I’ve seen the morning papers. Betsy’s offering ten grand for a tape of our missing songbird. Ten grand. It’s a great publicity stunt. I mean, maybe, actually, this shitshow could all work out for the best. The lift doors slide open and I stop for a moment, not taking a step out because something isn’t right. Betsy, Fitz, and Clara are all gathered in my office.
‘Speak of the devil,’ Betsy says. Even though she’s partitioned off from me by a glass wall, I can feel her anger. Wow. That woman is mad about those guitars.
‘Come in, Marco,’ she says, which is ironic since it’s my office. ‘You know Clara.’
Of course I know Clara.
‘Sure.’ I smile at her. It’s a professional courtesy smile. Totally unrepresentative of how I’m feeling. I’m having to bite down on my lip to stop myself from smiling. I’ll grab her on the way out, take her down in my lift where it’s private, where we can talk. Where we can… images of last night flood my brain. Her body pressed against mine. Her face tilted back in ecstasy, eyes closed.
‘Marco?’ Betsy’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
‘Yeah.’ I snap back to the present.
‘You know what this is about?’ she asks, but I’m not sure it’s a question.
‘Sure, the guitars.’
‘Guitars?’ Fitz, Betsy, and Clara all stare at me like I’m a martian.
‘The ones off the wall.’ I indicate into the reception area.
‘No,’ Betsy draws out the word before bringing her attention to Fitz. ‘Fitz, are you happy to be here?’
Fitz’s features look tight, drawn. The happy-go-lucky girl that is so Fitz appears to have disappeared. ‘I feel I have to be,’ she says shortly.
Betsy nods. ‘It’s come to our notice,’ she says, drawing in a deep breath, ‘that you have, in the past, had women up here in the studio.’
They have to be joking.
Betsy’s eyes narrow. ‘You’ve brought women up here after hours and plied them with drink.’
Clara’s gaze drops to the floor. It’s clear she can barely stand to look at me.
‘Is that right?’ Betsy says.
I run my hands around my collar, attempting to loosen it. ‘Maybe three times,’ I say. ‘Three in total. We’d…’ I glance over towards Fitz. ‘It was when we split up. That month. August, I think it was.’
Fitz raises one hand dismissively. I’m not sure what it means.
‘And I did not ply them with drink,’ I say, my voice rising defensively. ‘They all came up because they wanted to.’
‘So they were stone-cold sober?’
‘No, but…’ I shrug. ‘I mean, I didn’t do a breathalyser test. One was teetotal. Another only drank sparkling mineral water. I think it was me that was worse for wear, not them.’ I run one hand through my hair, hating being put on the spot. But I have nothing to hide. ‘Have you had complaints? I can give you their numbers.’ I reach for my phone. ‘You can call them up, ask them.’
‘Marco, stop,’ Fitz says, her expression tight and pinched. ‘It kind of goes wider.’
I slump down on the edge of my desk. I seriously don’t want to be here. I can understand why Betsy’s grilling me. Maybe. And Fitz is a partner in the company too. And there’s the ghost of an emotional connection. Okay, so we were on a break, but still. I’m guessing nobody wants to hear about interim affairs. But Clara? Clara is something new. Something fresh. Something glorious. I don’t want her dragged into the mud. ‘Does Clara have to stay?’ I ask.
‘The problem is, Marco.’ The way Betsy says my name is hard-bitten and sour. The woman is a serious B.I.T.C.H. I feel my anger rising. ‘The problem is that there was a complaint about last night.’
Aghast, I look at Clara. Oddly, she looks right back at me, equally aghast.
‘Someone complained. An anonymous tip that you were behaving badly towards an employee. Badly as in lecherously.’
‘What!’ I shout.
‘No.’ Clara’s on her feet.
