Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

‘You won’t,’ he said, so confidently that she began to feel even more anxious.

‘You really care about these boys, don’t you?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Remind me of me, I suppose.’

‘You?’

‘Yeah. You know, I was pretty good at dancing back in the day.’

‘Back in the day – what are you, twenty-eight or something?’

‘Thirty-two. But you know, if you haven’t made it as a dancer by twenty or so, you can forget it.’

‘Really? That sucks.’

‘Yeah, plus I went and put my back out before the biggest audition of my life. Which pretty much scuppered any chance I had.’

‘Ouch. Poor you.’

‘But these boys,’ he said, rubbing a hand over his face, ‘these boys, they’ve got so much talent, but nobody to support them. Half of them would be hanging round outside the corner shop or at the park smoking if they weren’t doing this.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘They’re lucky to have you.’ She covered his hand with hers and gave it a squeeze, without really thinking about what she was doing and what it might mean.

They grinned at each other, and she had to look away.

Before either of them could speak, the door opened and Susan appeared, wearing a powder-blue jumper and a long floral skirt. ‘Welcome, welcome!’ she said, almost too enthusiastically. ‘Thank you for taking the time to come and see us again!’

‘No problem,’ Clare said, as she and the rest of the troupe stood up. Dan put his hand gently on her back as they walked to the room. ‘You’ll do great,’ he told her, and she felt herself smile.

The room looked much as it had before: the same table in the corner, the same sign. The blinds had been pulled down halfway and the table was in shadow. A silhouette was visible and as her eyes focused in the gloom, Clare could make out a man in his fifties with a moustache and bald head.

‘This is Jack Higham, manager of the Grand Theatre,’ Susan said. ‘I invited him along to see you, I hope that’s OK?’

‘Of course.’

‘Pleasure,’ Jack said, in a surprisingly high voice. ‘I’ve seen your show already of course, your act should I say. Rather a fan.’

‘Oh … thanks!’

Susan took her seat next to Jack behind the table they’d set in the corner. The rest of the room was free for Clare and the troupe to strut their stuff.

‘We wanted to say,’ Susan added, looking at Jack as if for permission, ‘that we’re ever so thrilled you decided to come back. Especially after … well, fame and fortune have found you!’

‘Thanks,’ Dan said.

‘Yes,’ Susan said, ‘I mean, when I made the suggestion, well … about the rap, I wasn’t sure how it was going to go. I’ll be honest, I thought it might be more of a novelty act … but – well, seeing you all over the news. I’ve been stunned.’

‘Yes,’ added Jack. ‘I must say that by this stage, having seen the video and the … the reaction this is more or less a formality. A treat if you will.’

‘Right. Thank you.’

They took their places and Dan set up his speaker in the corner. Then they were ready.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Yet again Toby disappeared in the early hours the next morning. This time into a sleek black people carrier which pulled to a stop outside the house at about 5 a.m. He vanished into its shaded depths as Clare looked from the window and gave a little wave. She’d been told he was interviewing a major celebrity today. ‘All very hush-hush,’ he’d said, tapping the side of his nose.

‘I see.’

He was using his car less and less, she realised.

In fact, seeing it glistening in the drive when she left the house just after eight, Clare was tempted to borrow it for a day, just to avoid the constant chatter of her convertible. Claudia had seemed a great feature at first, but she had to admit the cow had been driving her just a little bit mad.

‘Can it be disabled?’ she’d asked the garage owner when she’d phoned him yesterday after a particularly taxing journey.

‘’Fraid not, love,’ he’d said. ‘No one’s ever asked that before! Besides,’ he’d added, a little affronted, ‘Claudia is a she, not an it.’

‘Seat belt, seat belt,’ Claudia said to Clare in greeting when she inserted the key in the ignition.

‘No problem.’ She clipped it into place. ‘All right now, Mum?’ she said, then realised that she was both insulting mums and conversing with a car.

‘Claudia, find me the latest news,’ she said, as she turned out of the drive onto the main road.

‘Headlines: Two injured in motorway pile-up on the A34; Amendment 45 returns to Parliament for the seventh time; Parliament braced for another reshuffle; social media hails the sudden rise of a middle-aged rapper known only as Martha B.’

‘Claudia please play … Take That,’ she said, hastily. And with that, she disappeared into her teenage years, at least mentally, for a while.

Ten minutes later, she drew into the office car park – still early. As she entered through the heavy door, she switched her mind into solicitor mode and let the documents and deadlines push all other worries from her brain.

Later she had a meeting with Camberwaddle to give him some pre-auction advice, and otherwise her day was filled with last-minute jobs and paperwork. The pace of her work was what kept her going in every day. ‘It’s like a rollercoaster ride,’ she’d told a friend once, ‘just the cars are folders and the rails are legal procedure.’

You probably have to be of a particular personality type to understand.

She’d just settled down in front of a clean legal pad, relishing the moment when she’d raise a pen and make the first mark on the fresh paper, when the phone rang.

‘Hello?’ a man’s voice said. ‘The other day, I caught my toe in the hoover pipe. Caused quite a nasty bruise. Have I got a claim, do you think?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You know, compensation. That Dyson fella’s loaded, right?’

‘Um? Who is this,