‘You look…’ he pauses, as if catching his breath, ‘…amazing.’
I can feel my smile lighting up my face. In fact, lighting me all over as if a beam is radiating from my body. Move over, Lady Liberty, no torch needed. I just shine.
Marco clears his throat awkwardly. ‘Yeah, that Nelly, he could make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear.’
My face falls.
‘Oh, Mr Delagado?’ a woman with a camera that’s more lens than body calls out to Marco. ‘Any news on the Voice of the Year?’
He turns to answer her whilst I hurry up the steps towards the door, feeling like a fool. Sure, I know the dress is gorgeous, Nelly is a genius. I know all of that, but… tears sting my eyes as I tumble towards the glass doors. I need the bathroom. I have to take a few minutes. Grab myself a few breaths. Stop feeling like I’m in a borrowed dress and have no right to be there. I’m here to work, I reassure myself. Suddenly, my arm is yanked gently back. If he thinks he can just say something like that, and then… I turn, and a surge of heat rushes to my cheeks because standing on the step below me, my elbow held gently in his hand, is Minty.
‘Clara? What are you doing here?’ His brow furrows as he takes in my floor-length gown and hair gloriously upswept with the pearl and tortoiseshell clips.
‘I’m, um, I’m here for work,’ I stammer.
‘Dressed like that?’ Minty gapes. Gently, he holds my arm and ushers me to the side, his face perplexed and hurt. ‘Sis, have you got yourself mixed up in something dodgy?’
I glance behind me. In the foyer of the Beaumont there are banners advertising music awards. I cringe.
‘No, it’s just…’
‘Escort work?’ he says, still looking hurt.
‘What!’
I glance down at the forecourt. Tim is still swooning after Nelly’s disappearing taillights and Marco’s spinning fairy tales to the press a ‘so many great voices’ kind of thing, stating that in such a talented year, it was difficult to judge.
‘Cos escort work,’ Minty continues, shaking his head, ‘is just a small slip and slide to prostitution.’
‘Minty!’ That’s clearly not true, but he is ridiculously overprotective, and okay, yes, he’s led a sheltered life. It’s not what he thinks, but how can I tell him the real reason I’m here? For Minty, the music industry is as bad. It chewed up our parents and spat them out.
‘It’s the choir,’ I say with a blinding flash of inspiration. ‘The choir’s singing.’
‘Ah.’ Relief floods his features.
Minty will have no idea that the dress I’m wearing is couture and the pearls in my hair happen to be real.
‘Of course.’ He grins. Grins before he looks sheepish and awkward. ‘That’s great. I’m sorry, sis. Didn’t mean to insinuate.’
I wave one hand dismissively; what’s an accusation of prostitution between siblings? Nothing.
He sighs. ‘Honestly, you would not believe the day I’ve had.’ He glances around at all the fancy cars. He’s clearly out of his comfort zone. With Minty, cars are normally cheap and cheerful. Something to be fixed. He’s like a fish out of water with all these high-end vehicles. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to…’ he repeats.
Below us on the steps, Marco has finished talking to the press. He’s smiling that wide confident, entitled smile that he seems able to switch on at will as he moves towards me, two steps at a time. Nelly’s taillights have disappeared. Tim is about to turn, eager to find my brother and tell him all about the car.
‘Got to go, Minty.’ I clear my throat. ‘Warm-ups.’ And I bundle myself in a totally ungainly fashion, a fashion my dress absolutely does not deserve, through the wide gilt and glass door into the lobby.
MARCO
The limo inches forward in the traffic, hemmed in on all sides by paparazzi and fans – a lot of talent will be playing tonight. I just hope we can find ours. Instinctively, I tug at my collar as I offer up a silent curse to Fitz for forcing me into this penguin suit. The old one I had was just fine. This one is way too flashy, too sleek.
When the wheels of the car finally stop inching forward, and a host pulls open the door right beside the red carpet, a swell of shouts erupts from the waiting journos. A noise that makes me want to sink back into the safety of the limo and hightail it out of there. The attention is too much. Mostly, they want to find out about the auditions. We should have announced the winner by now, but there are other questions, too, like: ‘How is the company holding up in the current financial crisis?’ ‘Is there really money in music anymore?’ Do they know something? Possibly. It’s difficult to keep anything quiet in this town. Along with questions I’d rather not answer, there’s also the inane drivel that the media thinks up: ‘What are my views on…?’ In short, once that door is open, I’m met with a barrage of questions. The odd thing is, I’m not even convinced any of these people actually want answers. Well, maybe about the auditions. The whole country wants to know how we’re doing with that. But the one thing I cannot do, under any circumstances, is let on to the world that there’s any kind of a problem.
Cameras flash like a firing squad as I take my first steps along the red carpet. With the click, click, click, a familiar panic rises in my chest. I hate these events. The phoniness. The preening. The posturing. It’s everything that’s bad about the music business and the city arts scene. But Fitz was right, we need to show our faces, and perhaps our missing songbird is going to be here. Currently, finding that single voice is my best hope for freedom. If I can get her signed, I can leave the business on a good footing for Fitz and Betsy, and they’ll let me walk. There’s no chance of walking out when the company is in chaos.
I summon up a cocky grin, lower my face in an ironic, barely interested attitude as, with one hand, I throw up a peace sign, eliciting another frenzied response from the crowd. I’m the bad boy of the music scene. They love me. I don’t even have to try. All it takes is a father with a media-worthy reputation, a few drunken nights out on the town, and the adoption of a permanent scowl. Simple.
‘Marco! Over here!’ the wall of reporters shout, thrusting microphones towards me.
