‘I’m thinking maybe I’ll quit work,’ I say, picking up a basket of coloured silks.
‘Hmm.’ Nelly looks at me quizzically. ‘Haven’t you only just started?’
‘It looks bad?’
‘It looks terrible.’ He laughs. ‘They’ll probably think you were behind the break-in if you leave now.’
I feel my face go a bright shade of pink. Luckily, Nelly is deeply involved in a silk halterneck. ‘Leave it six months,’ he says casually, ‘then hand your notice in.’
‘I’m not sure I can do six months.’ It’s true, the stress of falling for Marco, covering my mess up with the locked door to the studio, and the fact I’m currently involved in a search for myself is doing my head in.
Suddenly, Nelly stops in his tracks. ‘My, something is truly eating you.’ He puts one hand on my shoulder reassuringly. ‘Then yes, hand your notice in. Handwritten or typed? Help yourself to materials. There are envelopes behind that desk there.’ He points towards a long, narrow white tongue of design engineering.
‘Seriously?’
Nelly takes my chin in his hand. ‘Absolutely, Clara baby. Life is too short.’
Nelly’s right. Life can change direction in the flutter of an eyelash. I know that all too well from my parents. I should hand my notice in before I get a criminal conviction for breaking and entering, along with aiding and abetting the burglars and running a songbird hoax. It all sounds so bad!
‘Handwritten, do you think?’ I ask nervously.
‘There’s a lovely sense of raw honesty about handwritten,’ Nelly says appreciatively. ‘In the drawer, pens and paper.’ He nods towards the desk again. ‘I like the pink for a resignation. It adds that subliminal element of sorrow. But up to you.’
I stand up and trudge over to the desk.
‘I always think white is a little funereal. Yellow has to be to do with sickness. You can’t really beat pink. But…’ He waves one arm dismissively. ‘Don’t overthink it.’ He smiles at me. ‘You’ll need a drink. I’ll get you a tea.’
Left alone in the showroom, I slide open the desk. Nelly’s right; he’s clearly a stationery lover. He has more than enough writing paper in here to get the job done, in a rainbow of colours. I pull a light blue sheet from the drawer and help myself to a pen. Who should I address it to? Marco and Betsy? At the thought, I feel my shoulders rise. Betsy would enjoy it too much. Just Marco. Pressing the pen onto the expensive unlined paper, I am about to write when my phone buzzes. I stop. It’s a distraction. I should just get on with this. It buzzes again. I stare at the screen. It’s Stan. I hit the green button.
‘Stan.’
‘Yeah, sorry, Clara. I was in late this morning.’
‘I know.’ I lower my voice. ‘It’s about the CCTV footage from the burglary. Can you get it to me before–’
‘It’s gone,’ Stan says, and my heart sinks.
‘The police?’
‘No. Mr Delagado insisted that they weren’t involved.’
Hmm, that seems odd.
‘So, who’s got the footage?’
‘Mr Delagado.’
Nothing about this is stacking up.
‘Stan, when did it get handed over?’
‘Hmm.’ There’s a brief pause. ‘Yesterday, I think.’
Yesterday! Yesterday? Then Marco must have seen me on it. Seen me going into the recording studio. If he did, he would have put two and two together. He’d know I’m the missing voice. So why hasn’t he confronted me about it?
‘You okay?’ Stan asks from the end of the line, and I realise I’ve let the conversation go dead.
‘Sure,’ I say lightly. ‘Of course, Stan. That works.’
