‘What? The cupboard?’
Clare told Ann about Camberwaddle’s email. And about the fact she’d soon be moving into her ‘corner office’ according to Nigel.
‘Seriously, you take one day off sick and Camberwaddle’s thinking of ditching you? Doesn’t sound worth it to me,’ Ann said, looking so annoyed on Clare’s behalf that it made Clare feel incredibly guilty. She longed to tell Ann that she hadn’t been ill, that she’d taken some sort of spontaneous day off. But found that she couldn’t.
‘And how can Nigel seriously expect you to work in that tiny cupboard? He must be losing his marbles,’ Ann fumed. ‘His office is big enough for him and Will to work in together I would have thought.’
‘Good point – no trousers required.’
‘Exactly. Oh Clare – this really sucks. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?’
‘Do?’
‘Have you thought about threatening to walk out? Surely they’d have to sit up and take notice?’
Clare had thought about it, vaguely. ‘I think they’d only notice after a couple of months when the bailiffs came around to claim back Will’s plush office chair, or whatever,’ she said. ‘Not when it really mattered.’
Ann rubbed Clare’s upper arm and gave her another squeeze. ‘Honestly, don’t let it get to you. They’re not worth it. We’ll show them.’
‘Thank you.’ They smiled at each other. ‘Yes, we bloody well will.’
Afterwards, the day moulded into its usual shape. At lunchtime, Clare stayed at her desk, still catching up with yesterday’s backlog and wondering what would happen if she actually was sick and out of the office for a week – would the entire conveyancing world grind to a halt?
Just after lunch her phone flashed with an unknown number and she picked it up.
‘Hello? Clare Bailey speaking?’
‘Hi – can I speak to Martha?’
‘Martha?’
‘Yes, have I got the right number?’
A sudden realisation. Martha.
‘Oh, yes. Well, speaking. Martha is my …’ she paused, wondering how to explain. ‘Well, I suppose it’s my stage name.’
‘Ah, OK. Understood,’ said the voice. ‘Look, it’s Susan Chalmers – you know, from the talent session?’
‘Oh, right?’
‘Yes. I’ve been talking with some of the others and we wondered whether you might consider coming back to see us.’
‘Really?’ Her stomach churned. ‘But I thought …’
‘Yes. But …’ there was a pause. ‘Look, this might sound a little odd – but we’re thinking of putting together a group. There weren’t as many musical acts as you might expect at the initial audition, and we really want to put Hatfield on the map, you know?’
‘Right. But my act was poetry, so …’
‘Yes, yes. Sorry, I should have explained. We rather hoped you might join together with one of the groups that came forward.’
‘Right?’ Perhaps they wanted to use her poem as lyrics. But it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing that would lend itself to a song, especially one sung by someone probably much younger than her.
‘Yes. Look, there’s this troupe of dancers … They auditioned straight after you.’
‘Oh, the dance group! Yes, I saw them.’
‘Lovely lads, quite deprived backgrounds. Wonderful dancers.’
‘OK?’
‘Well, and of course you’ll have seen the TV talent shows in the past – the groups.’
‘Yes?’ Clare was struggling to see how this related to her.
‘Well, they’re good – as I say – but they need a … a USP. You know, something unique.’
‘Right?’
‘So, what do you think?’
‘What do I think about what?’
‘Well, we loved your poem. The rhythm … the sentiment. But we wondered – would you think about rapping it?’
‘Rapping?’ Clare looked down at her work clothes, at her messy desk, at her typically dusty, legal office. She must have misheard. ‘You want me to rap? Me?’
‘Yes. Well, to try. I just think … well, these boys as I say, need something extra … The producers are actually quite excited about the idea. The whole generations coming together thing. It’s very now. Embraces some of the community-mindedness the channel are championing at the moment.’
‘But what about someone their age. A singer? Someone … you know?’
‘Yes, I do understand. It’s just we wondered. Well, it could be fun. It might get people’s attention. I didn’t say so at the time, but your poem. It really got me thinking. Why do people judge women of a certain age?’ Susan lowered her voice as if admitting to a terrible secret.
‘Well, yes …’
‘And of course you can’t have a twenty-something kid giving out that message.’
‘No.’
‘And you know, the poem was quite rhythmic. Dan, he’s the boys’ manager, reckons he could make it work.’
‘I just … I can’t rap. I never …’
‘I understand. But will you consider it? All we’d want would be for you guys to get together and have a go – see how it works. And if it does work,’ Susan paused, ‘we might put you forward!’
‘Put us forward?’
‘Yes, you know. For the next leg of You’ve Got Talent. It’s just at the Grand Theatre – not the biggest venue. But it will be filmed so they can use some in the show. Proceeds to charity. The winning acts might get onto the live shows – so fame and fortune may await!’ Susan laughed nervously.
‘I’m sorry,’ Clare said, feeling a little faint with the bizarreness of the conversation. ‘I just don’t think …’
‘Look, I realise it’s a lot. But give it some thought, please? Don’t say no immediately.’
‘OK, I’ll think about it,’ Clare said, before hanging up.
She laughed incredulously as she put her mobile back on her desk. Had that really happened? Someone had literally just asked her to rap.
She wouldn’t do it of course. She’d be a laughing stock! But still – it was a compliment to her poems, surely? And something she could regale Steph with over coffee at the weekend.
As a solicitor, she was used to being asked difficult questions. But being asked to become a rapper had to be the strangest one yet.
Chapter Eleven
An hour later, Clare’s mobile buzzed with an unknown number and she almost didn’t answer. But then, after all, she thought, the day had already reached peak absurdity. She surely had nothing to fear.
‘Hello?’ she said, expecting sales.
‘Clare?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Dan.’
‘Right?’ she wracked her brain for a Dan. Nothing.
‘Yeah, look. I’m the coach of Eezee Troupe.’
‘Oh … the, the dancing group?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh. Hi.’ She felt oddly self-conscious, remembering that smile of his.
‘I think we spoke yesterday, briefly? Before the audition? I spoke to Susan and she told me about this rap idea.’
‘Yes. Look, no offense but it’s not really my …’
‘I know. Look, I get it. I thought you’d probably say no.’
‘Oh phew! I was worried you were going to try to force me to … well, you know, rap.’ Even the idea of it made her cheeks feel hot with embarrassment. Bullet dodged! There was a pause.
‘Well, maybe I am a bit,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘Look, I thought you might not want to. I know you’re busy. I get it. But, well, could you at least think about it? Come tonight, just for a few minutes. Watch us rehearse.’
‘It’s not that I’m busy … it’s just … Well – I’m me!’ She gestured to her
self sitting at a desk, sensible suit, corporate dress. But of course he couldn’t see her. Anyone who did would surely realise that she was almost the opposite of cool. And the idea of her rapping was just ridiculous.
‘But think about it. I don’t want to pressure you. But this competition. Well, it’s the boys’ only chance. And you know, rap is just poetry with a bit more rhythm. I could hear you from outside the audition room you know.’
‘You could?’
‘Yeah, it was brilliant!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Well, you know. It could be, with a bit of a beat and more rhythm in the delivery.’
‘Brilliant?’
‘Yeah, it was lit!’
‘Which is good?’
‘Which is definitely good.’
Clare felt herself smile a bit at the compliment. It was a rare commodity these days. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said, ‘but there’s a big difference between reading a poem in front of two people in a meeting room and rapping on stage in front of a crowd of people. Dan, it was just a bit of fun yesterday. I … I just don’t think I can.’
‘But Clare, think about it,’ he said, a desperate note creeping into his voice.
‘It’s the boys’ only chance you say. How come?’ she asked, more softly.
‘Well, you know. It’s like, well, they really don’t have anything.’
‘Right?’
‘I’ve been working with these lads after school for like a year. And they’re good Clare, they’re really good. But without this … You know. There isn’t much of a future for them.’
‘But the chances of them getting anything out of this …’
‘It’s just … Maybe if we got to the TV stage or something. It could be life changing for these guys.’
‘But … I mean Dan,’ she struggled to keep the frustration out of her voice. ‘We won’t … I mean they might not even include us in the competition – I can’t see how we’d get on TV or win anything. It just isn’t going to happen.’
‘Little Tyler, he lost his mum last year. Henri, he was running drugs for some nutcase on the estate.’
She felt her heart turn over. The poor boys with their hopeful, happy faces. ‘Surely they, I mean can’t they just put you through as you are? I mean, those boys are really talented, right?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘I did check that,’ he said, ‘because, you know. I thought you might not want to do it. But they’ve got lots of dancers, already. In the competition. So no chance. Anyway, Susan said she liked your message.’
‘My message?’
‘Yeah, it’s, highkey as the boys would say.’
‘Haiku?’
‘No, high key!’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a good thing,’ he clarified.
Clare thought about how invisible she’d felt. And how she now had the power to help someone else get seen. She wasn’t sure she could rap. But she ought to at least give them a chance.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Look, how about I come and see the boys dance. I might have a go at reading the poem. But I’m not promising anything after that.’
‘Yes!’ Dan said. ‘That’s all I’m asking … for now.’
‘Whereabouts do you rehearse?’ she said, wondering what on earth she was doing. The man was far too persuasive.
It was six o’clock when her taxi pulled up outside the small church hall on the edge of the estate. Lights were on inside the tiny building and she could hear the sound of music pulsing.
‘That’ll be eight pounds and fifty pence,’ said the driver.
She paid and gave him a decent tip.
‘Thanks, love,’ he said, before driving off and leaving her standing in the cold night air.
Here the streets were narrow and the houses close together. The sound of the main road with its roaring traffic and beeping horns could be heard clearly. Lights were on in many of the windows, illuminating gardens, some well-tended, others filled with rubbish. Cars were parked on kerbs, in front gardens; anywhere they could be squeezed. Over the road, a group of children on bikes stared at her as she turned towards the hall. ‘Got a light?’ called one. ‘Hey, miss? Got a light?’
Nervously, she pushed the door of the hall open and was faced with a further three doors. Two had toilet signs on them – one male, featuring the classic outline of a man that adorns many toilet doors (onto which somebody had drawn a large penis to ensure there were no misunderstandings), one female (whose female stick figure had also been quite generously enhanced) – and the third sign said ‘Hall’, so at least it was obvious where she needed to go.
As she pushed open the door she felt a thud, and as she entered, a small child skidded across the wooden floor.
‘Sorry!’ she said, looking at his crumpled form. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ he said, climbing to his feet again and grinning.
‘Clare!’ said a voice, and a familiar man with impossibly broad shoulders and a mop of unkempt brown hair was suddenly by her side, shaking her rather formally by the hand. ‘Thanks for coming!’
‘Hi Dan,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to see you. But look, I don’t think …’ she trailed off, looking at his chocolate eyes.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘just don’t make up your mind yet, right?’ He nodded to one of the boys and tapped something on his phone. The music restarted and suddenly they were all moving in synch.
Clare had seen dance troupes on the TV before, but nothing really prepared her for how impressive it all seemed in the flesh. The group moved flawlessly, completely in time. There were flashes of humour when one of the smallest members of the group – Mark – was flung from one side of the room to the other. And a strangely tear-jerking moment where the music slowed and one of the boys, whose frame was tall and whose movements seemed unencumbered by human considerations such as having bones in his limbs, danced slowly around the rest of the group.
When the music finished, they all looked at her expectantly. She felt like one of the judges, as if she was expected to give her verdict. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘That was amazing.’
And it really had been.
‘So you’ll do it?’ Dan asked. ‘You’ll work with us?’
All the wide-eyed, expectant faces were just too much for her.
She thought about what might happen if they did get through and their act was featured on the TV show. For her, it could be embarrassing. Did anyone want a solicitor who moonlighted as a rap star? She’d read plenty of articles where people had a side-hustle, but usually people tended to stick to crafty activities such as crochet or embroidering bags. Not stickin’ it to the man.
She’d spent ten years getting to where she was, professionally speaking. Working her way up to become the highest biller in the firm. Spending evenings reading legal texts to keep up to date. Putting in the hours. This should be her time to reap the rewards.
Then she thought of Nigel, how he’d had his head turned by a new recruit and how she’d now fallen off his radar. How, despite all her hard work, she’d been relegated to a coat-cupboard office. How no matter what she did, nobody seemed to value or notice her at all. She might as well be invisible.
Without Dan’s input, these boys would also be invisible – little numbers vaguely referred to in government reports and crime statistics. But she could change that. Or at least try to help.
She could be the novelty frontman to their act, get them on centre stage and let them make the most of the light of fame shining on them, however briefly. Perhaps it wouldn’t damage her career – and it could be life changing for them. And maybe she could do it as ‘Martha’ – and not get noticed at all.
‘Look, you’re great. I just … Let me think about it,’ she said.
It was as if they’d won the lottery. The boys rushed for her en masse and nearly knocked her to the floor. She’d never been the recipi
ent of such a large and enthusiastic hug. Laughing, she looked across at Dan who was watching her, his head nodding slightly, his brown eyes warm.
The taxi home cost another twenty-three pounds, which meant her little excursion to see the troupe had been more expensive than her bus fare for a week. But it had been fun to watch them dance.
She had no doubt that they’d go far, with or without her. She was just their ticket through the stage door.
‘Hi!’ she called into the quiet hallway when she arrived home.
Silence.
She pushed open the kitchen door and saw that the kitchen she’d tidied up before she left was now strewn with glasses, crumb-covered plates and soggy teabags. ‘Alfie?’
‘He’s gone to football practice,’ said Katie, suddenly appearing behind her. ‘He’s not back for tea, apparently.’
‘Great.’
‘Dad’s home, he’s just gone to the shop.’
‘Right.’
Her daughter walked past her and put a dirty plate on the kitchen table.
‘Couldn’t you put that next to the sink? Or even better, wash it up?’ Clare asked.
Sighing, Katie picked up the plate and plonked it on the pile next to the sink. She was making a point, but not prepared to go to the length of washing a plate up to prove it.
‘Thanks,’ Clare responded sarcastically.
‘S’OK.’
‘Shall I put the pizza in?’
‘I’ve had toast now.’
‘Right.’
‘Oh, Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I FaceTime Tessa?’
Half an hour later, Clare was in the kitchen, picking over a large pizza and feeling thoroughly lonely.
Over on the other side of town were thirteen young men who had been overjoyed to see her.
The boys in that little dance troupe needed her. And, although she hadn’t seen it before, perhaps she needed them a little bit too.
The phone rang just once before Dan answered.
‘Clare?’
‘Hi, Dan.’
Perfect on Paper Page 7