I wonder, fleetingly, if I could just run up the red carpet and lock myself behind the glass doors, turn that peace sign to reverse. Maybe not, but I’m sure as hell not going to talk to them. The auditions were such a full-on shitshow. I have absolutely nothing to say. Silence and moodiness are often the best defence.
Gloria, a platinum blonde from The Times with an upper body that defies gravity, shouts after me, ‘Marco, Marco, how did the auditions go?’
I turn towards her. I’m not under any illusions. I know, as well as Betsy and Fitz, that we need these people. It’s not just record sales that keep the company afloat; it’s confidence. Confidence is key. So even though I might well flirt with the idea of ducking out, being unforgivingly rude and alienating the whole circus, I know I can’t actually run and hide behind the glass doors of the Beaumont. This is work, and work pays the bills. Besides, I need to choose which shark to feed myself to, and Gloria is as good a beast as any. So, I turn towards her but keep walking backwards as I dish out an ‘all good’ with a wink.
More camera flashes. I feel someone grab my elbow. Blast. I turn, about to give whoever it is a mouthful. We all know the rules: the red carpet is an ask but don’t touch kind of deal.
But I’m totally floored. ‘Clara?’
Never mind the flashbulbs of the press, my own eyes practically pop out of my head because this is not office Clara or even the woman I went out with last night. This Clara is a vision of beauty. She’s wrapped in a wide spray of ocean-like fabric that tumbles out from a seriously perfect body. Her hair is on top of her head in a mass of intricate curls. She’s like some kind of marine goddess. How is she even holding that dress on? Wow.
A camera flash blinds me for a second, and when my vision clears, she’s smiling at me. Just me. Just her and me on that carpet, and she’s close enough to touch, to smell. God does she smell good, citrusy and fresh. I open my mouth to tell her how gorgeous she’s looking but all that comes out is a strangled, ‘Uh…’
Smooth, Marco. Real smooth. I could kick myself.
Heat floods my cheeks. Idiot. I am such a… I take a deep breath, centre myself, then go for it again. ‘Wow,’ I say, then the worst backhanded compliment slides unchecked from my mouth. Something on the lines of ‘Nelly outdid himself this time’. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I’ve just given the total credit for this woman’s beauty, to this woman’s absolute glory, to my mate. I groan inwardly, my body slumping into its black-tie armour. She must think I’m a fool. Which I am. But something about this woman short circuits my usual charm and wit.
When the, whatever it was, came out of my mouth, I saw her face drop. Her whole bright-eyed expression destroyed. I want to reassure her, to say something to diffuse the insult, but the lights from the cameras are still pop, pop, popping, their lenses, broadcasting my awkward fumbling to the world. God, I hope the press didn’t get my comment to her. What kind of range do those mics have? Mind you, if they did, I could listen back and find out exactly what it was that I said. I am such an idiot!
‘The auditions, Marco?’ I hear the platinum blonde from The Times whine. ‘Come on. Can you give us a hint?’
To save face, I pivot from Clara. Greeting who I would normally class as my foes – the press – with an affable grin. ‘So much talent this year, it’ll be tough to pick a winner. But…’ I flash my eyes at the reporter. ‘I think this year, we’ve found someone really special.’
‘Oh?’ Gloria smiles coquettishly back at me. ‘Just a hint more?’
I take a step back down the red carpet towards her. I need a little more time. A moment to get my thoughts in order. Clara is seriously messing with my head.
‘It’s all under wraps,’ I tell Gloria. ‘Hush-hush.’ I raise one finger to my lips. ‘Big secret.’
Gloria nods conspiratorially. ‘But you’ll give me the first scoop,’ she says, flashing her green eyes at me.
I dish her out some kind of BS, which is wrapped up in a lot of words but basically says absolutely nothing, before turning away, calm. My facial expression is smoothed out and muscled into something approaching the norm I’m going to need to get through the evening. So, in my case, that would be a half-scowl, half-smile. When I face Clara again, I’ve regained my composure – at least on the outside. But inside, my heart is racing because, for me, the red carpet just got a whole heap more interesting with this woman on it. Only… my face switches to full-on frown. Clara is standing at the top of the steps, looking awkward. Some guy with his back to me has her arm locked into his. He must be one of the valets – he’s wearing the uniform – but there’s an odd possessiveness about him, which makes my skin crawl. The situation is over quickly. She pulls away from him, but it’s clear she’s unsettled. An ex? I wonder. Or is it something more sinister? He did not look happy. But there’s barely time to process. The guy has vanished into the crowd and she’s on her way again, turning her back to me and the press and dashing through the door like a stick of dynamite thrown through a prison wall. What the hell was that all about?
CLARA
I’m in the most beautiful dress in the world. My make-up is done within a millimetre of perfection. My hair is a work of art, and I’m sitting in a stall of the ladies’ room, pinching hard on the palm of my hands in an attempt not to cry. What an idiot I am. Why am I leaving my heart open to this guy? He doesn’t know how to treat anyone with respect. I’m disposable to him, less important than stationery. And I’ve seen what he does with that! I should go. If I text Minty, he’ll take the night off, get a car, and drive me home. I’ll tell him all about the job at Delagado Sounds, that I have signed a contract, so they weren’t exploiting me, but actually I’ve decided to leave the company. Maybe music isn’t the right industry for me after all, so there’s absolutely no need to panic. Tomorrow I’m handing in my notice. What a first-class mess I’ve got myself into.
‘No tears,’ I hiss to myself. ‘No tears.’
In the meantime, a sink-orientated conversation is striking up outside my stall.
‘You look wonderful,’ someone with a pinched nasal voice says.
‘Don’t we all?’ comes the reply. ‘You too. Love that bird you’ve got on your head.’
I can’t help myself. I feel laughter bubbling up inside me.
‘It’s not real,’ the nasal woman says defensively.
‘Of course not,’ the second woman gasps before lowering her voice. ‘That woman with the lizard wrapped around her neck, though. I think the lizard’s real.’
‘Hmm,’ the first woman says thoughtfully. ‘That is so not PC.’
‘Exactly. I mean, duh, the planet,’ says the second woman, clearly enjoying being able to throw stones.
‘How’s that going?’ the first person asks seriously.
‘Still spinning,’ comes the reply. ‘Did you get here by jet?’
