‘Fitz’s mum.’
For some reason, Thea chooses that exact moment to let loose a delightful peal of giggles. I’m so glad I brought them both. People like Evelyn keep me grounded.
‘Oh?’ Fitz says, pushing open the door and finding us there. I get the feeling we were not what she was expecting. She’s wearing a cut off Iron Maiden T-shirt, her arms and throat are circled with bling, and her skirt looks like black PVC, but I’m guessing it has to be leather.
‘Sorry to bother you at home,’ I jump straight in. ‘I just, I…’ Evelyn is standing behind me and gently places her hand on my back. I have to do this. ‘It’s… I have some important information, and I didn’t know who else to turn to.’
For an excruciating moment, Fitz just stands there eyeing us, and I seriously think this has all been a total waste of time. Then suddenly, she nods a brief acknowledgement.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘You better come downstairs. This place…’ She glances around her. ‘It’s like a museum.’
One of the great things about Fitz is that she knows how to operate a kettle and amuse a child. Within five minutes, we’re all gathered around the kitchen table in the basement. All the adults have mugs of tea, and Thea has been given an assortment of spoons to play with.
‘I’m sorry,’ Fitz says, drawing a hand through her purposefully straggly up-do of dark hair. ‘I probably should have spoken to you yesterday after the meeting, but I needed to…’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I needed to talk to Marco. Get things straight.’ She pulls back a chair for herself and takes a seat at the table, idly playing with Thea’s new collection of spoons. ‘You needed to talk?’ She doesn’t look at us.
‘Yes,’ I say, glancing awkwardly at the cuticles on my nails, wishing I didn’t have to do this. Evelyn gives me a small, gentle nudge. ‘Marco wasn’t inviting women up to the studio to sing.’
‘I know.’ Fitz sighs, dipping one of the spoons into her mug and giving it a stir, before extracting the metal and sticking it in her mouth like a lollipop. ‘But it’s impossible to prove. We all own a third of the shares. Betsy wanted to buy more from me two days ago. Thankfully, I said no. She thinks I haven’t realised we’re sitting on a collapsing gold mine. I don’t quite know what her angle is.’ Fitz narrows her eyes. ‘But clearly, she wants to be a majority stakeholder and to get Marco out.’
‘So she wants the business, even though it’s not profitable?’ Evelyn asks.
Fitz nods. ‘No doubt she’s got some merger deal up her sleeve. But this…’ Fitz leans back in her seat, turning both palms upwards on the table in dismay. ‘The lost tape, the stolen guitars, the selling promises to young starry-eyed hopefuls in return for–’ She shivers. ‘I mean, seriously. I know Marco. He may have lots of faults.’ She glances up towards the ceiling, rapping her fingers on the table. ‘He does have lots of faults, but using women like that.’
I feel my throat tightening. ‘You’re involved with him.’ There’s a weight of sadness that settles on my shoulders at the admission. Then Fitz does the oddest thing. She stands, goes to the kitchen door, and closes it gently.
‘It’s unlikely that my mother would venture this far into the bowels of the house.’ Fitz raises an eyebrow ironically. ‘But better safe than sorry.’ She steps back towards the table. ‘Involved?’ She muses over my words. ‘Involved with Marco.’ She eases herself back into her chair, clasping her hands on the table in front of her. ‘I love Marco, absolutely and utterly.’
My heart sinks. Of course she does. This is Marco’s world. Fitz and Marco are the kind of marriage crafted in heaven. The ones that you see splashed all over the glossy magazines or in the papers.
‘I love Marco,’ Fitz continues, ‘as a brother.’
Even though Marco and I are a total and absolute impossibility, I feel a rush of emotion, excitement, and elation wash over me. ‘Honestly?’ I gasp.
She shrugs. ‘It’s my parents. Marco is suitable material, cut from the right cloth.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘They’re terrible snobs.’ She shoots me a sad look. ‘They can’t help it. Public schools and only mixing with posh friends can narrow a person’s horizons.’ She draws in her cheeks as though finding the whole topic distasteful. ‘They’ve kind of been emotionally stunted, and it’s too difficult to fight it now. Lost generation and all that. So I just pretend I’m in love with Marco. Besides…’ She shoots me a serious look. ‘I don’t believe he’d take women up to the studio and exploit them. It’s just not Marco’s way.’
I blush, remembering the night of passion on the balcony. Was he exploiting me then? I’m not sure. He wasn’t promising me anything. To Marco, I was just a receptionist. One that didn’t have any dreams of stardom.
‘But it’s so tricky.’ Fitz pushes one elbow onto the table, rubs her temples with her French-manicured nails. ‘There’s this missing woman. Was there something going on there? Some kind of promise? Betsy’s offering a reward to find her, but half of me gets the feeling she doesn’t really want to find the voice. She just wants a flood of other possibilities. To Betsy, the possible sexual harassment is useful. If we could just find that missing voice, we could clear his name.’
I feel Evelyn’s eyes burning into me and clear my throat. ‘I think I can help with that,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’
Fitz’s reaction is the most glorious ever. Her eyes light up, her pink lips drop open in excitement, and she claps her slim hands gleefully. I feel like the best Christmas present ever.
‘Amazing! Amazing! Amazing!’ Fitz calls out, delighted.
MARCO
It’s two in the afternoon. I’m still in my boxers and the white vest I wear to sleep in. I haven’t showered or changed. Below me lies the city. All those people rushing to their jobs. Everyone thinks they have somewhere to be, something important and urgent to do. In truth, it’s all a lie. A fabrication to keep mankind on the treadmill.
My flat is large. The penthouse apartment of a block. The floor-to-ceiling windows give me Thames views on one side and the Limehouse Marina on the other. I know it’s daft, but I love the canal boats; so small but so perfect. People chugging in, chugging out, getting on with their lives. Look the other way, and I see that snake of a river, old Father Thames, flood in and flood back out again, relentless. Seeming to say each morning, ‘Still here?’ Waiting for the day when I’m not. Sometimes I hate that river. It’s got the same rush attitude that the entire city lives by.
I’ve got the compulsory large terrace, complete with hedging and lounge-like furniture. Hedging, even though I’m fifteen floors up. I have more garden than most of the terraced houses lying to the east of my glass-and-steel building. I’m a fan of glass and steel. My dad liked glass and steel. Am I like him? I cringe with embarrassment when I think of Clara. When I think of what I did to her. I took advantage. I shouldn’t have done it. She was all buoyed up on the glamour of the evening, and I literally backed her up against a wall. But the thought of those lips on mine, of the way she pulled me down by my tie, clawed at my body with her nails. Letting out a long, low groan.
I kick the kitchen units. It hurts. They’re expensive. Hobbling back to the bar stools that are set around my gleaming marble island, I nurse my throbbing foot, feeling like a total idiot. In fact, I am a total idiot. Not even Fitz is actually in love with me. She’s just using me because I’m a convenient cover. I’m not totally convinced I know how I feel about that. I groan again. This time there’s no physical pain, just an exhaustion at being me, as I flop my entire upper body across the cool marble. Everything is lost.
If only I could talk to Clara. Explain. If only I could tell her I truly found her totally confusing. The most exciting, magnetising, incredible person I have ever met in my life. If I could just ask her if she felt the same way. That’s all. That’s all I want. Just one meeting to set all this straight. Sod the job. Sod the business. Sod the accusations and the stolen guitars. I just need Clara. Then it dawns on me, one of the doormen. She had been talking to one of the doormen at the Beaumont. It seemed like she knew him. He had been touching her. An ex-boyfriend? Possibly. It might not go well if I start asking an ex-boyfriend questions. Then again, if I tell him it’s for a job – that I have something for her. He looked like the hard-up type. If I can make it in his interests, maybe I can get to see her again. Only, I have to be careful. This could all backfire. It could. But for the first time in twenty-four hours, I’m feeling alive. That dog of depression, of self-loathing, has lifted. To get to Clara, I need to find that mystery man. Luckily, they know me at the Beaumont. I can make up some story – I need valet parking for an event. A smile spreads across my face as I stare down at the city. My city. My town. And somewhere out there, is my girl.
CHAPTER 17
