go through all the auditions and try to match the voice, but of course, I know that’s never going to work.
King stops tapping his fingers the moment my Donna Summer number slices through the air. I don’t even dare to breathe. Not one of us says anything as the track plays out, even Marco stops his pacing. Afterwards, for such a long, awkward moment, nobody speaks.
‘So?’ Marco says eagerly. ‘Do you know who it is?’
King leans back in his chair, eyes closed, a slow smile spreading across his lips. My heart pounds as I see an odd expression dawning over that wrinkled seen-it-all, done-it-all face. The expression is clear – what he’s heard is something special.
‘I have no idea,’ he murmurs, amazement dripping from every word. ‘This voice, it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before.’ He shoots Marco an amused look. ‘So go on then, who is she?’
Marco shakes his head. ‘We don’t know.’
Marco had already told him this, but I figure King thought Marco was just playing with him.
King looks surprised at the revelation, finally taking it in. One of those gnarled hands reaches up to rub the equally gnarled face. ‘I don’t understand. She auditioned for you?’
Hmmm, King has a point. The situation is pretty confusing.
Marco looks sheepish. ‘We…’ he tries, as though suddenly realising this is an awkward situation.
We have fobbed off the press, but no one outside of the office knows the full extent of the disaster.
‘The studio was broken into,’ I say. ‘Some of the audition materials were… They’ve been mislaid.’ The burglary has to be a need-to-know basis.
Marco nods eagerly. ‘Exactly. So we have this tape. She’s the vocalist we want, and we’re just trying to find a reconnect.’
King leans forward, opens a small wooden box on his desk and takes out a cigar. ‘Well, I have to say, that is most definitely some voice.’ He laughs, reaches down to a drawer, slides it open and takes out a pair of cigar clippers. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he says. ‘This is cause for a celebration. I hear a lot of singers, but it’s been years since I’ve heard anything that good, that original. I think you’ve found your winner.’
Marco sighs, starting to pace once again. ‘Yes, but who is she?’
King raises one large, bushy eyebrow, a sparkle flitting over his eyes. ‘That I can’t tell you, but when you find her, you call me. Now…’ he says, getting to his feet, ‘where are those drinks?’
Once Marco and I are cocooned in the nightclub, King takes his leave. We’re sitting in one of the best booths the place has to offer. Close to the dance floor but slightly raised so the sound doesn’t blast us, and we can maintain a good look at all the artists. Despite what I told my brother, this could be a long night.
MARCO
Normally, this is exactly where I’d want to be. Only tonight, I’m feeling a seriously confusing mix of emotions. Part of running a record label, the part I love, means you’re continually on the lookout for the next new thing, the next sensation. If you don’t grab them quick, someone else will. I also have a demo tape sporting the most amazing vocals, yet I have no idea who this woman is or where she might be. This should be doing my head in, but all the angst I should be feeling about work, well, it just isn’t there. Instead, my thoughts are focused elsewhere as I happen to be sitting opposite the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.
