I nod.
‘I heard her do some scales,’ Fitz says. ‘It’s the same.’
Betsy shoots Fitz an irritated glance. ‘Scales?’
Fitz shrugs. ‘A bit of scat singing, and she had a friend there.’
I’m not comfortable with them calling me ‘she’. It makes me feel like some subspecies, but I get the feeling I’m in no position to protest.
‘Her friend was actually Clara’s choirmaster.’
‘Choir?’ Betsy is looking totally bewildered.
Fitz sighs. ‘Clara sings with a choir.’
Betsy turns her attention back to me. I squirm slightly.
‘It’s her,’ Fitz says casually. ‘And she’s said without a doubt there was no coercion or promises of favours. Marco wasn’t even in. Clara did it all by herself.’
Betsy swings the back of her chair around so the seat’s open and ready for her and lowers herself onto it.
‘Okay, suppose what you are saying is true.’ Fitz flicks all the files and demo tapes piled high on Betsy’s desk. ‘It’ll stop this headache.’
Betsy nods. ‘It’s certainly one problem solved. Okay. Let’s make it Thursday. You come into the studio and record something. The same number on the tape and one other.’ She shrugs. ‘You know the tape. It would be easy enough to impersonate it. If the tape is you, you get the contract, but…’ She slices the air between us with her hard eyes. ‘…not the reward money. This entire mess.’ Betsy waves her hands across the piles of submissions on her desk. ‘This was all unnecessary.’
That seems reasonable enough. ‘Okay,’ I say. I should be able to do it. I know Terry and Jeff. They like me. They’ll support me. It’s not as if I’ll be singing solo in public for an audience.
Fitz gets to her feet. I have a feeling this meeting is over. ‘You’ll drop the harassment charges against Marco?’
‘If this girl is our missing songbird.’ Betsy eyes me critically. ‘Nobody else has come forward.’
I get the nasty feeling she’s been pushing people to testify against him. Poor Marco. This really is a witch hunt.
‘So yes.’ Betsy sighs. ‘Yes, those charges will automatically be dropped. But she…’ Betsy shoots me one of her hard dragon looks yet again. ‘…she is going to need to prove to us beyond doubt that she’s the one we’re looking for.’
MARCO
The red carpet is gone. The stone steps look exposed and hard. There’s no valet parking today, only the doorman dressed in white livery and gloves, standing beside the door with an instant smile on his face.
‘Mr Delagado,’ he says, standing and pulling the thick glass panel back so I can walk through. The Beaumont looks very different now all the party people and the media show has vacated. The lobby sofas are back, and there are flower arrangements dripping over tables and sideboards. There’s a guy playing a baby grand in a corner. Tinkering away, filling the air with ambient sound.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ an androgynous woman says as she steps out from behind a low, teak reception desk. Like everything else at the Beaumont, the woman is immaculate.
‘I…’ I hesitate, not sure how I’m going to explain all of this. I certainly can’t say I’m looking for a woman. That wouldn’t go down well, and my half-baked idea about playing the rich card – looking for valet parkers – just seems all-out daft now. I should have thought about this more. My brain is spinning, grasping for plausible storylines as the woman with the slicked back hair and perfect red lips places her head gently to one side. Waiting.
Then, bingo I’ve got it – the perfect line.
‘At the gala, I gave one of the valets my jacket to look after.’ The excuse sounds okay, but will it fly?
She looks confused. ‘You didn’t put it in the cloakroom?’
‘Cloakroom?’ Of course, why wouldn’t I put it in the cloakroom, but now I’m in the swing, it only takes me a beat to muster up an excuse. ‘There was a queue. I was in a hurry. The valet said he’d take it. He was, I’m guessing, five ten. Fair-ish curly hair. Stubbled chin.’ I’m slightly staggered at how easy I find it to recall so many details. I don’t normally pay much attention to anything. But now, in this instance, there appears to be no end to my observational prowess. ‘He was kind of–’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The woman holds up one hand. ‘Just stopping you there. We have a lot of casual staff working at the Beaumont. However.’ Her eyes glow with assured satisfaction. ‘They are all excellent and very reliable. If he said he would drop it in the cloakroom for you, then it’ll be there. I’ll ask housekeeping.’ She picks up the phone on her desk. ‘Could you give me a description?’
Seeing as I appear to be so hot at doling out descriptions, I’m about to rattle off the details of my smartest blue overcoat when I realise, I’m wearing it! This storytelling business can wind a person in one hell of a fix.
After spending an hour trying to locate a jacket that doesn’t exist, I give up. I don’t want to leave my name and number ‘in case it turns up’ as I know for sure it won’t. But helpful housekeeping insists. I leave the building with the curious feeling it’s not just the imaginary coat that’s lost; it’s me. This is a big city. Would Clara be going back into the Towers? But I can’t sit outside all day hoping I catch a glimpse of her. Besides, even if she does go into work, if Betsy catches me anywhere within snooping distance of the office, I feel pretty damn sure she’ll call the police. I haven’t done anything wrong. Not really. I shouldn’t have come on to Clara. That was bad form. Even if she did reciprocate. I just want to do the decent thing. Say sorry. Hear her voice. Talk to her. Talk to her just once. Once and I’ll be happy.
