‘A solo!’ Stan’s eyes light up. ‘That’s wonderful! See,’ he says, moving across the marble hall towards me. ‘I told you that you were ready.’
‘It was just for one hymn,’ I say, feeling my cheeks flush. ‘But… it went well. Evelyn, the choirmaster, said I was a natural.’
Stan’s grinning from ear to ear. The man couldn’t look prouder if I’d just told him I’d saved the world from an impending collision with a meteor.
‘A natural talent like you,’ he says, slapping me gently on the back, ‘belongs on an actual stage, not stuck behind this reception desk.’ He leans in conspiratorially. ‘You should try out for the auditions.’ He points with one finger towards the ceiling. ‘Absolutely, you should, Clara. Tell you what,’ his eyes spark with the glint of an idea, ‘I’ll call the lift.’
For one moment, the world seems to slow. Maybe Stan’s right. Maybe I could do this. I glance over towards the golden bank of elevators. It’s just one push of a button. Just one ride up to the top floor. An unused lanyard tangles around my fingers. I could do this. I could.
But before I get a chance to respond or take one tiny step forward to my dreams, the lift doors start to open. My face drops. Stan and I both hear it at the exact same time: gasps and chokes and tears.
‘Oh, ugh, what did I tell you,’ Stan mumbles. ‘There are always broken dreams and waterfalls of weeping.’
I drop the unused lanyard back into the box. Well, the tears have certainly put me off auditioning. I’m terrified of singing solo at the best of times. No way could I put myself through an audition process. No doubt the tears were provoked by that ogre of a man, Marco. He’ll have taken his insults just a step too far. I feel the bile rising inside me. I would so love to give that entitled, arrogant idiot a piece of my…
There’s another loud sob before, suddenly, a young woman comes hurtling out of the lift, mascara streaked down her cheeks. A snotty tissue clutched tightly in her manicured hands. Instinctively, I take a step towards her, only… I stop, my mind re-processing the situation. Something’s not right. Confused, I glance down at my list. Amy. The woman’s name is Amy. I know her, but she can’t be auditioning. Amy is Marco Delagado’s PA.
My eyes widen in alarm. ‘Amy, what’s wrong?’
She just shakes her head and keeps on running.
I glance at Stan, who nods. ‘Go on, see if she’s all right. I’ll watch the desk. I get the feeling a woman’s touch is what’s needed.’
‘Thanks, Stan.’
Once outside, I pause for a moment, listening. A water feature can be heard burbling, and despite the fact this is the city, you can hear the faint rustle of carefully curated trees willowing in the light breeze. I walk over to the mesh of wooden paths, wondering which direction Amy might have taken. It doesn’t take long to find her crumpled on a marble bench beneath a curiously serene and indifferent cherry blossom. The poor woman is sobbing into her hands, at total odds with the landscape, the haven of willow tall grasses, flowers, and trees. This place has had mindfulness and serenity built into the design brief. In contrast, poor Amy looks like she’s had the life pulled out of her.
‘Amy.’ I sit down beside her, placing one arm gently around her shoulders. I pull a clean tissue from my pocket and press it into her open palm. ‘What’s wrong? What happened?’
She hiccups before blowing her nose. ‘Marco. Marco Delagado, he sacked me,’ she says miserably. ‘Just like that. After everything I’ve done for him, all the late nights I’ve put in, the weekends I’ve given up. The friends I’ve cancelled on. That man fired me…’ She gulps, almost too choked to talk. ‘He fired me in the middle of the studio. In front of everyone.’ She sobs again.
‘Oh no,’ I say sympathetically, pushing a strand of hair gently away from her face. Marco Delagado. He’s usually the figure in the papers with his hand over his face. Yesterday was the first time I’d actually seen what he looked like, and okay, so he was pretty, but seriously, this man is a monster. He’s known for his brilliance on the music production front and his eccentricity in equal measure. But it’s not exactly a well-kept secret that there’s also a volatile temper in the mix, an impatience that can run nought to sixty if even the slightest mistake is made.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Maybe he didn’t mean it. He’s probably just stressed about the auditions. Once he calms down, he’ll realise he can’t do without you.’
Amy had arrived in the building at the same time as me, just under twelve months ago. Unlike Marco, she fraternised with the workers on the lower levels. I liked her. She would always stop by my desk every morning for a debrief. Sometimes, she even came bearing croissants. How could you not like someone who did that? ‘Just give it a bit of time,’ I say reassuringly. ‘Wait till that temper cools, and I know he’ll be begging you to come back. You do a fantastic job. They’ll be lost without you.’
Amy shakes her head. ‘You don’t understand. Lately, he’s been impossible to please. Yelling at everyone, changing his mind every five minutes. I think…’ she lowers her voice, ‘…he’s been drinking. Hitting the bottle during the auditions.’
I’d seen him with a bottle only yesterday, but I hadn’t realised it was a regular thing. It seems so disrespectful; if the artists are giving it their best shot Marco Delagado ought to have the courtesy to give exactly the same back.
‘And…’ Amy sobs. ‘His awful ex is always hanging around.’
Oh dear, I think. ‘Nobody needs an awful ex.’
‘Exactly.’ Amy nods, blowing her nose again. ‘And now that I’ve gone, there’s no one left to hold everything together. It’s going to be a total disaster. All those young women, he just doesn’t realise.’ She looks at me with imploring blue eyes. ‘This is their dream.’
Hmm, none of this seems fair. Marco Delagado may be a musical genius, but he needs someone to keep him in line and make sure these auditions happen. If only for the girls involved. He’s going to be lost without Amy. The whole thing could go belly-up.
Suddenly, poor Amy starts frantically clutching at her sides. Patting herself down as though she’s on fire. A look of pure panic whitening her already pale features. ‘Oh no, I don’t believe it,’ she gasps.
‘What?’
She glances towards me, her eyes about to brim over again. ‘I’ve forgotten my bag. The green Gucci one with the gold clasp.’
I knew the bag well; she’d picked it up at TK Maxx only two weeks ago. She was so proud of it. The damn thing cost her a month’s wages.
‘I left in such a hurry.’ In utter despair, Amy drags her hands through her short, bobbed hair. ‘I can’t go back up there. I can’t. I just…’
