She took a gulp of her drink, scarcely tasting it. ‘You should do it.’ Her lips felt numb. She was sure she mumbled the words, barely able to believe she could say them at all, but he still heard.
‘You’re not the first person to tell me that,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And obviously, I’m tempted. It’s just…’
He broke off, his eyes resting on hers, and for an awful moment, she thought he must see her selfish fears reflected there. But he couldn’t know, she reassured herself, forcing her thudding heart to slow. Apart from the night he’d gently turned her down, she’d given no sign she felt anything inappropriate for Fraser. Maura was sure of that. Whatever was holding Fraser back, it had nothing to do with her. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t understand his reluctance.
At school, he’d seemed so confident, so blessed by talent that success could not fail to follow. And it had – he’d made a career for himself, bagging roles in well-respected television shows and stage productions as well as the fast food adverts he was so quick to poke fun at – but Maura knew ambition could be an exhausting companion. From what Fraser had said, that exhaustion had exacted a heavy toll.
But she also recognised The Fear when she saw it; that insidious voice heard by every creative person she knew. The one that instilled doubt in their abilities and fostered a sometimes insurmountable fear of failure. Perhaps what Fraser neededmost was encouragement to take a leap of faith. Wasn’t that what a true friend would offer?
‘You should go for it,’ she repeated, her tone quiet and resolute. ‘Yes, your life will probably change beyond all recognition, but think what you’d get in return. The chance to work with the best in the business. An opportunity to find out how incredible you could be. A star with your name on it.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, but she thought he looked less doubtful.
She pushed on. ‘How many people get to live their dreams, Fraser? Not many.’
His gaze held hers and she saw indecision swirling there. He opened his mouth but the speaker over their heads crackled into life.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. This afternoon’s performance will resume in two minutes.’
The spell broke. Swigging the last of his drink, Fraser squared his shoulders. ‘Come on. Let’s see if Shylock is going to get his pound of flesh.’
Maura tried her best to focus on the story unfolding on the stage, but it felt as though she saw everything through a veil. The ramifications of Fraser’s revelation swirled around her head, muting the performance and dulling her own reaction to it. There was no possibility that Fraser could turn down such an opportunity – not if she had anything to do with it – and yet encouraging him to take it meant letting go of her own hopes.
Her only consolation was that she hadn’t made a fool of herself by telling him how she felt – he’d saved her that embarrassment at least. Because there was one thing Maura knew for certain: she cared too much for Fraser to do anything that might hold him back.
She would bury her own emotions deep inside until he was far beyond their reach. No matter how much it hurt, she would not – could not – stand in his way.
Chapter Four
Fraser had met any number of directors over the years, from those whose domain was a provincial theatre with a shoestring budget, to the ones casting global commercials or long-running, much-loved TV shows. Drama school had taught him to view these gatekeepers with a mixture of terror and respect and, despite an innate confidence in his own ability, it had been a long time before he was able to deliver an audition piece without feeling as though he might vomit at their feet. But he’d eventually learned to ride the adrenaline wave, to make himself heard over the thudding of his own heart and trust in the meticulous preparation he put into each performance. He didn’t get every part but he got some, and the failures taught him just as much as the successes.
On the morning he was due to meet Marco Minelli, he had yet to throw up, but the queasiness in his stomach as he waited in the lobby of Glasgow’s Grand Gordon Hotel suggested it was a distinct possibility. It was not a sensation he had missed.
‘Fraser Bell?’
The question came from an immaculately dressed young woman of around twenty-five. She was smiling at him, and the dazzling whiteness of her teeth would have told him she was an American even if her accent hadn’t. Although dentists in other countries were catching on to the trend for perfect smiles, so it wasn’t as reliable an indicator as it had been.
‘That’s right,’ he said, standing up.
‘I’m Krystal, Mr Minelli’s assistant,’ she said, offering him her hand. ‘Would you like to follow me? We’re ready for you now.’
She led him across the black and white marbled lobby to a bank of lifts. Fraser took the opportunity to check his reflection in the smoked glass mirror on the far wall as they waited; whatever came from the meeting, first impressions counted. He’d gone for smart casual – a cashmere jumper beneath his charcoal suit, rather than a shirt and tie. Thankfully, he saw nothing in the mirror to cause him any concern. No suddenly materialising trail of toilet roll attached to his shoe, no stubborn lick of hair standing on end. He suspected there was probably a large dose of rabbit-in-the-headlights around his eyes and forced himself to drop his shoulders. However impressive his achievements, Marco Minelli was only human. And he had asked to see Fraser, not the other way round.
He’d been in eye-wateringly expensive hotel suites before – usually when briefly visiting the paying guest, although he’d once been upgraded in Turin and hadn’t believed his luck – but he’d never been in one as luxurious as the one Marco Minelli was occupying. It was on the sixth floor, accessed via a private lift that travelled from the floor below and was attended by a liveried concierge who nodded with old school deference as they entered.
There were only two doors lining the thickly carpeted corridor, one on each side. Krystal waved a key card at the door on their right and Fraser tried hard not to react as she ushered him into the opulence that lay beyond. A mirrored entrance hall opened into an airy sitting room, where floor to ceiling windows draped with gold brocade curtains framed the view over Glasgow’s rooftops. Cream velvet sofas surrounded a marble-topped coffee table and an oversized gilt chandelier hung from the high ceiling. A delicately embroidered Persian rug softened the practicality of the dark wood parquet flooring.An aria soared from unseen speakers – Fraser recognised it as Puccini, although he couldn’t identify the soprano singing.
As he followed Krystal into the room, he saw corridors snaking to the right and left, lined with tall windows that offered the same spectacular view. He guessed the suite must cover one half of the entire top floor and didn’t want to think how much it cost per night.
Krystal waved a hand at the immaculate sofas. ‘Have a seat and I’ll let Mr Minelli know you’re here,’ she said. ‘Can I offer you a drink? We have a range of teas, freshly brewed coffee, or I’m sure our private chef can whip you up a juice or smoothie if you prefer. And there’s a fully stocked bar if you’d like something stronger.’
Fraser did his best to project an easy confidence, as though he found himself in command of a private chef every day. ‘Just coffee, thanks. Black, no sugar.’
She nodded. ‘Sure. Make yourself comfortable.’
Perching on the edge the sofa facing the fireplace, Fraser listened as the aria swelled to a dramatic climax, the soprano’s voice aching with sorrow as she delivered the final anguished notes, and then died away. Now that he was alone, he allowed himself a discreet breath in and out to counter the sense of unreality that had come over him on entering the suite. Everything about the situation felt like a scene from a movie, right down to his own ambivalence about meeting Marco Minelli at all; he couldn’t shake the feeling he was playing a role. Perhaps that was the best way to get through the next hour, he thought, reaching out to lift the cover of a magazine on the coffee table. He could play the part of an actor keen to land the role of a lifetime. But he strongly suspected Minelli would see through that in an instant. Better to just be himself and see how things played out, he decided.
The opening bars of another aria floated on the air but Fraser thought the volume was more muted, as though lowered to allow conversation. Feeling a prickle of sweat break out on his back, he rose to peel off his suit jacket, wondering if there might be a hanger inside one of the hall cupboards. The last thing he wanted was to be caught rummaging in places he shouldn’t be, however, so he laid it over the arm of the sofa, where it looked untidy. Hesitating, he was about to put the jacket back on when the whisper of footsteps from one of the corridors made him sink down into the sofa, easing back against the meticulously placed cushions and hurriedly adopting an air of relaxed curiosity.
