She nods back an affirmative.
‘I’m just not sure…’ I draw my words out, trying to give myself a little thinking time. ‘I’m not sure how I can move on from this. My voice, the recording, the robbery… the casual sex, which I swear is just not my style.’
Can I get thrown out of the choir for casual sex? I’m not sure. God, I wish I’d left that bit out. ‘Everything is a total mess,’ I say. Hoping that maybe Evelyn will forget about the sex bit. Although she did call him a bastard, so I’m guessing not.
She places one hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle rub. ‘Not everything is a mess. You still have your talent and your passion. Your confidence will come back, I promise. It’s just taken a hit. Naturally. You’ve had a seriously fucked-up week.’
I laugh. ‘Evelyn! Are you allowed to swear?’
She shoots me a hard look. ‘When it’s strictly and unavoidably necessary, damn straight. Now…’ She drops her hand to her lap. ‘…chin up – let’s finish this hymn.’
CHAPTER 15
CLARA
‘Hey.’ Stan does a double-take, walking back out of his door and taking a full circle around in the spinning carousel. ‘I thought you’d boosted yourself off into the stratosphere.’
‘Down to earth with the proverbial bump,’ I say, trying to make it sound light. Trying to make it feel like I’m not dying inside, because I’m back, standing behind the marble reception desk.
‘So, it didn’t work out then?’ he says with a sympathetic downturn of his mouth.
‘Actually, it worked out perfectly. Only I wanted to get paid less and have less responsibility because I love your witty banter.’
Stan shrugs in a smug way. ‘Can’t put a price on a talent like mine. Speaking of which…’ He ambles over to the desk. ‘…did they find that missing songbird they were looking for?’
I feel a little back-footed, not sure how Stan knows about the missing recording.
‘No,’ I say because I’m positive they haven’t found her. She’s me. I’d know.
‘I guess it’s early days,’ Stan says.
‘Am I missing something?’ I can’t help feeling that unless Stan sits and watches the seventeenth floor’s CCTV footage twenty-four hours a day, he seems a little too in the know.
‘Are you missing something?’ he asks cooly. ‘Haven’t you seen today’s paper?’
‘Stan,’ I say, exasperated. ‘No, I haven’t. Spit it out.’
‘There’s a copy under your desk.’ He shrugs as he wanders away. ‘What would you do without me?’
‘Die, Stan,’ I say, eagerly opening the newspaper. ‘I’d die of boredom and ignorance.’
He laughs. ‘Yup, that’s about the size of it.’
But I’m not listening anymore. I’m desperately scanning down the front page. Delagado Sounds is in the headlines, well, at least Betsy is. Marco’s face is nowhere to be seen. But according to Betsy, the offices were burgled. They’re looking for their songbird. They want everyone to send demo tapes. This could be the hunt of the century. But what I don’t understand is where Marco is in all this. The light on my switchboard begins to flicker. Taking off my clip-on earring, I pick up the receiver. ‘Reception. Delagado Towers. How can I help you?’
My heart sinks. It’s Betsy, and she wants to see me. Now.
‘Sorry,’ I say. I’m actually not sorry at all, but sorry always sounds good if you need to stall. ‘It’s just me on reception.’
‘Stan can cover,’ Betsy says before putting the phone down. I stare at Stan, not sure that he can, in fact, cover. I’m wondering if I can pull another sicky or possibly run out of the building. They know. They must know it was me who left the door open.
MARCO
I barely slept last night. Betsy’s words kept circulating through my brain. No, circulating is wrong. They didn’t have that kind of direction. My thoughts were running around like a hive of poked ants: chaotic, angry, and lost. She didn’t tell me the full bad news. She just went on and on about data protection and how just because I had the keys to the HR office, it didn’t mean I could go snooping around looking for ‘the new girl’s’ details. I’m not quite clear why she keeps calling Clara ‘the new girl’. It’s clearly some Betsy hang-up. I wish I hadn’t got into bed with her. Not Clara, Betsy. Bed as in business bed. In fact, I feel the heat searing up and out of my collar; I didn’t get Clara anywhere near a bed. My God, it was good. Amazingly good. I’ve just got to find some way of talking to her. She felt it too, I could tell. Unless she’s the best actress ever, which is unlikely. The woman is just a receptionist secretary type. Perfect. Perfect for me.
I take a deep breath, but my thoughts are still doing the ant thing. I need to find out what Betsy wants. That’s what I’m in for this morning.
I grab a coffee from the shop next door. Black. I put a spoonful of sugar in. Something has to sweeten up my day. I’m guessing my partner found the CCTV footage. It was in my bin, after all. I should have taken better care of it. Dropped it in the Thames or put it in a firecracker. A microwave would have done the trick. But no. I’d taken the shortcut and dropped it in the wastepaper bin. Somebody must have been snooping. Sure, it’s a problem. The tape clearly shows me going into the office and taking the guitars off the walls. I fast-forwarded through it till I found the right bit. It’s obviously me. The funny thing is that the guitars are actually mine. Dad gave them to me when I was sixteen; only I have nothing in writing. I should have taken the damn things during daylight hours. Explained the situation and just pulled them off the walls. Nobody would have objected. Only now, it looks odd. It looks like I’m stealing them. Maybe planning to put in some kind of false insurance claim. I’m willing to bet that’s exactly what it looks like to Betsy. So there’ll be a ticking off. She’ll slap my wrists. I’ll say sorry. Everything will sink back to normal. I take another slurp of coffee. It’s bitter. The acrid smell is providing that much-needed wake-up shot. I guess it’s best to get this over with as soon as possible.
