‘Don’t take it personally,’ Stan says as I walk towards the door, mask in hand. He points one finger up towards the ceiling as though to indicate the seventeenth floor. ‘That guy’s not exactly an oil painting himself.’
This is clearly not true. Marco Delagado is gorgeous. The sort of gorgeous that album covers are made of.
‘Yeah.’ I laugh, joining in with the lie. But I have to admit it sounds half-hearted. The man may not be stepping out of an 18th century masterpiece, but he’s photoshoot-ready. What’s wrong with me, putting that stupid mask on in the first place? All because I wanted to play a joke on Stan. It wasn’t even a good joke. I could kick myself. Never mind working on reception, I should be down in the cellar.
There’s still a straggle of people up at the studios. Musicians are the type to linger. If I stayed at my desk till the last one came down, I’d be there all night. The night porter can check them off. I’ve had enough for one day. Besides, I’m looking forward to choir practice and putting the goblin greeting disaster behind me.
When I emerge from the Tube station, the crisp evening air fills my lungs. Practical jokes aside, work is okay. Really it is. Although it sometimes feels as though Delagado Towers is not part of the real world. As though the entire glass and granite construction is simply a gilded cage, and I’m not even the bird on the swing. I’m just the hired elf, poking seed in between the bars to help keep the whole thing turning. But that’s okay; real life isn’t glamorous, at least not for me.
The church is only a ten-minute ride from work. It’s an old stone building nestled between shops that closed hours ago and takeaways that are only just starting to spice up the air. We rehearse in the crypt, which sounds kind of creepy but, in reality, it’s a wonderful space with high vaulted ceilings that make your spirit soar, and the smell is incredible. Uplifting. Candle wax, incense, and the assorted perfumes of at least thirty salt-of-the-earth women ranging in age from seventeen to ninety-one. We’re an eclectic bunch. Not glamorous, like the women I saw going for auditions today, but with genuine smiles and warm personalities. I’ve been doing it for years and know we’re all here for each other. Song, harmony, and support are what this small group is all about. Who needs wealth, stardom, and golden lifts?
When I pull open the heavy oak door, most of the choir members are already there. Luckily, practice hasn’t started yet. Everyone turns towards me in a warm greeting.
‘Clara,’ someone calls out in welcome. I don’t see who it is, simply wave my hand in the general direction it came from and wallow in the heartfelt smiles and nods that the group aim my way. These people are like a second family to me. Evelyn, our choir director, always says that it’s the notes between us that keep us strong, and maybe there is something in that. Every time I walk through the door, hear the sound of somebody practicing a scale, I always feel at home. There’s a low murmur of chatter, people catching up on the events of the day as women stand in clusters reviewing the sheet music for this week’s hymns. Occasionally, someone will open their mouth and trill a few notes.
I stash my coat and bag under a pew as Evelyn waves me over with a smile. I love Evelyn. She may only be three years older than me, but she is so talented, and not just on the music front. Whereas my life still feels embryonic, Evelyn appears to have hers all mapped out. As choir leader, she’s doing something she loves. She has a gorgeous baby, a lovely home, and a to-die-for husband. As for me, I have none of these things. The job at Delagado Towers is not a forever career, and I’m still living with my brother – when I say my brother, I also mean his contraptions. The man has a mountain of junk: bits of cars, washing machines, electrical gadgets. His idea of bliss is taking something mechanical apart and then putting it together again. Only the putting-together part doesn’t always work.
I stare over at Evelyn, who is smiling reassuringly at a young woman going over some tricky bars. ‘You’ve got it.’ She smiles, slipping her hand reassuringly onto the woman’s shoulder. ‘Just don’t get overconfident. That’s when you go sharp.’
Overconfidence! I wish I had even a little of that in me.
‘Try the A4 once more?’ Evelyn suggests, leaning her head to the side. The girl sings. ‘You got it,’ Evelyn trills.
The girl smiles and nods, pleased with herself. Evelyn is in her element, and this evening, she gets to go home to her perfect family. Some girls get all the luck. Not that I begrudge Evelyn for having her life sorted. I’d just like the same game plan for myself.
‘Glad you could make it,’ Evelyn says, cheery as always, as she catches my eye. ‘We’re still missing a soprano, so I’m putting you on first chair tonight.’
First chair! I feel my heart flutter against my ribs in a wave of panic. It’s a solo of sorts, even if it is only for a hymn rather than standing in front of a microphone on the seventeenth floor of Delagado Towers, but there’s a problem. I don’t do solos. I’m not ready. My throat clenches and suddenly I feel short of breath.
‘Oh, Evelyn, I can’t…’ I mumble as my body sinks under my weight, my shoulders caving forward.
My knees go weak, my palms melt, and my breath catches in my throat, and that is only when I’m talking, never mind singing solo! In an instant, I am a dishevelled mess. Along with the physical symptoms of full-on panic attack, there’s also a large helping of irritation – I could kick myself for going to pieces. I’m an organised, competent person, but ask me to sing solo and I fall apart. It’s just not fair. I just don’t like being out in front. I can’t even muster up a PowerPoint presentation without dissolving into a blubbering mess. Most days, I’m confident. I can apply myself to almost any situation. Get it sorted. Iron it out. Pull a practical solution out of a minefield of chaos. Didn’t I organise reception so that it’s never worked better? Aren’t I the chief homemaker in the house, making sure my older brother is fed, watered, and dressed in something that’s at least part-way clean? But singing – the one thing I truly love – solo terrifies me.
Sensing my panic, Evelyn rests a gentle hand on my arm and whispers, ‘You’re ready, Clara. Just remember, this is a safe space. We’re all here to support each other.’
I glance around at the smiling faces. Twenty-nine of them. Each and every one willing me on, knowing how difficult I find this. I take a deep breath and nod – Evelyn’s right. I’ve been coming to choir practice for two years. I love it. I love the people. If I’m going to do a solo anywhere, here would be the place.
‘Okay, everyone,’ Evelyn says, raising her voice above the chatter. ‘Let’s begin with “Amazing Grace”. Sopranos, remember to come in strong on that first verse. But before we start, let’s just warm up those voices. Are we ready to make some music?’
‘Yes!’ we chorus back.
Evelyn steps up to the podium, baton in hand.
You can do this, I think to myself as we run effortlessly through some scales. As the notes rise and circle the air, I remember Stan’s words – his teasing about my golden voice. Is the sole extent of my talent ushering people to and from the lifts at Delagado Towers? No. No, it’s not. I can sing. Practising with the choir has proved that to me. I just need to believe in myself. Sometimes you have to be brave.
With the vocal warm-up done, our pianist, the grey-haired but surprisingly sprightly Ms Migs, strikes up the familiar melody – one that we’ve sung many times before. Heads held high, eyes all on Evelyn, mouths and throats open wide, the voices around me begin to swell, each section blending in perfect harmony. This is it. My moment. My solo.
I fill my lungs, tilt back my head, part my lips and sing.
CHAPTER 3
CLARA
‘That’s fantastic,’ Minty says, shoving aside some kind of oil-smeared overall from the front passenger seat so I can sit down. It’s getting dark and beginning to drizzle as the street lamps flicker on, so the lift home, even in my brother’s old rust bucket, is welcome. Besides, there’s nothing I love more than seeing Minty’s smiling face at the end of the day.
‘You did it, doll, your first solo! Knew you could nail it.’
I smile to myself. He has so much belief in me – too much. ‘I’m not sure I nailed it…’ In truth, I may be talking it down, but I can’t help myself – I’m still beaming from the experience.
