There are four women and six men in tears. Each one clutching sheet music to their heaving chests. They’re not even standing together in their grief. Everyone is trapped in their own private hell of failure. It’s no way to treat people. Marco Delagado might be rich, he might be brilliant, he might even be great-looking when not intoxicated, but the man is totally out of order. Luckily, I’m used to just about every flavour of bad behaviour that it’s possible to exhibit. I have my brother, Minty, and his mates to thank for that. Since I was twelve, I have spent my life having to step over and sort out. Replace the empty bottles for machine parts, remove the distraught ‘artists’, and this present shambles is not a million miles from my world.
I scoop up the whisky bottle and stride over to Marco, interrupting whatever nonsense it is that he happens to be spouting. It sounds like a lot of name-dropping with a few well-placed Ringos and at least one Sheeran in the mix.
‘Mr Delagado,’ I say coolly. ‘I’m here to assist you for the day.’
Before I’ve even managed to wrangle down my mind and work out why I’ve said it, Marco Delagado whirls around looking gorgeous, intense, and, it has to be admitted, totally out of control. He’s spluttering with rage, one arm actually drawing back as if to push me away, but then the oddest thing happens. The entire room seems to take a deep intake of breath as if the world is running slower. His brown eyes glint through the cracks of red. His head lollops to one side. Everything stills, and his anger melts. His features soften. Even in this state, he’s clearly a good-looking man. I’ll give him that. In fact, he’s just my type: cheeky attitude, chiselled face, and gorgeous muscle-toned arms. But everything about him says bad news. He’s the sort of bad news my brother would have a problem with. It wouldn’t matter if he owned the country. My brother would not be impressed by that. Minty is only ever impressed by what he calls ‘great blokes’. People like him and his friends. People who treat women right – treat them like their princesses. That’s why the dating thing has been a problem. Minty and I have a very different idea as to who I should be dating, and sometimes, it’s just easier to go with the flow. But I’m not doing that anymore. No more meal deals, fixed gates, or trainspotting. I have to find my own Mr Right, and this is clearly not the place to be doing that. Currently, I’m fully expecting an earful of abuse. But this is not about my brother and his plans for me. This is the here and now and instead of giving me a mouthful, Marco Delagado drinks me in, looks into my eyes in an oddly curious way, like a scientist peering down a microscope.
‘And who would you be, my little darling?’ His voice, despite the slur and the appalling brewery breath and patronising choice of words, has a velvet tone.
It’s the kind of tone that should make a woman feel special, even when he’s swaying, and I can’t help wondering how many women have fallen for it. But I know better. Beneath the charm is a careless cruelty. I saw what he did to Amy.
I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze straight from the barrel. ‘I’m not your darling, sweetheart,’ I say, drawing myself up to my full five foot six. ‘I’m Clara Thompson, and I’m here to make sure your auditions run on schedule.’
There’s another one of those pauses. Only now, it’s packed with tension. I wonder if he’s going to start shouting. I also wonder what the hell I’m doing. I had only taken the elevator up here to retrieve a bag, but somehow, when I saw so many people having their dreams crushed, it just made me mad.
‘You…’ he slurs, pointing towards my chest. ‘And you…’ The finger remains extended, but suddenly he shrugs, turning away, already dismissing me. ‘Do as you like.’ Marco waves one hand wildly through the air. ‘Just make sure I have talent in front of me within the hour, or you’ll both be out of jobs.’
I don’t bother to tell him that there’s only one of me. It doesn’t seem like the time to be pedantic. Instead, I take a deep breath and turn to face the crowd of disgruntled artists, clapping my hands sharply for their attention.
‘Okay, everyone, let’s get started!’ I say, pitching my voice so that it carries. ‘The auditions will begin in thirty minutes. Please sign in and then warm up your voices. Let’s make some music!’ I’m beginning to sound like Evelyn.
A ripple of excitement moves through the group. Marco snorts and collapses onto the couch, grabbing a handful of cashews. I ignore him, moving to the sign-in table and straightening the stacks of paperwork. The penthouse studio is a mess, and Marco Delagado is a menace. But if I can pull this off, it might just be my big break. Okay, so maybe I don’t get to be on the mic side of the action, but this, for all its crisis and colour, is the music business. I smile, ready to face the challenge.
CHAPTER 5
MARCO
Another day. Morning already. It’s light outside, and I can hear the lift shaft’s constant whir, so I guess the workers in the Tower must be arriving. Arriving! Lucky buggers. We didn’t even get to leave last night. This whole process is proving to be chaos. All of those people throughout the building, managing to clock in, clock out. But not here. Not on the seventeenth floor. Not in the music business. If just one person could manage to do their job properly, I swear I’d give them the keys to the kingdom. Nobody has had enough sleep, and everyone is irritating. By that, I mean even more irritating than normal. Terry, on keyboard, keeps saying ‘star quality’. He says it about everyone. It is so clearly not true. The sound these singers are making is not even in the same region as heavenly. Not even orbiting. Not even out of the gravitational pull of piss poor. This is making me think Terry must have something else feeding into his headphones. Or maybe he’s just lost his marbles, or his hearing. It’s possible. He never gets emotional, and I swear his piano’s out of tune. Okay, so it’s electronic, but he’s playing it flat. Then there’s Jeff. What the hell is up with Jeff? He seems unable to get the right sound mix. Luckily, I’m here to keep him in line. Even so, the musicians aren’t the key problem – are they ever? It’s the starlets, they would sound better if they sang through their noses. Sadly, that is no word of a lie. I’ve had two hours’ sleep. Maybe less. So, yes, my temper is running a bit short, but there is nada wrong with my hearing. And then Amy, my assistant. If she hands me one more glass of water, I swear, she’ll get it thrown over her. I’m not a fish. I don’t need water. I do not need to hydrate. I don’t have time because today is the last day of auditions. That’s why we worked through the night. I took that decision. This evening I’ll have to do the announcement in front of the Tower. Standing next to the dewy-eyed hopeful that I’m about to jettison into the fame stratosphere. So no, I do not have time for anything apart from finding that voice. But all I hear every time anyone steps into the booth is some sub-standard regurgitation of somebody else’s sound.
‘I need another drink,’ I call out to that no-good Amy, rolling an empty whisky bottle away from my feet.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she says, which is kind of funny because I was not asking her if she thought it was a good idea.
‘Yeah, well, thanks for the input, Amy, but no thanks. Get me another bottle. Then line up the next embarrassment of riches.’
Amy’s looking flustered. When she talks again, her voice is lower. I barely get one word of what she’s saying. ‘Don’t mumble.’
She looks embarrassed, hisses back, ‘They can hear you.’
I glance around. Does she think that I care? ‘Where’s the new sound?’ I say, wringing my hands in frustration. ‘Give me something from the soul.’
‘Sure.’ Some kid with braids steps forward. ‘I can do that, sir.’
‘Me too.’ It’s the girl with the horse’s head. What’s she still even doing here?
‘I’m all soul,’ says some blonde who looks like Marilyn Monroe, only a cheap version. The kind you might get out of a Christmas cracker – if a Christmas cracker was big enough. I swear, if the woman sings ‘My Heart Belongs to Daddy’ one more time. And what is it with the breathiness? Why is everyone breathing down the mic every time they get close? ‘Where’s the voice, for Christ’s sake? The voice!’
Amy’s tugging at my arm gently. Gently, but it’s still a tug.
‘Get your hands–’
‘Maybe we should take a day off. Come back tomorrow?’
I pull away. ‘Seriously, honey.’ I fix her with my eyes. I can tell they’ve gone flint-like, and so I have to carry it through. ‘Tomorrow is going to be difficult because you, you, Amy, are fired today.’
There’s a gasp in the room, then absolute and utter silence, which is great because all I want is silence. But it doesn’t last because then comes the sob. The Amy girl is wilting, or melting, or whatever else unattractive thing she happens to be doing, and off she goes, running for the door. ‘Great,’ I say, calling after her. ‘And don’t bother coming back.’
After that, things get a bit cloudy. Or maybe it would be better to call it raucous. I kind of envy Amy. I wish I’d taken the lift down. People are pestering the hell out of me with questions. The schedule seems to have slipped out of control. I’m about to tell them what a talentless bunch of imbeciles they all are when suddenly I turn around, and there’s this woman behind me. She can’t have been there for long. She looks like she’s slept. She’s not like the others. She has this golden hair hanging over her shoulders, I mean a lot of hair, wavy stuff, and a body to die for. She kind of looks familiar. Kind of, almost. The world seems to still, and the wonderful thing is, there are two of these creatures. I close one eye, no, it’s one. I open both eyes. No, two of them. I scrunch one eye again – definitely one.
