‘Work, yes, one of the calls.’ Minty shoots his eyes up into his forehead as he attempts to remember all the details. ‘A lady called Betsy. She said you’ve got to work a week’s notice, and you’re best on reception.’
Well, at least that’s one blessing.
‘She also said she wanted to talk to you.’
My heart sinks. She must have seen the footage. Most likely they all know it was me who left the door open. I’m not in the mood for a showdown.
‘And the other call?’ I ask, nervously.
‘Evelyn.’ Minty smiles. ‘From the choir. She wanted to check if you’d be there tonight. Something about a solo?’
‘Oh, I can’t,’ I say, pulling the eiderdown up around my face.
Minty looks confused. ‘What did you do, sis?’ he asks gently. ‘You can tell me.’
But of course, that is absolutely not possible. I cannot tell my brother that I’ve had sex in what may have seemed a private grotto but is essentially a public space. A one-time rough and tumble with an arrogant shit of a music producer. No. That information would not go down well.
‘Whatever it is,’ Minty says kindly. ‘You need to stop beating yourself up over it. Life goes on.’
He’s right, of course.
‘Okay,’ I sigh. ‘Choir tonight.’
‘Great,’ Minty says brightly, pulling himself back up from my bed. Clearly relieved – as far as he’s concerned, I’m a job done. He can get back to his precious cars. ‘I’ll drive you over.’
MARCO
I feel bloody awful when I wake. The fragments of the night before come back to me like painful shards of a broken mirror, each piece seeming to taunt me. After I’d got rid of Fitz’s parents, I searched everywhere for Clara. But just like Cinderella, the woman appeared to have vanished into thin air. There wasn’t even a shoe left on the hotel’s steps. Although a handbag with her ID in would have been a lot more helpful. I had no idea where she lived and couldn’t get into the HR records until the morning. So I just ended up wandering the streets like a zombie. Eventually, I must have wound my way back home and tumbled into bed in the early hours.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so confused in my life. Okay, so it could be because of the lack of sleep, but somehow, I don’t think so. This woman is turning my head upside down. I need to talk to her. I have a quick shower, dress, and then grab a taxi into work. Luckily, no one’s around. Natalie’s our HR person, but I have the key to her office and can bypass her login code with my own. I grab myself a coffee from the kitchen, then head straight for Natalie’s office. It’s locked, but again, my fob gets me in. I sit in front of her screen and fire it up. My life at the moment seems like a total mess. I meet a woman I actually like, then blow it all by moving too fast. It’s eight in the morning. She’ll be at her desk by nine, but I’m desperate to get word to her. The way last night ended was all wrong. I take a long, hard slug of the hot coffee. It seeps through my body, shaking my brain cells into action. I can do this. I can pull this around. Personal files fill the screen. Shit. I hadn’t realised so many people worked here. There must be over two hundred. Suddenly, I’m feeling even more on the back foot. If I can’t pull this around, find our missing songbird, keep the broadcasters and the press happy, it’s not just Delagado Sounds that will go tits up. The other businesses in the Tower might not be directly related, but there’s a crossover with a lot of them. In addition, we’re sharing the same space, feeding off the same infrastructure. All these files contain details of lives that will be devastated if the company goes bankrupt and we have to close the doors.
I push back in my chair. This is too much pressure. How had I not realised that so many people were dependent on me? The feeling of responsibility is utterly overwhelming, and a wave of guilt washes over me. I can’t fail them. I won’t fail them. This isn’t just about me, or even Clara, anymore – it’s about everyone at Delagado Towers. I know it’s odd. I know it is totally irrational, but I can’t help feeling that if I get Clara back, I can somehow pull everything around and find our missing songbird. Get the company back on track. I take a deep breath and focus on the screen. Her file must be here somewhere. She’d transferred only yesterday from reception. It won’t have filtered through to my department, but it should be here on the company screen. I start scrolling through the employee records. With every flick of the mouse, I feel an overwhelming sense of nausea. All these souls. I’m responsible for all of these people. Suddenly I see the right file. C. Thompson. Ridiculous. I don’t even know her last name, but this must be her. She’s still registered as working in reception. With a sense of elation, I open the file. Yes! It even has a photo of her. Clara Thompson. My Clara. I punch her telephone number into my phone.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ comes an irritated voice.
I look up, that foolish grin still plastered across my face. Betsy’s standing in the doorway, scolding.
‘Bets,’ I say, barely able to hide the excitement. ‘I wanted to get Clara’s home address.’
But Betsy is not looking happy. In fact, the woman feels like an ice-cold wind as she steps purposefully across the office and pulls the plug out of the back of the computer.
‘What?’ I’m dumbfounded.
Betsy narrows her hard, grey eyes, and when she speaks, there’s not an ounce of friendship in her voice, or human understanding. ‘I need a word with you. Now.’
CLARA
Once again, the crypt smells of incense and candle wax, the familiar scent that usually comforts me. Not today.
My stomach churns as I walk through the heavy wooden door. The choir is already gathered, warming up their voices with scales and arpeggios.
Evelyn spots me and waves me over enthusiastically. ‘Clara, come join us, we’re just about to start.’
I force a smile and make my way to an empty spot in the front row. My heart’s pounding in my chest so hard it’s practically drowning out the sound of the choir.
How could I have been so stupid? Marco wanted his bit of fun. That whole secret courtyard crap. I bet he takes all his lady friends there. I’m so mad at myself I could spit.
Evelyn taps her conductor’s baton, bringing the chatter to a halt. ‘Shall we begin with “Amazing Grace”?’
