Книга - Remember My Name: A glamorous story about chasing your dreams

Remember My Name: A glamorous story about chasing your dreams
Abbey Clancy


‘A whirlwind of glitz and glamour…an entertaining debut’ – OK!For the one magical moment, standing there in the spotlight everything felt…perfect.Since owning the stage in her high school musical, Jessica Malone has dreamed of being a star. Now twenty-two, singing Disney songs at children’s parties is the closest she’s come. Which can have surprising benefits when she meets gorgeous Jack Duncan. Not only is Jack very easy on the eye; he’s Head of Talent for Starmaker Records and impressed by Jess’s beautiful voice.Wasting no time, Jack persuades Jess to join him in London. Once at Starmaker, however, Jess is making more tea than music, and always a waitress, never a guest, at celebrity parties. Until the night that Jack’s biggest star cant go on stage and before she knows whats happening, Jess has ditched her tray of canapes for a microphone and given the performance of her life.Suddenly Jess has the fame she’s always longed for but is she ready to leave her old life behind?







Liverpool-born ABBEY CLANCY is one of the UK’s most in demand models. She successfully combines being a wife and mother with her career as a presenter and model. She is a UK brand ambassador for many top brands including Matalan, Reebok and Avon. Abbey is married to Premiership footballer Peter Crouch and has two small daughters.

Remember My Name is her debut novel.








For Neale – gone but never forgotten.

I love you.




Table of Contents


Cover (#u7b2b6ce2-6248-5cda-b2db-9d39738ac4cd)

About the Author (#u51e7b547-8553-5dbe-99c3-647702f16a16)

Title Page (#u92a70982-beea-5a5b-8c23-85da39c64a5a)

Dedication (#ubae762bd-2644-568b-9950-bfc0b69c69d3)

Prologue (#u39a5f2ab-a81f-570c-bafc-24694df3b209)

Chapter 1 (#u24487277-03ef-5aaa-a71b-2ab606913a94)

Chapter 2 (#u2fb04d39-d5ab-5541-a616-e034a2e75e38)

Chapter 3 (#uea67105f-cb36-540d-bfb5-71ad35dc9bb5)

Chapter 4 (#ue5f38066-66f0-5eb8-9887-2b89e58bbe8f)

Chapter 5 (#u3aa5e592-1f18-5731-9ffe-cb4d484478b7)

Chapter 6 (#u4f8fc4b6-28bb-53fa-8533-2cb8ae25940a)

Chapter 7 (#u8a2175d0-9a1c-5b25-944f-34da133638a1)

Chapter 8 (#u0d1f2339-40b6-5f04-a3f1-239630d1cad9)

Chapter 9 (#u55cb797a-0286-5139-89a1-7a98411f7192)

Chapter 10 (#u7083eecf-7b68-5457-b59b-38b40259655e)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#ulink_9b989202-5380-5986-9d4e-b63473adba2f)


Liverpool, a few years ago …

Jess could feel the heat of the spotlight; the glare of the multi-coloured strobe flitting over her face as it criss-crossed the stage. She could feel the sweat oozing its way through her make-up, the strain on her lungs as she recovered from that last note. She was blinded by the dazzling glow, deafened by the sound of applause hammering in time to her own frenzied heart. Her legs were weak from dancing, her throat was sore from singing, her stomach was cramping with effort and nausea, and she felt like she might collapse at any second.

It was, quite frankly, the best moment of her entire life.

She blinked her eyelids a few times to try and get rid of the droplets of sweat that had gathered on her long lashes, and stared out at the audience. She knew they were there—she could hear them, feel them, and, thanks to the hot dogs that had been served at the interval, even smell them—but the spotlight turned them into a mass of dark blobs. Dark blobs that were all standing up, shouting and cheering and clapping. Even people that weren’t related to her by blood were joining in—although she could definitely hear her dad yelling louder than everyone else. All she could see was the dark outline of bodies, silhouetted hands waving in the air.

All those people. Cheering. For her.

Panting, exhausted, on the biggest high she’d ever known, a wide smile cracked her face in two. She’d done it. She’d played the lead role in the biggest show of the school year, and she’d played it well. So well that the whole place was on its feet.

So what if she passed out afterwards? And who cared if the fright wig she was wearing tore her own hair out in clumps when it was removed? And what did it matter that she might have broken her big toe during that last routine? It was all worth it.

All the hours of rehearsal; the time away from her friends and family; the pain and the dehydration and the frustration of getting it wrong time after time. It was just … worth it. This was where she was born to be, and she’d never been happier.

Jess sensed the rest of the cast running out to be with her; grinned as Ruby grabbed one of her hands and Adam grabbed her other, and raised them up in victory before they performed their bow. The others were there too: the dancers and singers from the chorus; and the girl who’d worked on the costumes; the woodwork team who’d built the set; and Mr Carlisle, the teacher who’d produced it.

Everyone apart from Daniel Wells, that is. Daniel, who’d not only written the story, but also scored the songs, designed the stage, and organised the lighting—he, Jess knew, would still be tucked away in his tech booth where he seemed to live. Daniel hated the spotlight as much as she loved it.

Finally, eventually, after several more bows, the curtains swished closed in front of them. The lights dimmed. The roar of the crowd subsided.

It was over—and Jess felt a momentary burst of panic as she wondered what she’d do now. Now she was no longer playing a role—now she was back to being plain old Jess Malone, instead of the spunky, sparky heroine of Daniel’s show. Now she had to go back to reality. It was going to be a huge downer, she knew.

She didn’t have time for the thoughts to settle, which was probably a good thing. Ruby shook her out of it by hugging her so hard she thought her lungs might pop out of her mouth.

‘Come on, Jess!’ she said, finally letting her go; laughing with sheer joy. ‘We’ve got a party to go to! All back to mine … my mum’s been the offie and got the drinks in, your lot are coming as well. They said the whole street is going to party like it’s 1999.’

Ruby’s lipstick had smeared, leaving a bright red slug-trail across her cheek, and one eyelash was falling off, spider-legging its way down her face. Jess reached out and used her finger to wipe away the lippie, and stuck the lash back into place. She was always doing repair jobs on Ruby—not just for the make-up, but for the broken hearts, the hangovers, and the dog-ate-my-homework disasters that seemed to make up the whole of her best mate’s life.

‘There,’ she said. ‘Now you’re perfect. Give me a minute. I’ll get my stuff and see you outside.’

‘Yeah, right. You’re off to see Danny McDumbass, aren’t you?’

‘Don’t call him that—he wrote this whole thing. And he’s not dumb.’

‘Maybe he’s not dumb. But he is an ass … anyway, catch ya later!’

Ruby ran away, heading to the back of the stage. Jess heard her screeching as she went, and laughed at her antics. So Ruby didn’t appreciate Daniel—that didn’t exactly put her in the minority.

She sighed, smoothed down the curls of her fright wig, and took one more quiet moment to recall exactly how she’d felt when she heard that applause. It had been … perfect.

Jess could hear the sounds of the others celebrating, and the shuffling feet of the audience leaving the college auditorium, and knew it was time for her to leave too, even if she didn’t want to. Maybe she could just get a sleeping bag and curl up in a corner … except, no. She couldn’t. It was time to party—and her mum and dad would be first up on the table doing the Macarena, which was always a sight to see.

First, though, she needed to say goodbye to Daniel, and try and persuade him to come to the party with them. She knew he wouldn’t, but she had to try. It was part of their relationship—her constant battle to drag him into the real world, and his constant refusal to come along. Strange as it seemed, he preferred playing ‘World of Warcraft’ and building computers from scratch to getting hammered on vodka and Red Bull and copping off with people.

Daniel lived next door to her on their quiet terraced street—his was the blue door and hers was the red, which reflected the footballing loyalties of the inhabitants. It was always good natured until derby day, when the two families diplomatically avoided each other as much as they could until the result came through. Then all bets were off. The walls were thin enough that as each team scored, you could hear the other family cheering next door.

She’d known him since they were three, and they’d gone all the way through primary school and junior school and high school together, ending up at the same college. He was what her little brother Luke called ‘a bit of a weirdo’, and what her mum Michelle called ‘an intellectual’. To Jess, he was just Daniel—the kid that nobody seemed to quite get except her.

She made her way to the tech booth and found him hiding away there, as she knew she would. They were eighteen now and, whereas Jess had blossomed—losing the cute baby fat that her mum loved showing off in embarrassing photos, gaining curves in all the right places, and blooming from gap-toothed schoolgirl into a young woman—Daniel hadn’t. He was still on the short side, smaller than Jess’s five eight at least, which would have been fine if not for the fact that he also had the body weight of a six footer.

He took up most of the space in the booth, his too-long dark blond hair tucked behind his ears, his blue eyes serious and intent as he flicked switches and stashed discs. He always looked serious, Jess thought, even at moments like this, when he should be walking on the same cloud of happiness as the rest of them.

He looked up as she approached, and gave her a small smile.

‘No,’ he said, straight away.

‘What do you mean, no?’ she replied. ‘I haven’t even asked you anything yet!’

‘No, I’m not coming to the party at Ruby’s.’

‘Oh. So you’re just going to go home and listen to suicide songs and be a miserable get on your own, are you?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that’s exactly the plan, so don’t try and persuade me. Anyway—you were great tonight. I knew you would be, Jessy.’

Warmth spread through her at his words, and she couldn’t help but grin like an idiot.

‘I was, wasn’t I? But it’s all down to you, writing that part for me.’

‘Well, who else would I write it for?’ he asked. ‘A cheerleader who saves the world from alien invasion?’ Daniel was packing cables and sockets into a bag as he spoke. ‘You were the only one who could pull it off.’

‘You just wanted to laugh at me in this costume,’ she said, gesturing to the neon-pink outfit that had been threatening to bring her out in a rash ever since she first wore it.

Daniel looked her up and down, then quickly turned away. It was hard to tell in the dim lights, but Jess could have sworn he was blushing for some reason.

‘I only laugh at you when you’re funny—which is most of the time, whether you mean to be or not. But seriously—your voice was amazing. You’re going to be a big star one day, Jessy.’

She watched him as he bustled around, confused by her emotions. On the one hand she was sad that she couldn’t reach him—drag him out of his shell long enough for everyone else to see what she saw—but on the other hand … a star. Even the word made her go a bit cross-eyed with excitement.

Daniel thought she’d be a star. That she could do this—every night of her life if she wanted to—sing and dance and entertain and drive round in a limo and drink Cristal. Buy her mum and dad a posh house in Formby, have enough money so he could stop driving taxis, and Mum could say farewell to her job in Tesco … a star.

‘You really think so?’ she asked, suddenly not feeling quite so sure of herself. Now she was here, out of the spotlight, away from the crowd, it didn’t seem entirely possible.

Daniel stopped what he was doing and turned to face her, his expression firm and insistent.

‘Yes. You, Jess Malone, have more X factor than there is on every talent show on TV. You sing like an angel, you dance like a pro, and you’re … well, you’re not ugly. Some might even say you’re beautiful. The world’s your stage, Jess—and you’re the star of the show.’




Chapter 1 (#ulink_afe5007e-9542-5e9e-aaa0-e367442f4c87)


Cheshire—a few years later …

‘And here she is—the star of the show! Give her a big hand, ladies and gents, boys and girls … it’s Elsa from Frozen!’

I stood behind the Princess Mobile, shivering from the cold, cringing at Ruby’s over-the-top announcement. There was static on the microphone as she spoke, and every word came out distorted and fuzzy and painful to the ears. It was yet another thing we had to get fixed.

The Princess Mobile itself was looking as if it needed a day at a spa, the lettering peeling off and one wing mirror held on entirely by tape. Pink tape, though—we had a brand to protect. It was meant to look like a beautiful fairy-tale carriage on wheels—but it looked more like a clapped-out van designed to carry drunk women round Mathew Street on their hen night.

My costume was in need of some TLC as well. It was our most popular range—the kids still couldn’t get enough of Elsa—and I practically lived in this disgusting blue polyester nightmare. One of Ruby’s mates had run up all our costumes for us, and, like the Princess Mobile, they’d been all right to start off with.

Now, after two solid years of bringing Disney-fied joy into the lives of kids all across the north west of England (and occasionally, North Wales, which made us practically global), it was a bit frayed around the edges.

Much like myself, I thought, as I tottered forward to greet the crowds. I’d have preferred not to totter, but the grass was really soggy after three solid days of rain, and my white high heels kept sinking into the mud as I walked. It wasn’t raining right then, but it was probably only a matter of time before it started lashing it down—it was one of those brilliant British summers that make you fantasise about winning the Euromillions and buying a villa in the Bahamas.

I emerged from behind the Princess Mobile as elegantly as I could, bearing in mind the wind was blowing my blonde Elsa wig so hard the plait kept whacking me in the face. It was pretty heavy as well—I could end up with a broken nose at any moment. I kept my smile in place and my mouth firmly shut—it would be bad for business if Elsa suddenly started effing and blinding in front of the munchkins.

There were about thirty kids at this party, which was being held in the garden of a very nice house in what the telly always calls ‘leafy Cheshire’. The posh bit—not Warrington. The bit where footballers and business tycoons lived, in homes with cinema rooms and security gates and stables for their ponies. Which meant that I probably shouldn’t call it a garden—I should call it ‘the grounds’, as you could fit the whole of Bootle into it if you tried.

The kids obviously didn’t realise they were supposed to be posh, and were behaving like absolute little shits. They’d fought during the party games, stolen each other’s pass-the-parcel prizes, and pushed each other off their seats in musical chairs so hard that one of them had already been taken to A&E.

The birthday girl herself was called Jocelyn. She was five years old, and already a total diva nightmare. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe in hitting kids—usually—but I’d make an exception for Jocelyn. She was wearing an Elsa costume herself, though hers looked a lot more classy than mine to be honest—more velvet and satin than polyester and rayon. And her hair was real—a gorgeous, thick, blonde fishtail plait that draped over her tiny shoulders oh so perfectly.

That was where the perfection ended. She’d been glaring at me and Ruby ever since we arrived, following us around as we set up, telling us we were doing everything wrong, demanding she won every party game, and generally being a miniature bitch. Her parents just smiled and laughed, as though she was being especially cute or entertaining. Obviously, money didn’t buy parenting skills—my mum and dad would have killed me if I’d been that rude to anyone.

The grown-ups were all sitting around at white-clothed tables, sipping expensive-looking wine, and wrapped up in Barbour jackets and posh pashminas. The women were perfectly made up and a bit Botox-y, and the men were tanned and fit and looked like they went skiing every winter.

It was very different from the world I usually lived in—a tiny two-bedroomed flat ‘near the city centre’ (that was what the letting agent said—in reality it was Dingle) that I shared with Ruby. Ruby and, more and more often, her boyfriend Keith. Keith was fifteen years older than Ruby, carried a selfie stick around wherever he went, and, in my opinion, was a huge sleazebag—but that was one of those opinions you have to keep to yourself. Until she dumped him, and then I could really let rip.

Still, at least our flat wasn’t inhabited by Jocelyn, who was staring at me with really evil eyes as I made my way—heels sinking into the mud—towards the central area we’d designated as our performance spot.

I tried to ignore her as I smiled and took my position, feeling the first drops of rain land on my face as I did. She made it pretty hard, though, by pointing at me and yelling: ‘That’s not the real Elsa! That’s just the silly woman who gave out the jelly!’

Big laughs from the mums and dads at that one. Screeches from the other kids. And torrential rain now pouring down on my head as if God was emptying a bucket all over me.

It was all right for them. They were all sheltered beneath a huge gazebo, and even though it was billowing in the wind, it was keeping them dry, the rain draining off in rivulets down the side and onto the soggy grass.

Ruby was under there as well, and I felt a moment of pure hatred for her as she gave me a thumbs up, and a huge fake grin. At least I thought it was fake—maybe she was just really happy to see me out there on my own, soaking wet, blue polyester frock clinging to my skin, being heckled by a group of five-year-old sadists as my Elsa braid repeatedly thumped me across the forehead.

I switched on the handheld microphone and waited until Ruby flicked on the backing track. She’d pulled the equipment under the gazebo with her as well, which was a pretty sensible idea. Otherwise she might get electrocuted. This way, I thought, looking at the snow machine and the wires stretching out to an extension plug, at least only one of us would get electrocuted. Me.

I glanced up at the heavens as the now intensely familiar opening chords of ‘Let It Go’ kicked in. The sky was completely black now, almost as though there’d been a total eclipse of the sun. I said a quick prayer to the Patron Saint of Children’s Party Entertainers—and if there isn’t one, there really should be—and asked very nicely if any lightning that was planned could hold off for the next ten minutes at least. I wasn’t at all keen on that electrocution thing.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and … let it go. However wet I was, however tired I was, however itchy that dress was, I loved to sing. Even this, which I’d done over and over and over again for so long, still had the power to lift my spirits.

It was a beautiful song, and an absolute dream to perform. I tried to avoid Jocelyn’s gaze—I suspected her eyes were glowing red like an evil child from a horror film by now—and threw myself into it heart and soul. That’s what I was paid to do, and, more importantly, that’s what I loved doing.

Things might not have worked out quite the way I’d hoped when I was eighteen, but at least I had managed to make a living from singing—assuming by ‘living’, you meant a steady diet of Ramen noodles, no landline, and sneaking vodka into pubs in my handbag to add to my coke on nights out.

Still, I was doing what I loved. What I still thought I was born to do—and at the ripe old age of twenty-two, I wasn’t quite ready to give up on my dreams just yet.

Plus, if I kept my eyes screwed closed, and ignored the rain, and blocked out the sounds of the kids screaming at each other, I could still lose myself in the music; lose myself in the joy of the song … and imagine everything was very different. That I wasn’t standing here being mocked by a group of minipsychos and their boozed-up parents. That I was on my own stage, doing my own concert, for my own adoring audience …

As I sang out the last few lines, my fantasy was rudely interrupted by what felt like a giant blast of washing-up liquid to the face. It sloshed up my nose, choked my mouth, and stung my eyeballs. I yelled and tried to back away from the liquid punch in the gob; sadly, my heels were still firmly embedded in the muddy ground and, although the rest of me backed away, my feet didn’t.

As a result, I landed on my blue-polyester-clad backside, squelching around in an ever-expanding puddle of dirt, grass, and rainwater. I’d dropped the mike, and was now screaming as the snow machine continued to spew at me.

It was supposed to create a beautiful fairy-tale effect as I finished the song—one that the children usually loved. We filled the special tank with what was mysteriously called Snow Fluid, and when Ruby pressed the button, it gently showered me with foamy snowflakes. It got oohs and aahs every time we used it.

This time, though, something had gone badly wrong. I don’t know whether it had malfunctioned, or Ruby had pressed some magical and previously unused setting, but the stuff had blasted me full in the face like one of those water cannons police use in riots.

As I lay there, drenched to the skin, unable to get up again because the mud was now of a level that hippos would enjoy wallowing in, I finally heard it. The sound that usually made me happy.

Bloody applause.




Chapter 2 (#ulink_1a3a8eb5-d839-50fb-b643-2bf50b9a6024)


I craned my neck up at such a weird angle I knew I’d have a crick in it later. Yep, I was getting a standing ovation—not for my majestic performance of ‘Let It Go’, but for falling on my arse in a load of mud. What a knob!

I could hear the kids screeching and cackling and whooping, and the deeper tones of the parents joining in. So much for being the grown-ups. I peeked up again, and saw that even Ruby had tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks. Her slightly too chubby cheeks, I thought, with a spike in my usually low bitchiness levels. Being stuck in a trough of dirt in a fake Disney Princess costume will do that to a girl.

Everyone was so busy laughing it up at my expense that nobody bothered to come and help me. Ruby hadn’t even turned the snow machine off, so the foamy water was still shooting out of it, making my predicament even harder to escape from.

I was pondering whether to just give up—maybe turn face down in the mud and drown myself—when someone reached down and grabbed hold of my flailing hands. I gripped on, not caring who it was, and I was pulled up so hard I slammed right into the body of my rescuer.

A body that was tall and strong and very, very male. I gazed up, and looked into a pair of deep, dark, chocolate-drop eyes. Okay, they were a bit crinkled up from laughing, but at least he’d bothered to help.

The eyes were gorgeous—and the rest of the package wasn’t to be sniffed at either. Even if he did smell so nice I was quite tempted. He was about six foot, broad-shouldered but lean, and had dark hair that was done in one of those really super-expensive cuts that looks super-casual, a bit of fringe flopping over his forehead in the wind and the rain.

He was getting drenched by the snow machine and, I realised, covered in mud from me—the Disney Princess who’d spent the last thirty seconds resting in his arms and looking at him like he was a hot chocolate fudge cake. With squirty cream.

‘Oh God!’ I said, jumping away from him and almost falling over again. ‘I’ve got you all dirty!’

He reached out and took a solid hold of my arm, ignoring the mud and holding me steady. He gave me a huge grin—one of those infectious ones that makes you see the funny side in everything.

‘I don’t mind,’ he said, with a cheeky sideways smile, ‘I like being dirty.’

There were so many responses to that one, I didn’t know where to start. So for once in my life—and anyone who knows me will agree this was a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence—I kept my mouth shut. This guy was handsome and dashing and probably rich. He was giving me the once over in a way that let me know the princess dress was now extremely wet and extremely clingy, and he was still holding on to me.

It was one of those situations that should come with a DANGER! HIGH VOLTAGE! sign, and maybe a little cartoon of a woman with a broken heart. I’d just come through a nasty break-up with my ex, a window cleaner called Evan, who I’d discovered was whipping out more than his chamois leather on his rounds. I’d decided to become a born-again virgin—and this man looked like he ate born-again virgins for breakfast. In a good way.

I kept one hand on his arm to steady myself, leaned down, and pulled my white heels off. It meant I’d have to squelch barefoot in the mud, but at least I wasn’t trapped any more. Ruby had finally recovered enough from her laughing-gas attack to turn off the snow machine, and I could hear the sound of her leading the kids in a rousing rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. I usually did that—in character as Elsa—but all things considered, it was probably best to move on without me.

‘Thank you, so much,’ I said, staggering off to one side, being led by him to the shelter of the gazebo. ‘I honestly thought I was going to pop my clogs then.’

‘If you’d been wearing clogs,’ he said, grabbing up a navy blue gilet from the back of a chair, ‘you might not have had that problem in the first place.’

I tried to shrug him away—the gilet looked as expensive as him—but he draped it around my shoulders and gave my wet, chilly arms a good rub.

‘Yeah,’ I replied, grateful for the warmth. ‘But until they come up with a Dutch Disney Princess, I’m screwed. I’m so sorry, I’ve messed up all your clothes …’

His once-white shirt was now splattered with mud, and his black jeans were smudged all across the waist, crotch, and thighs. He glanced down at himself and his face broke out into that grin again. He must have been quite a bit older than me—early thirties or something, I’d have guessed—but that grin made him look like a naughty schoolboy.

‘Yes. It looks a bit like I’ve been having sex with a pig, doesn’t it? From behind.’

‘I suppose it would have to be,’ I answered, finding myself giving the idea some serious thought, ‘you’d get squashed otherwise.’

‘What a way to go, though, eh?’ he asked, those gorgeous brown eyes crinkling up in amusement. As he spoke, he picked up a full glass of red wine and passed it to me. I looked at it as though it was the Holy Grail—I don’t think I’d ever wanted a drink more in my life.

‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘Ta very much, though. But princesses are like the police—we never drink on duty.’

‘Nobody will ever know,’ he said, gesturing to the back of the gazebo, where Evil Jocelyn was sitting on what looked like a throne, surveying her minions as they finished up their birthday song and started on three cheers. I couldn’t help it—I stuck my tongue out at her. And that was without the wine.

‘Did you just blow a raspberry at the birthday girl?’ he asked, sounding shocked. I thought he was faking it, but I wasn’t sure, and I felt myself blush under the mud on my face. My Elsa plait was now completely covered in dirt, and draped over my chest like a big brown turd.

I grabbed the wine and downed it in one. He was right, nobody would notice.

‘Yes, I did,’ I said. ‘She’s … a bit strong spirited?’ I ventured, trying for diplomatic—which was never my strong suit. He definitely wasn’t Jocelyn’s dad—I’d already met him—but he must be connected to the family somehow to even be here. Though the fact that he was necking wine with me in the naughty corner rather than passing a gift to the Golden Child suggested they weren’t that close.

‘Strong spirited. I like that one. I suspect what you wanted to say, though, was “evil little bitch from hell”, wasn’t it?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, wiping my lips so I didn’t end up with tell-tale red wine stains. ‘But that wouldn’t be professional.’

He glanced back at the present parade behind us. Everyone was handing over a beautifully wrapped parcel or an elegant gift bag, and Jocelyn was throwing them all to one side like Henry VIII with chomped-up chicken legs. Ugggh! She was enough to put you off having kids for life.

‘Jocelyn is my niece,’ he said, calmly. ‘My only niece.’

I froze for a moment, wondering if he was secretly pissed off at me for almost (but not quite) slagging off his flesh and blood. His face stayed serious for a second, but then the grin was back, and I was able to let go of the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

I punched him on the arm—which is a sign of affection where I come from—and smiled back.

‘You had me going then,’ I said. ‘I was a bit worried you might report me to the Princess Police for being a bit of a cow about the birthday girl.’

‘Never. I’ve known Jocelyn her whole life and, believe me, she brings out the cow in every sane person. Anyway … now we’ve been mud-wrestling together, how about you tell me your name? Assuming it’s not Elsa.’

‘Ha ha. No. I’m Jess. Or Jessy to my family. And Jessica when I’ve been naughty.’

He held out his hand to shake, and kept his fingers wrapped around mine for far longer than was decent.

‘And are you naughty often, Jessica?’

His eyes met mine, and I suddenly felt very, very warm, despite the rain and the soaking wet costume and the soggy plait.

‘Er … I’m trying very hard not to be,’ I replied quietly, pulling my fingers away from his.

Everything about this bloke screamed money and success and class. He was one of those men who was clearly used to getting his own way—and unless the mud had infiltrated my brain, at the moment he looked like ‘his own way’ might involve me. In the same position as the pig.

Much as that appealed to the lusty part of me—and the part that had just downed that red wine—the timing just wasn’t right. I’m not ashamed of my roots, of my accent, of my home town. And I’m proud as anything of my family—they’re the best. But me and this guy? We came from different worlds. If he was interested in me it would be as a bit of rough (not that I’m rough, but you know what I mean), and it wouldn’t last. And after Evan, I wasn’t ready for another man whose brain was located next to his dangly bits.

I busied myself over by the snow machine, unplugging the bastard thing, winding up the wires, and stowing the plug in the back. He followed me over, which I somehow knew he would.

‘I’m Jack,’ he said, leaning over the machine and making me look up at him. ‘Jack Duncan. And I was planning on coming to talk to you after the party anyway, Jess. Even if you hadn’t needed pulling out of your early grave.’

‘Oh!’ I said, standing up tall and tilting my head to one side. ‘Why’s that?’ I asked. This, I thought, should be good. He’ll come up with a load of old codswallop about how he thought we’d met before; or how I looked like a Cancer and he was a Taurus; or did I have any cards so he could pass them round to his friends with children …

‘Because of your voice. That performance—before the Unpleasant Incident—completely bowled me over. If you can do that with an overworked Disney song, I’d be interested to know what you can do with original material.’

Well. That one was new. And … maybe he meant it? He certainly looked sincere enough. The naughty schoolboy had gone, and his tone of voice wasn’t at all flirtatious. In fact it was just business-like, and genuine. In all honesty, nobody had shown any interest in my singing for such along time, I’d started to assume I might be a bit crap at it. I did the odd gig at the pubs round town, and won a few karaoke competitions, but it wasn’t like I had a fan club or anything. Talent scouts weren’t exactly camped outside my front door in Dingle, and the only bidding wars I was ever involved with were on eBay.

I might possibly have looked like I was fishing for flies; my mouth was hanging open so wide.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘You look like you might be about to have some kind of seizure …’

I clamped my jaws together and wiped the frown off my brow. That was no way to react to a compliment.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just a bit … surprised. Nobody usually notices. Especially today.’

‘Well, I did,’ he said, ‘and I was really impressed. There’s just a unique quality to your voice that I found so refreshing—and even though I suspect you’ve done that song thousands of times, you still put so much feeling into it. It was … authentic. Do you sing professionally—outside the princess community, I mean?’

I almost laughed out loud, but just about managed to retain my dignity enough to make it all sound a bit better than it actually was.

‘I have a few regular venues,’ I said, not adding that those venues were usually populated by old men with no teeth, so drunk on happy-hour-lager that they barely noticed I was there—and the ones that did, asked me when I was going to take my clothes off.

He nodded, possibly guessing all of that anyway.

‘And have you done any auditions? Have you got any demos?’

Now I was really puzzled. Why was he asking all of this? What was it to him?

‘You’re a bit of a nosy so-and-so, aren’t you?’ I said, looking him right in the eyes. If he thought praising my singing might help him get in my knickers, well … he might be right, actually. But I tried to look tough anyway. A useless effort, really, as I’m about as tough as blancmange.

‘I am indeed,’ he replied, looking amused. ‘But I’m also serious. I work for a record company down in London, and I’m always looking for fresh talent. And you—even when you’re covered in mud—are as fresh as it gets. I have a partner—let’s just call him Simon—and I know he’d be interested as well. Obviously, we’ve just met, and you don’t know me at all, so I don’t expect an answer right now—but I’d love for you to come down and meet him. Maybe get involved in the label. Get to know the business—find your feet a little. There’s always studio time available, young producers keen to make a name for themselves. It could be a great way for you to take your next steps in the music industry.’

As he spoke, he pulled out a leather wallet from his back jeans pocket, and handed me a card. It was plain black and white, but made of thick card—not the stuff we used for ours, which was like tracing paper—and all the lettering was embossed. I ran my finger over it, reading the words, ‘Jack Duncan—Head of Talent Engagement—Starmaker Records.’

Starmaker Records. I’d actually heard of them—it was the label that Vogue was signed to, among others. Vogue was one of my all-time favourites—a diva in the Whitney Houston vibe, but who could also crack out a really sassy rap section, and mixed dubstep with power ballads in a way that shouldn’t work but kinda did. I’d downloaded all her tracks, and—though this must be something I never, ever told Jack Duncan—sometimes sang them in front of the mirror, using the traditional hairbrush-as-fake-microphone technique.

Wow. I might be the most mud-encrusted Disney Princess of all time—but maybe something good had actually just come out of it all. Maybe I’d just got a break—and not the kind that results in a trip to the Royal and four weeks in a plaster cast.

By this time the kids were all running back towards us, screaming and yelling and heading for the section of the garden that had several fancy bouncy castles planted in it. They’d all be covered in rain, but that probably made it even more fun for them. They streamed past us, so loud I couldn’t have said anything to Jack even if I’d known what to say. I was completely stumped. Gobsmacked, as my dad would have said.

Jack got caught up with the flow as they went—Jocelyn grabbing hold of his hand and hissing. ‘Come on, Uncle Jack!’ as she dragged him with her. He disappeared off into the distance, massively tall among the sea of bobbing young heads, and waved at me as he went.

‘Call me!’ he shouted, before he turned and ran. Maybe he wanted to be the first on the bouncy slide.

I stared at the back of his body as he jogged away. Looked at the card in my now-shaking hands. Shivered as a particularly strong gust of wind reminded me that I was wearing soaking-wet-clothes.

What the Elsa had just happened?




Chapter 3 (#ulink_9ab7e037-16fd-54dd-8766-b5a29b54fe80)


The smell of roast yumminess hit me as soon as I opened the front door. I stood still and sniffed like a Bisto kid, picking up traces of chicken and spuds and gravy. My mouth watered in response—between the party games and the singing and the mud and the potentially life-changing encounter with Jack Duncan, I’d completely forgotten to eat all day.

My empty tummy was rumbling in a very un-ladylike way, and I sighed with happiness. Asking Ruby to drop me off at my mum and dad’s was definitely a very sensible decision.

It hadn’t been just for the food—although my mum was a boss cook and that was a definite bonus—it had been for the company. After such a weird day, I needed comfort. I needed to be with people who I knew loved me, and appreciated me, and cared about me. I needed to be with my family.

The door to the living room opened and my little brother Luke popped his head around the frame.

‘What’s up, fart face?’ he said, before rugby tackling me to the floor.

I kicked him in the head with one bare, muddy foot, and managed to escape from his grip. Luke is eighteen, and already over six-foot tall. He’d inherited some sporty gene that had completely skipped me, and played football, rugby, and took part in swimming contests. He also did mixed martial arts, and had a black belt in being an irritating knob head.

I staggered upright, not exactly feeling the warm glow of family love I was hoping for, and gave him another kick in the ribs. He made pretend ‘oof’ noises and rolled around on the hallway carpet like he was having a heart attack.

‘I’m going for a shower!’ I yelled, loud enough for my mum to hear me. She’d be in the kitchen, elbow deep in potato peel and surrounded by steam. I heard her shout back: ‘Okay, love! Tea will be ready in ten!’

Leaving Luke in a heap of fake pain, I ran up the stairs, and into the familiar bedroom that had been mine and my sister Becky’s until a year ago, when I’d decided—for some reason I can’t quite remember now—to move out.

The house was one of those Tardis homes: it looked small on the outside, but it was big on the inside. There were three bedrooms—the biggest was Mum and Dad’s, Luke had the box room, and me and Becky had the medium-sized one. As I closed the door behind me, I felt swamped with relief. Everything here felt so … safe. The smells—plug-in air fresheners, cooking, Dad’s Old Spice—all meant ‘home’ to me.

Luke had been campaigning to get the bigger room since I’d left and Becky had moved in with her boyfriend Sean. She probably wouldn’t be coming back, as she was three months pregnant with her first baby, but Mum and Dad had kept it just the way it used to be. I climbed up onto the top bunk—that was always hers, and we used to fight like cat and dog over it when we were kids. For some reason I still always felt like I’d scored a win when I managed to lie on it without her attacking me. Childish but true.

I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, listening to the voice of Michael Bublé floating up the stairs. My mum Michelle bloody loved Michael Bublé. We’d bought her tickets to see him in concert for her fiftieth, and she practically passed out with excitement. Still, it could be worse. My nan was obsessed with Daniel O’Donnell (‘such a nice young man!’).

The noises coming from my stomach told me it was time for food, so I dragged myself out of my pit and headed for the bathroom. As I got in the shower, I mentally prepared myself for the torture that was washing in a house that contained both dodgy plumbing and my evil brother Luke. This weird thing happened where if you flushed the downstairs loo, the shower water went freezing cold.

I stepped under the spray and sure enough, straight away, heard the sound of the flush. I jumped back to avoid the chill factor, waiting a few seconds before I continued. It carried on like this for the whole event, but somehow I managed to wash my hair, clean up, and dress myself in some comfy tracky bottoms and one of my old T-shirts.

By the time I got downstairs, everyone was ready, sitting around the old dining table at the back of the through lounge.

‘You little shit,’ I said, whacking Luke on the head as I walked past him to my chair.

‘What do you mean? I just had a floater!’ he said, smirking at me. Like I said, evil.

My sister Becky was there, and I gave her a quick hug before I sat down. I hadn’t seen her for a week, which in our family was practically reason to file a missing person’s report. She looked a bit peaky, and only had a few slices of chicken breast on her plate, which she was pushing around with her fork. Not exactly glowing, but hopefully, it would get better.

‘So,’ said my mum, looking across the table at us all and smiling. ‘The whole clan is here.’

‘Better call the paramedics and put them on standby,’ added my dad Phil, pouring gravy over his mash.

My dad is fifty-two, but looks a lot older—mainly because he lost all his hair when he was in his thirties. It never seemed to bother him, and he calls himself the Bald Eagle to make it all sound a bit more macho. He’s tall—everyone in our family is apart from my mum, who is technically some kind of midget—and carries his beer belly with as much pride as his lack of hair. He calls it his ‘Guinness Six Pack’.

My mum is fifty-one, and tiny. She has dyed-black hair, and looks a bit like an energetic garden gnome. She’s always busy, my mum—with work, with us lot, with her own mum. I swear if she sat still for five minutes we’d all think she was ill. She couldn’t wait for Becky’s baby to arrive, just to give her even more to do.

‘So, how are you, Sis?’ I asked Becky, a bit worried about her.

‘Fat. Knackered. Puking up all day.’

Ah. The joys of motherhood.

Becky shut up after that, but I noticed my mum sneaking glances at her as we ate. She’d been through it all three times, obviously, but she was like Superwoman—she probably just gave birth to us in the middle of doing the laundry and carried right on with a hot wash.

I was so busy stuffing my face that I didn’t hear when my dad asked me about the ‘gig’. He always called them ‘gigs’. I think it made him feel young and hip.

‘Earth to Jessy!’ said Luke, poking me in the side with the prongs of his gravy-covered fork. I yelped and looked at everyone, almost choking on my cabbage.

‘You seem a bit distracted, love,’ said Dad. ‘Anything up?’

‘What he means is, you look like a mental patient with that cabbage hanging out of your gob,’ said Luke.

‘Shut UP, you little fuck!’ I replied, kindly.

‘Language!’ said Mum and Dad at exactly the same time. Tea time with the Malones—it was always X-rated, no matter how much they tried. Served them right for having too many kids.

I debated whether to tell them about Jack Duncan. I needed to talk to someone about it, but I wasn’t sure who. Ruby was distracted with the disgusting Keith. Becky was distracted with her morning sickness. Luke was distracted by being a complete tit.

I had a sudden flash of yearning for Daniel, the boy who used to live next door. He’d moved away with his family not long after our concert, heading ‘down south’ (which could mean anything from Birmingham to Berkshire) with his parents, who’d inherited a small B&B by the seaside. We’d stayed in touch for a while, but that had faded when he went off to uni—studying something techy I never quite understood. I’d tried to find him since, usually when I was a bit pissed and feeling nostalgic, but he was untraceable—possibly the only twenty-two-year-old on the planet to not be on Facebook.

New neighbours had moved in, and every time I saw their front door that they’d painted cream, I felt a bit sad about it. So, I had to work with what I had—my family.

‘I met this man,’ I said quietly, not sure what their reaction would be, putting down my knife and fork when I realised my hands were shaking. ‘Who works in the music business.’

‘Let me guess,’ jumped in Luke straight away, ‘he wanted to take you away from it all? Make you a star? As long as you gave him a blow job first?’

‘Luke!’ said Mum, in her don’t-mess-with-me voice. The voice that could make any one of her kids freeze in the middle of whatever they were doing. Sure enough, Luke looked terrified, and suddenly became very interested in his chicken leg.

Becky was staring at me over the table, frowning. Her skin looked slightly green, as if she was a space alien.

‘He does have a point, though, Mum,’ Becky said. ‘Let’s face it, Jessy is so gullible she’d believe anything.’

I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. There had been a few … incidents. Like the bloke who claimed to be a talent scout for a modelling agency, and asked me to take my top off as soon as I walked through the door of his studio. Like the ‘audition’ I’d gone to where all the star-struck girls were expected to perform while dressed up as Playboy bunnies. And my personal favourite, the guy I’d met at a kids’ party who’d booked me to sing at his wife’s fortieth—except the wife hadn’t been there. In fact, nobody had been there, apart from me, him, and a very brassy lady of the night who’d obviously been brought in to join the performance.

Each time, they’d seemed genuine. Each time, I’d believed them. Mainly because I wanted to—I wanted to be respected, admired, discovered. I wanted to be a star—but unfortunately, the road to stardom was paved with perverts.

I stayed quiet. It was depressing, really. Even my own family didn’t believe that someone could be genuinely interested in my talent. And they were probably right. I’d be a Disney Princess until I was too old, then I’d have to join an Abba tribute band.

‘Well,’ said my mum, realising that an uncomfortable silence had settled over the room, and that I was possibly on the verge of tears. ‘Jessy, you know how much we love you—and nobody knows better than us how hard you’ve worked at this. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and you deserve a break. We all want that for you, hon. We just want you to be … careful, as well. We don’t want anyone to take advantage.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Luke, whipping out his iPhone. I told him, almost scared to find out the truth. It would all just be another fairy tale bust to pieces if Jack hadn’t been what he said he was. I tried to stay positive—but sometimes even princesses get down in the dumps.

We all waited while he Googled him, and looked on as he frowned and swiped over different pages on the screen. Eventually, he looked up and gave us all a big grin.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, ‘looks like she’s hit the jackpot this time, folks. Jack Duncan, Starmaker Records. Thirty-three years old, and one of the rising stars of the music industry. He discovered Vogue—and now he’s interested in our Jessy!’

Everyone was quiet for a moment, weighing up what he’d said. Considering the fact that it might not all be bullshit after all—that something could finally be happening for me.

‘Still,’ added Luke—his confidence back—just to spoil the moment, ‘it doesn’t mean he’s not after a blow job as well …’




Chapter 4 (#ulink_3d78254e-6348-574c-94d7-b896af234925)


My dad gave me a lift home after dinner. Part of me had wanted to stay the night, but I needed to do some thinking. And it was always hard to think with my family around—they were just too noisy, bless ‘em. Everyone had an opinion, and everyone wanted you to listen to it at the same time. Even the lure of sleeping in the top bunk wasn’t quite enough to tempt me.

So I’d climbed in the back of Dad’s black cab, and we’d lumped and bumped our way across the city centre, which was all lit up and looking gorgeous, milling with glamorous women and tipsy tourists and people of all ages out for a good time.

We drove past the Albert Dock and up towards my end of town—which was slightly less glamorous, but a bit more affordable for a pair of struggling children’s entertainers. Plus, it was on the same road as a Lidl, which was quite a selling point.

He pulled up outside the flat, and made his usual joke: ‘That’ll be twelve pounds fifty, please, queen.’

He’d tried to charge me for lifts since I was twelve, and he never seemed to get tired of the gag. Instead, I climbed out, grabbed hold of my bag, and gave him his usual tip when he wound the window down—a big kiss on the cheek.

‘Bye, love!’ he shouted cheerily, waving me goodbye as he stopped traffic in both directions with a very anti-social three-point turn. Cabbies, eh?

*

When I walked back into the flat I shared with Ruby, I immediately knew that her boyfriend Keith was round. And I immediately knew they were getting jiggy with it in the bedroom.

None of that makes me Sherlock Holmes—I could actually hear the headboard banging against the wall, and Ruby screaming her head off as Keith performed his manly duties. Uggh.

I shuddered, and slammed the living room door as hard as I could to let them know I was home. There was a pause in the headboard banging, a few giggles, and then it started again. Charming.

Our living room was open plan with our kitchen. And our dining room. And the utility room. In fact, there was just one quite small room, with a couch in front of the TV (one of the old ones with the fat backs), and the cooker and sink and fridge right behind. I was lying about the dining room—there isn’t one. We eat our noodles off trays on our laps, usually while we’re watching crap reality shows and slagging everyone off. It’s a very glitzy lifestyle.

I threw my bag on the couch and put the kettle on to make a coffee. Opening the fridge, I found that Ruby had not only used the last of the milk, she’d put the empty carton back on the shelf. It sat there, mocking me, next to a piece of mouldy cheese and some eye drops I’d used for conjunctivitis two weeks ago.

So much for the comforts of home, I thought, deciding that I should have stayed at Mum and Dad’s after all.

The only other item in there was a bottle of Prosecco—one that Jocelyn’s mum had given us as thanks after the party. And possibly to stop us suing her for emotional trauma. I was amazed that Ruby and Keith hadn’t nabbed it and taken it into their love shack with them, and I grabbed hold of it quickly, just in case they remembered and appeared naked to claim it back.

I opened the cupboard to get a glass, then remembered they were all in the dishwasher—the dishwasher that had broken last week, and we were still waiting for the landlord to get repaired. I didn’t dare look in there. It’d be like a scene from a sci-fi special, complete with new lifeforms. Instead, I popped the bottle open and retreated to my own room.

It was only small, but I’d done my best with it. I’d repainted the crappy box-built furniture in a pretty pastel shade of light green, and the walls were plain and white to make it feel bigger. There wasn’t space for much, but I had a wardrobe, a dresser filled with all my make-up and hair stuff, the mirror spotted with Blu-tacked photos of friends and family. One of Mum and Dad, outside the Michael Bublé concert. One of Luke when he was six and still cute. One of me and Daniel, the night of the school concert … which seemed about a million years ago.

My queen-sized bed was decorated with fairy lights draped around the wrought-iron headboard that made it look like there was a party going on when they were illuminated. Not that it had seen much action recently, I thought, not since Evan, and, despite having a couple of hot flushes when I was crushed up against Jack earlier that day, I intended to keep it that way. Life was simpler without men in it, even if a bed was a lot less fun without a man in it.

I pulled off my clothes, suddenly exhausted, and climbed under the duvet naked. My mum had washed all my bedding for me the day before (like I said, she never stops), and the smell of the fabric softener she’d always used wafted into my nostrils in a way that comforted me far more than the few mouthfuls of chilled booze I’d just swallowed.

Still, I decided to persevere and see just how comforting a whole bottle of Prosecco could be … I thought I deserved it after the day I’d had. And maybe it would give me some inspiration; help me answer a few of the dilemmas I was facing.

I had some decisions to make. On the one hand, the chance to work with Jack Duncan—the chance to be part of Starmaker—was a dream come true. I had a work ethic as well-developed as my mum’s when it came to my music, although I lagged behind a bit on the hoovering front.

I was willing to work—to slog my guts out, in fact. I’d always wanted to be a singer—I’d never entirely given up, no matter how many knock-backs I’d had. No matter how many people had told me I wasn’t quite right: not blonde enough, not cute enough, not sexy enough, not … something enough. All those auditions and meetings that ended in the same conversation: ‘You have a strong voice, but we’re looking for XXX’—and then it was just a matter of filling in the blanks. They were looking for someone older. Or younger. Or Korean. Or, on one occasion, someone fatter—they were going for a plus-sized girl-group vibe. There was always something missing, something not right.

Jack Duncan hadn’t said I wasn’t right, though. He’d said I was fresh, and talented, and authentic, which I knew from watching The X Factor was a good thing. He wanted me to come to London, to meet his mysterious music-biz friend Simon (my heart wished for Cowell, but my head said don’t be so gullible). He was offering me the chance I’d been waiting for—and if it worked out, not only could I be a success, but I could share that success with my family. Pay off their mortgage. Send my mum and dad on that cruise they were always talking about. Make sure that Becky’s baby wanted for nothing. Get Luke a personality transplant.

It wouldn’t just change my life—it would change theirs as well.

But on the other hand—although both my hands were a bit shaky now as I was halfway through that bottle of Prosecco, chugging from the bottle like the pure class I was—I’d have to go to London. I’d have to leave my friends, my home, my family. I loved the bones of my family, and I’d only ever been away from them for a few weeks at a time for shameful holidays to Malia and Ibiza. If I was gone for too long I’d miss Becky’s baby being born, wouldn’t be around to welcome the next generation of Malones set to terrorise the world.

I’d have to leave Ruby, and my other friends, most of whom I’d known since I was a little kid. I’d have to leave Liverpool—a place I’d never dreamed of escaping from.

I’d have to leave my flat. My bed. My Lidl … how could I ever leave my Lidl, I thought, as I felt my eyelids droop shut and found just about enough conscious thought to put the bottle down before I crashed out into snoozeland. Once I was there, I was plunged into a very nice dream involving Jack Duncan, an igloo, a roaring log fire (I wasn’t sure how that would work in an igloo, but hey, it was dream so I was going with the flow), and bearskin blankets that smelled of my mum’s fabric softener …

‘Jess!’ Jack shouted, shaking me by the shoulders. I rolled over on the bearskins, sniffing the fragrance, and sighing.

He shook me again—a bit harder this time—and I decided I might go off him. Shaking a girl like this wasn’t very romantic.

I swatted his hands away, mumbling at him to bugger off and do the dishes, and he yelled again: ‘Jess! Wake up!’

Uggh. I opened one eye, and that was enough to tell me it hurt, and that I should definitely keep the other one shut. I lashed out, and realised that it wasn’t Jack shaking me at all—it was Ruby, her face so close to mine I was tempted to bite her nose off.

I glared at her instead, and pulled the duvet up over my boobs. I was glad I did, as I noticed right then that Keith was lurking in the doorway—his belly, so big he looked like he was about to give birth to miracle triplets, hanging over the waistband of his saggy boxers. He had one hand shoved down the front as well, which made him even more attractive.

‘Good morning, gorgeous,’ he said, leering at me, still poking around in his pants. I felt a bit sick in my mouth, and wished I had a lock on my door.

‘What do you want?’ I said to Ruby, glancing at the bedside clock and seeing it was only six a.m. I hadn’t voluntarily seen six a.m. since I did my Duke of Edinburgh Award and, even then, ‘voluntarily’ was stretching it. Nobody booked party princesses any earlier than ten.

‘Have you got any condoms?’ she asked, as though it was entirely normal. ‘We had one of those multi-packs but we’ve used them all up …’

‘It’s been all aboard the love train,’ added Keith, pulling an imaginary whistle and making ‘wooh wooh!’ noises. Seriously, if I’d had a shotgun, I’d have blasted his head off like one of the zombies on The Walking Dead.

‘No. Now fuck off …’ I muttered, pushing her away. ‘Try the Lidl. And close my door on your way out. And … go and get some bloody milk!’

Ruby backed off, a daft grin on her round face, bundling her almost-naked boyfriend out of the door as she did.

‘All right, Sleeping Beauty,’ she said, ‘I was only asking … no need to bite my head off …’

They giggled their way out of my room, slamming the door shut behind them. Oh. My. God. I was soooo tired. And so hungover. And so bloody fed up of my life.

I sat up, rubbed my eyes clear of the crusty stuff that had magically appeared overnight, and looked at myself in the dresser mirror. My long, highlighted hair was clumpy and tangled and the roots needed doing. My skin was pale and dry from too much party make-up. My blue eyes were exhausted, red-rimmed, and missing the sparkle that even I knew used to live in them.

I was only twenty-two, but I felt like everything was closing in around me. No matter how much I loved my family, no matter how much I loved Liverpool, I needed to make a change. I needed hope. I needed a total life make-over. I needed that chance that Jack Duncan was offering me.

I reached for my phone, his card lying tucked beneath it. It was too early to call, I decided. I suspected people in the music industry slept in even later than princesses. But I could still contact him on the email address.

‘Hi, it’s Jess,’ I typed, as quickly as I could with a hangover and long nails painted candyfloss pink, ‘we met at Jocelyn’s party yesterday. Give me a call when you can.’

I had a small debate about adding some kisses—I mean, everyone does that, don’t they? Ruby even puts kisses on the end of messages to her credit-card company. But no, I thought, let’s keep it professional.

That decided, I pressed send before I could change my mind, and sat very still for a few seconds, wondering if I’d done the right thing or not.

Well, it was too late to worry about that now—I’d already Let It Go.




Chapter 5 (#ulink_3a9884c4-985f-5a32-b372-d8c45ed05698)


Every single member of my family was wearing matching T-shirts. They all had a photo of my face on them—a nice one at least, the Cinderella we used on the party website—and the words TEAM JESSY emblazoned in red capital letters.

Becky’s was stretched over her now just-about-visible baby bump, and Mum’s was so big it hung down to her legging-clad knees. I suspected my dad had ordered them all in the same size—large enough to fit over his Guinness Six Pack—so everyone else was just having to make do.

We were all crowded on the platform at Lime Street Station, waiting for the London train to arrive. We gathered a few curious stares—which takes a lot in Liverpool, believe me—and a few ‘go on, girl’ type comments from men who were already on their third can of Special Brew.

They’d picked me up from the flat in Dad’s taxi, and I was allowed to ride in the front as a special treat. Ruby and Keith had waved me off, and that had started a wave of tears that I had a feeling wasn’t going to stop any time soon. Ruby and I had had our ups and downs, but I’d known her forever, and I was going to miss her.

I was going to miss everyone. Even Luke, and his rugby tackles. If someone rugby tackled me in London, I’d probably emerge without my handbag and my front teeth.

If I was being honest, I was a bit scared. I mean, I’d been to London before, obviously. On school trips. For auditions. To see Mamma Mia in the West End. But living there was a whole different kettle of fish—especially when I was heading to a flat I’d never seen in person, and to a job I didn’t really understand.

Jack had called me back the same day I emailed him.

‘So,’ he’d said, once we’d exchanged small talk. ‘Can I tempt you down to the big city, Jess Malone? Are you ready for the challenge?’

Something in the way he’d said it sounded flirtatious—like he wasn’t just challenging me to come and work at Starmaker. Like he was challenging me was a woman as well. It prompted two reactions. One was horror, in case he just wanted me down there so he could, to put it bluntly, get his leg over. The other was a tingle of excitement that floated around in my tummy like tiny, sex-starved butterflies. He was gorgeous, and I’d been a good girl for a very long time. Maybe I wouldn’t object quite as much as I should if he did want to get his leg over.

The call had been short, and he said he’d get back to me with some details. And now, four weeks later, I was off. Leaving my home, leaving my family, leaving my friends—for my next big adventure. My first big adventure, really. Ruby had already found someone else to take my seat in the Princess Mobile—which didn’t exactly make me feel useful—and Mum and Dad had been absolute saints.

Jack had explained that I’d be joining as a kind of paid intern—I’d do some practical work that would help me get to grips with the way the business worked; get enough money to live on (barely), and he and Simon would work out a mentoring programme for me that would involve singing coaches and studio time and laying down some tracks with one of Starmaker’s producers.

I’d tried to explain it to the folks, to put their minds at rest that I wasn’t moving all the way to London to work as a high-class call girl, but they hadn’t really understood it. Which was fair enough, as I didn’t either—I just had to take the chance.

‘So,’ Luke had said, frowning, ‘it’s a bit like The Apprentice crossed with The X Factor. Are you sure you can’t come up with a really good business idea as well so we can get Dragon’s Den in there too?’

My dad had perked up at that one. He always had some great invention he’d come up with—it was the way he kept his mind busy in a job that involved lots of sitting around. His latest concept was the ‘Mini Ciggie’—literally a half-sized cigarette for people who were trying to give up and just wanted a few puffs, or for drunk people on a night out who were too hammered to smoke a whole one without falling over. He based the psychology of this on the many interesting sights he’d seen in Liverpool while looking for fares on a Saturday night, and had even taken a photo on his phone of all the almost-unsmoked discarded butts outside the smoking spots.

He’d never make it happen—but it kept him ‘out of trouble’, as my mum always said.

The two of them had helped me pay for the deposit on my new flat in Kentish Town, as well as booking my train for me—and paying the extra so I could go first class.

‘Start as you mean to go on, love,’ Dad had said, when I protested that it would cost too much. ‘Nothing but the best for my girl.’

‘Plus, it was only ten quid extra,’ Mum had piped up as she did the dishes.

So now, finally, the big day had come. I was packed. I was ready. I was willing and able to take on the world. And Team Jessy was a blubbering wreck around me.

As the train pulled in and we waited until the queue had cleared, all four of them huddled round, hugging me and kissing me and giving me words of encouragement. By the time I had to leave them, and drag my wheelie cases down the platform, we were all messed up with snot and tears. Even Luke had a few drops in his eyes, but that could have been misplaced hair gel from his perfect combover.

I watched them as the train slowly chugged away, waving and jumping around in their daft T-shirts, knowing I was leaving behind much more than Liverpool. I was leaving behind the very best family a girl could ask for.

I swiped away my own tears—they were going to make my mascara run, and panda eyes was not the look I was going for—and waved until they disappeared from view. As soon as they’d gone, I heard a text land on my phone—from Dad.

‘Knock ‘em dead, girl,’ it said.

They had so much faith in me. So much belief. I couldn’t let them down.

I settled into my very comfy chair, looking around me. First Class was a bit posh, and so were the people in it. Lots of sun tans and expensive-looking clothes, and fit-looking businessmen who already had their laptops on the go.

I felt a bit out of place, and a bit knocked for six emotionally by the farewell scene at the platform. I fought an urge to get off at Runcorn and run all the way home, and gave myself a good talking to.

I was taking a leap of faith. It was time to believe in myself as much as my family did, and make them proud. If this all worked out, I’d be travelling first class everywhere I went—and so would they. Dad would be chauffeured around rather than driving other people. Mum could get a cleaner instead of doing it herself. I could make this work—I could change everything for the better.

A lady in a smart red uniform came round and offered me one of those little bottles of wine. Obviously, I took it—Dad had paid an extra tenner after all, it’d be rude to say no. I poured my drink, and made myself relax.

I was going to London. I was finally going to get the break I’d been waiting for. I had to believe that it would work—that my voice would finally be heard by the world, and that I’d manage to fight my way to a first-class life.

First Class trains. First Class flights. First-class clothes, and food, and a gorgeous place to live where nobody dropped their old kebab wrappers in the street.

I knew I’d have to work for it, but that was fine. I’d work my arse off if I needed to.

As I sipped my wine, I visualised my new world. The gigs and the studio time and the fans. The interviews. The TV appearances. The stylists and make-up artistes. The holidays I could afford; the fantasies I could live out. The islands in the Caribbean I could visit. I could almost feel the sun on my skin, it was that vivid.

I leaned back, starting to feel a bit snoozy. I willed myself into a light sleep, urging my own brain to be positive while I rested—to see those images coming true. To give me the encouragement I needed to overcome the fact that I was practically pooing my pants with fear at leaving home.

Before I drifted off, I tucked my clutch bag tightly between my thigh and the window, just in case. I was sure nobody in first class was going to rob my purse—and if they did, they’d be very disappointed—but old habits die hard.

I conjured up a picture of the beautiful house in London that I’d buy. It’d be like something from one of those lovely films—Notting Hill or Bridget Jones or Love Actually—all whitewashed, with steps up to the door, and columns either side of it. There’d be a courtyard garden, and cobblestone streets, and all the cars parked there would be Jags and Bentleys … and I’d have my own PA, and my own stylist, and my own chef … my own songwriting team, my own publicist, my own manager … it was going to work, I thought, as I fell asleep, a big daft grin on my face.

It was going to work. It had to.




Chapter 6 (#ulink_b4c19b70-7cfc-5cd7-b27c-080e0887bae3)


‘It’s not working!’ Patty screeched at me, throwing a pen at my head. It bounced off my cheek, leaving a faint dent, and landed on the plush cream-coloured carpet.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, rubbing at my face. It had hit me with the pointy end and felt a bit sore. Much like the rest of me.

‘Don’t stand there gawping—just get me another one! And get me some coffee while you’re at it!’ said Patty, fixing me with that glare she had. The one she’d stolen from Cruella de Vil. Patty was about the same age as me, but had clearly been taking Bitch Lessons for the whole of her life. She was part of the Starmaker PR department, but the way she behaved, you’d think she was the Mayoress of London. Possibly the universe.

As far as I could see, she spent the whole day tweeting on behalf of the company, drafting crap press releases, and schmoozing with tabloid journalists. Her idea of a scoop was getting a picture of Vogue on the celeb gossip pages as she bought sexy underwear, or did her weekly shop in Tesco, to show she was ‘just like the rest of us’. Half the time the pictures were a complete set up as well—something I’d not realised before I started my dream job.

Patty called the paparazzi and told them what the day’s activities were for Starmaker’s biggest acts, and they did the rest, turning up ‘unexpectedly’ with their cameras. I suppose it was a deal that worked for everyone—the celebs had warning, so they could make sure they had their slap on and were wearing knickers (or not) as they climbed out of their limos, and the photographers got their ‘exclusive’ shots. And Patty? She just got more annoying every time she pulled it off.

It was a whole new world—which, even as I thought it, I realised I was still singing in my head as the Disney song from Aladdin. This whole new world, though, was a lot less princess and a lot more pain in the arse.

I’d been here for a month. A whole month of effort and hope and hard work—and I was still getting pens lobbed at my head and I was still making coffee for the PR team.

I ambled off to the stationery cupboard to get Patty a new biro, then made my way to the break room to get her coffee. I fought the urge to spit in it, and looked around at my alleged work colleagues.

There were a few of the other ladies from the PR team, all having high level meetings that seemed to involved sharing the crumbs of one chocolate croissant between three of them as they slagged off everyone else they worked with. There was Dale, the Starmaker dance teacher and choreographer—who did at least give me a smile and a cheery thumbs up as he pranced past in his tights, swigging a blue Powerade. There were a couple of suits from what was always mysteriously known as Legal. And there was Heidi, Jack Duncan’s assistant.

She was the best of a bad bunch, and walked over to chat to me as I waited for the coffee to brew. Patty was very particular about her coffee. No instant. Nothing from the coffee pot. It had to be made with her very own cafétière, using her own poncy blend she paid a fortune for and tasted exactly the same as Nescafé.

‘Hey,’ said Heidi, staring at me from behind her trendy red-framed glasses. ‘You’ve got a bit of a smudge …’

She pointed at my face, and I licked my thumb and rubbed at it. Ha. The pen had been working, after all.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘She threw a pen at me. Apparently, it was my fault it ran out.’

Heidi pulled a sympathetic face and leaned back against the counter, her larger-than-average bottom spreading out over the cupboard doors.

‘Chin up, chuck,’ she said, in the fake Scouse voice she always threw into our conversations. I got that a lot—people telling me to ‘calm down, calm down’, making jokes about me stealing their hub caps, and generally behaving as though people from Liverpool were some exotic foreign animal they’d never encountered before. I’d never even been aware of how strong my accent was until I lived in London. Now, it seemed to be the only thing about me that people remembered. That and the fact that I made the coffee.

Heidi, at least, didn’t mean any harm by it, so I just smiled. I was having to do that a lot lately. Just take a deep breath, and smile, and try not to swear or punch anyone. It didn’t come naturally.

‘Jack says are you okay with your schedule this week, by the way,’ she added, getting a packet of chocolate Hobnobs out of the cupboard. One of the few perks of working at Starmaker was the free snacks and drinks. Unfortunately, I’d already been told I had to make sure I didn’t put any weight on, so even that was off limits for me. I’m a size ten, but that was considered a bit on the plus side, so the joys of living above the best kebab shop in North London, and the cupboard choc-full of biscuits, were lost on me.

To be honest, the joy of pretty much everything was lost on me right then.

I nodded to let Heidi know I was okay with my schedule, and she trotted off, stuffing a Hobnob in her mouth as she went.

My schedule was … knackering. I’d never been so tired in my entire life. Jack had held true to his part of the bargain, but it wasn’t quite the dream lifestyle I’d imagined. More of a living nightmare, in fact. I got into the office at half nine, and spent the whole day being treated like something the PR team would scrape off their shoe after a walk on Hampstead Heath. I made their coffee, fetched their lunch, did their photocopying, collected their press cuttings, made their hair appointments, and provided target practice for their pen-throwing workshops.

I wasn’t allowed to answer their phones, or meet their guests at reception, or deal with the public in any way—because, as Patty had put it, ‘Nobody will understand a word you say—you practically speak a foreign language.’

If I was lucky, I got to shadow them in meetings, which allowed me to at least get to know a few people in the rest of the business, and get an idea of how things worked. And the way things worked was … badly.

I’d never come across so many egos and divas and prima donnas in my life—and that wasn’t even the performers. Everyone here thought they were a star, or at least thought they should be treated like one. Even the cleaners had a habit of singing while they emptied the bins, presumably hoping that someone would hear them warbling Whitney Houston tracks, and say ‘Now, that’s what I call music …’

The only genuine star I’d met was Vogue, and ironically she was adorable—probably the least up-her-own-bum of everyone I worked with. She certainly couldn’t beat Patty for being a rude cow, she always remembered my name, and she never threw anything at my head. She’d even complimented me on my singing when she’d heard me one night.

The singing that I would get to do after a full day’s work in the office. I usually finished at about six—when the others would go off to wine bars and parties and glitzy functions, and I’d stay behind, like Cinderella being banned from the ball. Maybe I was too fat and too Scouse to be allowed on the guest list.

After that, the rest of my work schedule would start—and from six until nine I’d get to do the stuff I’d come all this way for. The stuff I’d left my family for. The stuff that the dreams really were made of.

I’d see Dale in the dance studio and learn steps to the routines he was choreographing for Vogue and the other A-listers on the label. I’d see Frankie, the vocal coach, and spend an hour gasping for air and doing freaky voice exercises and perfecting my runs and pretending I was Mariah Carey. I’d see Neale, the junior make-up guy, who seemed to be as low down the ladder as I was, and ‘we’d gossip as danced around to R.Kelly’s She’s Got That Vibe, Neale showing off the moves he still had from his time as professional dancer. And maybe—when there was time available—I’d get to go into one of the studios and work with a producer. That didn’t happen too often, but when it did, it was absolutely the best bit of all.

Standing there, alone, in that darkened booth, headphones on and singing my heart out, was what made it all worthwhile. It was the same feeling I used to get when I sang the princess routines—I could shut everything else out, and lose myself in the song. Go to my happy place.

So far, I’d only done Vogue songs and a few covers—nobody was writing new tunes for the PR slave, let’s face it. But it still made it all worthwhile—it gave me a delicious taste of what it might all be like, one day. One day that I had to hope—had to believe—would arrive soon.

If it didn’t, I might just shrivel up and die, and they’d find me in the stationery cupboard one morning, like a slug that had been sprinkled with salt.

After all of that, at the end of my typical day at Starmaker, I’d trail my poor, exhausted body back out through the office. Down the plush corridors lined with framed platinum discs. Past the dark studio booths. Through to reception, with its vases full of lilies and spotlessly clean mirrored furniture, to the glamorous chrome spiral staircase, its curving walls decorated with enormous blown-up pictures of the talent on the label’s roster. When that mysterious ‘one day’ arrived, I’d be up there too—I had to believe that. I had to believe that Annie was right, and tomorrow was only a day away.

Most nights, I’d walk as quickly as I could to the Tube station, hunch down, and push my way onto the Northern Line. It had taken me a while to get used to the fact that nobody spoke to each other—in fact people looked at you as if you had a screw loose if you even made eye contact with them. It was a lot different in Liverpool, where you could get someone’s whole life story over a burger on the night bus. Here, I’d learned to hide behind a magazine, or spend the whole journey checking my phone while I listened to music on ear phones—which was about as much fun as it sounds.

It was only a few stops to Kentish Town at least, where I lived in an extremely glamorous studio apartment. Or, if you wanted to be more accurate, a one-room bedsit above a kebab shop, where the most exciting thing to happen was the mouldy pattern on the ceiling slowly changing shape because of the leak in the roof.

Once I was home—and once I’d managed to get past Yusuf, the shop owner and landlord, who talked so much he made up for the rest of London—I’d collapse. I’d watch telly, or read, or stand in front of my fridge, staring into it, wishing there was more food and that I was allowed to eat it if there was.

I’d be in bed by eleven, going over the high points of the day and trying to stuff the low points to the back of my mind, where they belonged. Between seeing Yusuf and getting into work the next morning, I wouldn’t speak to a single living soul—and then it would just be Patty screaming at me because her tights had laddered, and it was all my fault.

Other nights, though, it would be different. Very different.

So different, in fact, that it was a bit like I had a foxier twin sister who’d been stolen at birth, and lived a completely opposite life to mine.

Because on those other nights, Jack Duncan would message me, and arrange to meet me nearby. He’d have his flashy little Audi, and he’d be wearing beautifully crisp white shirts, and his hair would be artfully flopping across his handsome face, and he’d smell completely fantastic, not like a kebab at all.

On those nights, my life would be very different. They’d involve romantic dinners and long chats over expensive wine and lingering kisses that made my toes curl up in excitement.

Because, yes—Jack Duncan did, in fact, seem interested in getting his leg over. And he was starting to make me think it was a really excellent idea.




Chapter 7 (#ulink_3d82abcb-8a6c-5c92-922b-6ffd9da00d3f)


I know, I know.

It sounds bad, doesn’t it? Sleeping with the boss? It sounds like a complete stereotype, in fact—the bright-eyed young wannabe shagging her way to stardom. The older, more experienced record exec taking advantage of her desperation to get a roll in the hay.

Except … it wasn’t like that at all. It really wasn’t. For a start, we hadn’t even done it.

And—although I might sound like I’m trying to convince myself here—everything that had happened had felt very natural, and very real. It wasn’t as though I’d arrived in London, been chucked on a casting couch, and ordered to get jiggy with it. If that had happened, I’d have told him where to get off, and caught the next train back to Lime Street. Team Jessy just didn’t roll that way, thank you very much.

In fact, though, it had all started with a cappuccino. On my first day at the office, Jack had taken me for a coffee at this trendy place around the corner where a cuppa cost as much as a crate of ale. He’d explained my schedule, he’d asked about my flat, and he’d told me what I needed to hear—that I’d done the right thing.

‘Life’s all about taking chances,’ he’d said, sipping his drink and gazing at me with those dreamy dark eyes of his. ‘And that’s what you’ve done. Bravo. How do you feel now you’re actually here?’

I still felt on the nervous side around him, so I wasn’t completely truthful. That would have involved words like ‘petrified’, ‘terrified’, and other things that ended in ‘ied’. Instead, I settled for ‘a bit anxious’.

‘That’s understandable,’ he’d said, leaning back in his chair and smiling at me. He was so calm. So charming. So completely comfortable in his own skin, and in this overpriced café full of beautiful people. ‘And I get it. But you need to know that I’m here for you, even if you fall on your backside in a pile of mud. Metaphorically speaking.’

‘Well, you’ve seen me do it before,’ I replied, ‘and it might well happen again. Although so far I’ve not even seen any grass, never mind mud.’

‘I can fix that. One day, when you’ve settled in, I’ll have to take you out and show you the sights. It’s a beautiful city, and there is plenty of mud to roll round in if you know where to look. And if you’re that way inclined. Maybe if the mood takes me I’ll roll round in it with you—get in touch with my inner druid.’

He was so well turned out in his tailored shirt and posh jeans, he looked like he was more likely to have an inner male model than an inner druid. I tried to picture him dressed in a white toga and prancing round Stonehenge chanting, but that just made me giggle.

Giggling is never a good idea when you’ve just chugged your posh coffee, and I choked on my cappuccino—spluttering it up, and spraying the whole table, his face, and the front of my top with frothy foam. Of course.

I blushed bright red, having one of those you-can-take-the-girl-out-of-Liverpool moments as I felt like every hipster in the place turned to stare at me. Even the girl chalking up the specials on the blackboard stopped to have a gander.

Jack just wiped his face and laughed along with me—putting me completely at ease again, just like he had at Jocelyn’s party. This was starting to become a theme: me messing up, everyone else being amused/horrified by me, and Jack just … not caring. Just keeping calm, and carrying on.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, swiping at the table top with the sleeve of my best Karen Millen jacket. ‘Every time I see, you I seem to be doing something stupid. I’m not normally like this, honest to God. Usually, I can go whole days without a cock up.’

He raised one eyebrow at me, and gave me a very direct look in response to what I’d just said. Um. Maybe I could have phrased that one a bit better. As usual. At home, Luke or Becky would have poked me and said: ‘A cock up where?’ or something equally rude. Here, I realised I was treading on foreign soil.

‘Sorry, again,’ I muttered. ‘I’ve got to learn to think before I speak …’

‘It’s all right,’ he replied, grinning. ‘It’s cute. And anyway, I’m here to help. It’ll be like in My Fair Lady—I can be Professor Higgins to your Eliza Doolittle.’

‘Well, I’m definitely common enough, I’m starting to realise,’ I answered, looking around me.

It was funny, but I’d never felt common in Liverpool. I’d felt normal. But here, people already seemed more precise; more driven. More capable of drinking a cup of coffee without spitting it everywhere.

‘You’re not common,’ he said quickly. ‘And don’t ever feel like you’re not good enough. Didn’t I read somewhere that Liverpool was the pop music capital of the world? You come from a place that’s produced a lot of talent, a lot of stars. Must be something you all breathe in from the Mersey. So don’t ever be ashamed of what you are—just be yourself.’

‘That’s not what Professor Higgins says to Eliza,’ I replied. And I should know—it was one of my favourite musicals, and I’d watched it maybe a hundred times.

‘Fair point … okay, be a better version of yourself. One you feel comfortable with, but also one where you don’t feel embarrassed when you realise what you’ve said or what you’ve done. If this thing works out—and I really hope it will—you’ll need to be aware of how you come across in interviews, on stage, on camera. You can still be you—but maybe save the real you for your people who don’t mind getting covered in mud or drenched with cappuccino.’

‘Like you?’ I asked, not quite able to stop myself sounding a tiny bit flirty. He was too old for me, I told myself. He was my boss. And anyway—he was out of my league, and probably just being kind. A man as hot as him, working in the industry he did, probably had seventeen supermodel girlfriends on speed dial. Why would he be interested in a slightly tattered blonde former princess from Liverpool?

‘Exactly like me,’ he answered, his voice slow and drawling and the sheen in his eyes making my tummy do little loop-the-loops. Oooh, I thought. He was interested—which made the whole thing a lot harder to ignore. It was possible I was reading too much into his tone—but I definitely wasn’t reading too much into the way he’d reached out, and covered my hand with his on the table top.

He gave my trembling fingers a little squeeze, stroking my palm with his thumb in a way that promised all kinds of interesting skills, and gave me the super-smile again.

‘Just don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll help you any way I can. You need to put the work in—but you need to play as well.’

‘Play?’ I mumbled, losing my ability to think straight—not that I seemed to have much of that particular ability anyway—and staring at him like a brain-dead muppet.

‘Play,’ he confirmed. ‘Have fun. Relax. Let go. And I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, Jess, but one thing I’m really good at is playing …’

It turned out he wasn’t bragging at all. That first trip out for coffee had been repeated the week after. Then it had turned into a drink after work a few days later. Then it had evolved into dinner. Our hugs at the end of the night had evolved too—into gentle kisses, slow and sensual and oh-so-yummy.

Jack Duncan wasn’t like any other men I’d met. He certainly wasn’t like any of the men I’d been out with. For a start, he didn’t stick his tongue down my throat the minute we started snogging. He didn’t shove his hand up my top and root around for my bra strap. He didn’t point to his hard-on and say, ‘Come and get it, you lucky bitch’—which admittedly had only happened to me once, but still tops my least-romantic-quote-of-all-time list.

He was … slow. Teasing. Tempting. He kissed me as though I was precious, as if I was some wonderful delicacy he wanted to savour and enjoy. Like he wanted to make it last, instead of racing towards the next hurdle. And he didn’t just kiss my lips. He kissed my neck, my earlobes, my collarbone, my wrists, all in such a gentle and tantalising way that I was begging for more. Hoping for more.

But it hadn’t, as yet, gone beyond that. Even though I really, really wanted it to—at least I did at the time it was happening. In the cold light of day, I could recognise that it was a bad idea. In the warm light of night, though, in the shadow of streetlamps and under the gaze of the moon and stars, it always seemed like a very, very good idea indeed.

It wasn’t just the way he touched me—it was the way he treated me. We had fun together. We enjoyed each other’s company. He told great stories about the music business, and he laughed at my not-so-great stories about the Princess business, and he listened to my hopes and dreams and never mocked them. He understood how hard it was getting through my days, but he never let me feel sorry for myself—he was sympathetic, but tough, telling me it was just a stage, just a step. That one day, I’d look back and be grateful for the fact that I had real insider knowledge of how the industry worked …

Somehow, he made it all make sense. Somehow, he made my hellish days with Patty and her cronies feel worthwhile, part of my work ethic. Somehow, he made all my fears and doubts and insecurities disappear—at least for a few hours. A few hours of great conversation that would be followed up with one of those delicious, heart-rate-bumping kisses.

Those nights with Jack were the absolute highlights of my London life—not that they had much competition.

And, I reminded myself as I trekked back to Patty with her miraculously un-spat-in coffee, tonight was going to be one of those nights. We’d already arranged it, and I couldn’t wait.

I just needed to keep my head down, get through the day without killing anyone (including myself), and look forward to spending time with Jack. We were going for dinner at Chico’s, a little Italian place tucked away in the cutest mews street I’d ever seen, and then, if I was lucky, I’d get some of those gourmet kisses for pudding.

At least that was the kind of pudding that didn’t add inches to my apparently ginormous hips.




Chapter 8 (#ulink_d9a08ad6-a290-5364-8dba-688e0c345e0f)


I half expected someone to spot the difference in me the next day. I thought Patty would notice the glow, and declare I was looking radiant. Instead, she just narrowed her eyes at me and suggested I should start getting more beauty sleep—’like twenty-four hours a day’.

Huh. So much for my radiant glow, I thought, as I arranged their organic artisanal macadamia nut cookies on a plate. Not that they’d eat them—the whole PR department was on a permanent diet. They just kind of inhaled them, and then spent the rest of the day talking about how guilty it made them feel. If one of them chewed on a chia seed they’d declare themselves full.

I nipped to the loo while I waited for the coffee to perc, and glanced at myself in the mirror. Hmm. Maybe she had a point—I did look a bit rough round the edges. My hair had a tangle in the back of it the size of Dubai, and my liner had done an unintentional zigzag beneath my left eye. I wasn’t wearing the same clothes as the day before—Jack had booked me a cab home at the crack of dawn to avoid any Walk of Shame scenarios—but I could definitely do with some quality time in the shower.

Somehow, though, I just couldn’t find it in me to care. I was happy—I was walking on sunshine, as Katrina and her Waves might have said. I was even happier than I’d have been if I’d scoffed all those organic macadamia nut biscuits.

It had finally happened. After what felt like a month of foreplay, it had finally happened … and boy, had it had been worth the wait.

Dinner was lovely, even if I did skip the tiramisu—something that would normally have had my mum feeling my forehead with the back of her hand in case I was running a temperature. And after that, we’d gone to this little place in a backstreet in Chelsea that was all dark wood panelling and smelled of brandy and whisky and cigars, even though nobody seemed to be smoking one.

We’d spent ages talking; just talking and talking and talking—about music, about life, about family and friends and our hopes for the future. Okay, I will admit that he didn’t reveal too much—but it was a nice change to be with a man who wanted to listen as much as he wanted to bang on about himself. He was genuinely interested in me, which took me a while to get used to—I mean, I’m not that interesting, to be honest. At least I don’t usually think I am.

I’m all right—I’m not so boring someone would fall asleep while they’re having a conversation with me or anything—but I’m not likely to be signed up as a guest on Newsnight any time soon either. And I’m okay looking—I know I’m not a minger, and I scrub up well, but I’m nothing special. Nobody’s going to trip over themselves staring at me on the street.

But with Jack, I felt different. He made me feel like I was a sexy supermodel, not just someone who scrubbed up well. He made me feel like my stories were brilliant, my views were important, that everything about me was fascinating. We laughed and we chatted and we flirted and we drank—and it was all totally dazzling. It was like being exposed to a completely new species of manhood—one I’d never encountered before.

Maybe I was a bit star struck, I don’t know. Maybe I was also a bit grateful, that Jack had seen something in me that so many others had missed. Maybe I was just sex-starved and he was gorgeous. Whatever the reasons, though, the end result was the same—I was hooked.

When we’d emerged from the bar and climbed into his Audi I’d been merry and giggly and high on life. He was nowhere near as merry—he was driving, after all—but he did seem happy.

‘I’ve had a wonderful night, Jess,’ he said, turning towards me and laying one hand on my knee. I don’t know whether he’d planned it that way, but he’d parked right under one of those old-fashioned streetlights that’s made of curved wrought iron and looks all olde worldy, like something from a Dickens film. The glow from it was cast over his face, shining from his dark eyes, glinting on the deep brown waves of his hair. To use an intellectual term, it was pretty hot.

‘Me too,’ I said, then straight away burped like a frog with some serious digestive issues. It was a good, strong burp—deep and croaky. Luke would probably have given it an eight out of ten for comedy effect.

I quickly covered my mouth with my hand, and realised I was too tipsy to be as horrified as I should be. Instead, I started laughing—because, you know, noises that come from your body are naturally funny. At least they are where I come from—we never get fed up of fart jokes in our house.

He joined in, and we both laughed for a few minutes, until I was able to speak again.

‘I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not really,’ I said. ‘It’s your fault for getting me drunk. And at least it was only one burp—my sister Becky can do them on demand. She can even make tunes out of them.’

‘Really?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow and grinning. ‘How fantastic. Has she considered going on Britain’s Got Talent?’

‘Not yet, but I might suggest it to her … Anyway, I really did have a great night, Jack. I suppose I’d better get home and sleep this off.’

He nodded, and looked at me seriously, his eyes never moving from mine. Unlike his hand, which was definitely moving—in little circular motions on my thigh that should have tickled, but instead just made me feel a bit gooey inside.

‘Is that what you want?’ he said simply, all traces of laughter gone from his voice. ‘To go home? Because of course, I’ll take you if you do. But … I was wondering … if you’d like to take this to the next level? Come back to mine for a coffee?’

Something in my expression must have changed—and maybe he interpreted it as something negative—because straight away he continued: ‘And by coffee, I do mean coffee—no strings attached.’

‘Oh,’ I said, leaning back in the plush leather seat in a way I hoped was sexy, but probably just made me look like I needed a wee. ‘Just for a coffee? I can get coffee at my flat.’

‘Mine’s better,’ he replied, instantly, smiling at me in a way that I can only describe as Pure Sexy. ‘It’s hotter and it’s smoother and it’ll definitely keep you up all night. If that’s what you want.’

It was what I wanted. In fact—and I’m so glad I didn’t actually say this out loud—I was gagging for it. I’d always tried to have good intentions about Jack; no matter how good-looking or charming he was, I’d tried to avoid thinking about it becoming anything more. Because he was my boss. Because I didn’t want to behave like an idiot and get the knock back if he wasn’t interested, beyond a few casual kisses. Because I knew I was vulnerable—my glamorous life was taking its toll on me, with the long hours and all the hard work for so little return. I wasn’t at my strongest, and didn’t want to make it all even worse by getting my knickers in a twist about a man.

But, well … I’m only flesh and blood, you know? And it’s not like I jumped into bed with him. We’d taken the time to get to know each other. We’d had coffee dates and dinner dates and drinks dates. We’d had kisses and cuddles and long, lingering moments where things could have moved quicker—but they hadn’t. We’d taken it slow. Or—if I was being really honest with myself—Jack had taken it slow.

So, cutting a long story short, I’d spent the night at his flat. His penthouse apartment on the top of a modern building with views over the Thames—a place that I’d have to call a bachelor pad. It was ultra-sleek and ultra-stylish and it had an ultra-big bed—which is where we spent most of the night.

A lady doesn’t kiss and tell—and neither do I—but it had been fantastic. I was a bit drunk, which helped—I worry less about the way my body looks when I’m a bit drunk, which makes it all a lot better. It’s no fun when you’re too busy holding your tummy in to enjoy yourself, is it? Plus, there was the Jack factor—the way he made me feel, during our dates: as if I was the centre of his world, and he was lucky to be spending time with me. Well, he was like that in the bedroom as well.

I’m not that experienced when it comes to sex—I’ve not had very many boyfriends, and the only time I ever had a one-night stand, I didn’t know it was going to be one until the next morning. But I was experienced enough to understand that Jack was good at it—and that he could become addictive.

That was the only thing that was worrying me, as I scuttled around the office carrying the tray of drinks and cookies back to the PR pillocks. That I’d be too into him. That I’d do that girl thing and mix up good sex and good company with something more, and blow it all out of proportion. That even if I didn’t intend to, I’d find myself doodling Jess Duncan on scrap paper to see what my new signature would look like.

We’d had a bit of a talk about it, afterwards. When we were lying tangled up in his silk sheets, listening to softly playing soul music, the candles he’d lit around the bed burning low and filling the room with the scent of something spicy and musky. We agreed that whatever happened next, we’d need to keep it a secret—for both our sakes.

He didn’t want to be seen as the Starmaker lech, taking advantage of the talent. And I didn’t want to be seen as a slapper, understandably enough.

‘Let’s just go with the flow, Jess,’ he’d said, stroking my hair and leaning forward to gently kiss me. ‘See where this takes us—letting other people in on it will only complicate matters. I want to have you all to myself for a while, anyway. I’m selfish like that.’

The way he’d said that had sounded so romantic—wanting me all to himself. Like I was a chocolate fudge cake or something. And last night, I’d been happy with that. This morning, as I scooted around my flat trying to find clean underwear and wondering if all that energetic bonking had earned me a bacon buttie for breakfast, I’d still been happy with that.

Now, as I tried to work and found myself constantly finding excuses to walk past Jack’s office, I wasn’t so sure. I’d checked my phone about three million times. I’d casually chatted to Heidi at her desk only a few times less. And all I got from it was a crick in my neck from trying to stare through his glass door from behind one of the potted palm trees. I don’t know why I bothered—the glass was frosted, and all I could see were vague shapes moving around. It could have been my uncle Brian in there for all I could tell.

I knew I was behaving badly—stupidly—but I couldn’t quite stop myself.

I’d been here before. All women have, I think. At that stage where you feel brilliant and crap all at the same time. That stage where everything could happen—or nothing at all.

That stage where I’d normally have Ruby to talk to, or Becky—and now, here in London, I had nobody.

Unless you counted Patty—and as she was currently taking off her platform boots so I could go and polish them for her, I really, really didn’t.




Chapter 9 (#ulink_8bc9a474-2d44-57c6-a468-7f576f13e457)


‘You have kebab,’ said Yusuf, thrusting a wrapped paper package at my sister’s hands. He pointed to her belly, which was now noticeably carrying a passenger, and added, ‘Make big strong baby for you.’

Becky took hold of the parcel and grinned at him, saying ‘thank you’ over her shoulder as we walked up the stairs to my flat.

‘I think I’m in love,’ she said, glancing back down the steps as Yusuf waved at her. ‘I might leave Sean and move in with you, just to be near him. He can be my new baby daddy.’

‘Yusuf is sixty-four, he’s married with seven kids, and that belly of his won’t go away in a few months’ time like yours will,’ I replied, shoving the key into the door and turning it.

‘I know. But who can resist a man who gives you free food? And he seems so nice …’

‘He is,’ I said, as I led us back inside. ‘He’s a love. If he didn’t come free with the flat, I’d pay extra for him. I always know he’s looking out for me, and it never matters if I lose my keys.’

‘Plus, you know, free kebabs?’ she said, walking to the kitchen counter and unwrapping her food. I grabbed two plates down from the cupboard, and she sighed with contentment as she plonked her mega-meal down onto hers.

I did what I usually do when Yusuf gives me a freebie—pulled the meat off the pitta, and threw the bread in the bin, leaving just the lamb and the salad.

Becky pulled a face at me as we collapsed down onto the sofa.

‘What’s up with that?’ she said, through a mouthful of meat and lettuce. ‘Is the bread minging, or something?’

‘No … I’m just, you know, off carbs,’ I said, looking regretfully at her pitta, which was dripping with juices and sauce. I’d not eaten bread for six weeks now, and it was starting to bite. I sometimes went into a trance-like state, and when I came to, found myself standing outside the French bakery on the corner, my nose pressed up to the window, making a pig face and sniffing deliriously. One day I’d get stuck and they’d have to peel me off.

‘Off carbs?’ she said, looking confused. ‘Are you going to Marbs?’

‘I wish!’ I answered, making the most of the kebab I did have left. ‘I’m just trying to stay in shape—I have dance classes, and they’re pretty hard. The last thing I need is to be dragging a lard arse around with me.’

‘You don’t have a lard arse,’ replied Becky. ‘And you never have had, much as Luke would like you to think different. You don’t need to lose any more weight—you look fantastic. Apart from, well …’

‘What?’ I snapped, my eyes wide open. I was on a bit of a roller coaster with my self-esteem these days, and seemed to have lost all balance and control. If someone—okay, Jack—said something nice to me about the way I looked, my confidence would sky rocket. If someone—okay, Jack—said something less nice, I’d plummet into misery.

It was kind of pathetic, but I didn’t really know what to do to change it. I mean, Jack rarely ever said anything critical—on the whole, he was lovely. He was attentive and flattering and charming and usually made me feel brilliant about myself. When he was around, at least. Which wasn’t all that often.

After we’d spent our first night together, I hadn’t seen him properly for another five days. He’d texted me, something cute and slightly rude that tided me over and stopped me taking a detour into crazy town, but we’d not actually got together again for what felt like a lifetime.

By the time we did—a walk along the river, drinks, back to his place—I’d given myself a good talking to. I was taking it all too seriously—I was clinging on to what might happen with Jack because the rest of my life was so empty and depressing. And that wasn’t fair to either of us—it put too much pressure on him, and it made me feel like a great big loser, with a capital L.

I didn’t want to be the kind of woman who sat around all day mooning over some bloke. The kind of woman who was constantly checking if her phone had run out of charge because she hadn’t heard from a man. I wanted to be the kind of woman who treated it all as fun, who was carefree and light-hearted and good to be around.

In the end, I kind of became both. When I was with him, I managed the carefree and light-hearted—and he was such good company, he made that easy. It was hard to be miserable with Jack around, and even if I was, he could whisk me off to bed and make me forget all about it. He could even make me forget about bread, it was that good.

But when I was on my own? Trekking back from the office after a long, exhausting day, hungry and tired and lonely? After not seeing him or hearing from him and wondering what he was up to and who he was up to it with? That’s when I took out my L plate, and stuck that loser sign on my forehead, and wallowed in it.

It was one of the reasons I’d been so made up when Becky said she was coming to stay for a couple of nights—seeing her would distract me, and take my mind off everything I was worried about. Now, though, I felt suddenly self-conscious.

‘Well … you just look a bit tired, Jessy,’ she said tactfully, picking up on how sensitive I was feeling. ‘And a bit like you need to eat some doughnuts.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said quickly, standing up and throwing the rest of the kebab in the bin, where it joined its long-lost bread family.

‘I don’t think you are,’ Becky answered, looking around at the flat as I sat back down next to her. I’d spent days scrubbing and tidying before she came, and bought fresh flowers that I’d arranged around the place in old wine bottles, and one of those floral plug-ins to try to mask the eau de kebab that pretty much always wafted up from the shop downstairs. But looking at it through her eyes, I saw it for what it was: small, shabby, and a little bit sad.

‘You seem a bit lonely, love. And those cows you work with don’t seem to be helping.’

I’d taken Becky into the Starmaker offices that day to introduce her to people, hoping, I suppose, to impress her with my glamorous new life. Patty had just looked her up and down, listened to her talk, and said: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand a word you’re saying,’ before flouncing off to meet someone from the Star for brunch.

After that, it had just got worse—the whole PR department seemed to have chosen that day to have some communal meltdown, and Becky had to sit in reception waiting for me, while I did emergency photocopying and made vats of coffee and generally ran round like a blue-arsed fly.

The only highlight had been bumping into Vogue in the lifts. Vogue was a megastar—and came across as a total diva on stage. But in the flesh, she couldn’t be nicer. She was about six-foot tall and looked a bit like Naomi Campbell, and she should have been scary. I’d seen her in interviews, and sometimes she definitely seemed scary.

In real life, though, she was a babe. She’d remembered my name—pretty much a first at Starmaker—and asked when Becky’s baby was due, and even asked her where she’d got her shoes from (Kirkby Market, so I can’t imagine Vogue would be dashing out to get her own pair any time soon). The whole conversation lasted about two minutes, but it had made my day—and Becky’s. At least now she had a good story to tell when she got home.

Of course, one of the reasons I’d taken her into the office was the hope that Jack would be there. That he’d see us, and come over, and I’d get to feel that thrill of having such a gorgeous boyfriend and showing him off to my big sister.

Except, you know, he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my … well, I had no idea what he was. And he wasn’t in the office anyway—even though I’d told him Becky was coming. Apparently, according to Heidi, he was at a meeting in Brussels. He did things like that—had meetings in Brussels, or lunch in Paris, or a gig in Barcelona. He was a VIP, and his schedule was just a little bit different to mine.

It was one of the aspects of Jack’s life that made him feel like an unattainable mega-being from another planet. My reaction varied from ‘this will never work’ to ‘why is a man like that interested in a girl like me?’ to ‘I’m never letting him go, and I want to have his babies’, depending on what mood I was in. Even thinking about him then, with Becky sitting right there, I wondered if he was back yet—wondered if he’d message me, wondered when we’d meet up again.

I snapped myself back to reality, and met Becky’s probing gaze. She—unlike me, apparently—was looking great. The morning sickness had obviously passed, her fair hair was glossy, her skin was clear, and she’d obviously hit that ‘glowing’ stage that preggers women are supposed to get.

I gave her a big, bright smile, and said, ‘No, I’m good—honest. I work hard, but I always expected that. And it’s all worth it.’

‘Are you sure?’ she replied, with a look on her face that was very similar to our mum’s when she thought you were hiding something—like the fact that you’d secretly drunk her bottle of Baileys with your mates; or snuck out to go to a party when you were grounded, or put your red T-shirt in the whites wash and made it all pink. It was frightening—Becky hadn’t even had her baby yet, and she was already developing scary Mum-like telepathic powers. It must be hereditary.

I nodded, gesturing for her to get up as I pulled the sofa-bed out into its bed form. I grabbed the pile of sheets and pillows from the chair where I’d dumped them earlier, and started making it up to sleep on. Becky was having the bed—although not the bedroom, as there wasn’t one. We’d be kipping together again, just like when we were kids.

‘I’m sure,’ I said, ‘and I’m knackered. Let’s crash out and talk crap before we go to sleep, like we used to.’

‘Yeah,’ she answered, pulling on her pyjamas and laughing. ‘All right. As long as we can talk about boys. Because I know there’s a man on the scene, Jessy.’

I ignored her, and climbed under the covers, pulling the fleecy blanket up to my chin. Obviously, she was right. But I just couldn’t talk about it to her—because I had no idea what to tell her. It was all very hard to describe, especially to someone who didn’t know Jack, and didn’t know the music business, and didn’t know the way this weird London world worked.

When I stayed quiet, she took that as her cue to carry on. I’d hoped she’d think I was asleep—I should probably have manufactured some fake snoring.

‘I know there’s a man because you’ve checked your phone about three hundred times today. And because there are condoms in your bathroom cabinet, and—’

‘What?’ I spluttered at her, outraged, and obviously not asleep.

‘Of course I looked! Have you ever met me? It’s my sisterly duty to snoop as much as humanly possible. So, tell me all about him.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I said, reaching out and switching the lamp off. ‘It’s nothing special.’

I was so scared that that statement was actually true, I felt tears stinging the back of my eyes, and hoped Becky’s new maternal superpowers didn’t extend as far as having non-goggle night vision. Or the same eyes in the back of her head that Mum always claimed to have.

‘All right, keep your big secret, Little Miss Superstar. But look after yourself, okay? And please tell me it’s not him.’

‘Who?’ I asked, knowing full well who she meant.

‘That Jack Duncan one. He’s the one who brought you down here, and he’s the reason you seem to be living in a shitty flat, working with bitches, and starving yourself. I know you’re doing the other stuff as well—the singing and the dancing and the recording—and that’s all brilliant. But the rest isn’t. And I’m worried about you. So tell me it’s not him.’

‘It’s not him,’ I said quietly, fingers crossed on both hands as the lie slipped out, along with a few random tears that I’d not managed to completely squish away. I felt them trickle away down my cheeks and disappear, along with my self-respect.

I told myself the lie was for her sake. That she was pregnant, and her life was changing fast; that she’d just bought a house and was in the process of moving and that her plate was full. That the last thing she needed was to be worried about me.

I told myself that, but that was a lie, too. Or at least it wasn’t a hundred-per-cent truthful. I was also embarrassed, and ashamed, and miserable. When I was with Jack, it all felt right. But when I was away from him, I started to feel like some dirty little secret, hidden away from the real world he lived in. And now—just when I’d thought it couldn’t get any worse—I’d fibbed to my sister. My pregnant sister—which had to be bad karma.

‘Good,’ she said, firmly, rolling around on the bed, trying to get comfy. ‘Now I’ve got that off my chest, I feel relaxed enough to do this …’

She paused, then let out a giant, rip-roaring fart that seemed to echo around the tiny flat, before it came to settle fragrantly in my nostrils. I tried not to inhale—I’d suffered those sisterly gifts many times over the years and knew they were lethal—but I was laughing so much I couldn’t help it.

‘Jesus, Becky! I think I need a gas mask!’

‘It’s my hormones. I can’t help it.’

‘It’s the kebab, and you are loving it!’ I said, pinching my nose together to try and block out the smell, still laughing.

‘That’s good to hear,’ she said, fidgeting around. I suppose it was hard to settle when you had an alien being growing inside your stomach. ‘You laughing again.’

She finally seemed to find a position that agreed with both her and the baby, and I made out her face in the moonlight seeping through the curtains that never seemed to quite close properly. She was smiling at me, and reached out to hold my hand.

We touched fingers, and I smiled back. Nothing was perfect in my life—but I still had Becky, and the rest of my family. No matter what.

‘You can always come home, you know,’ she said. ‘Nobody would think any the worse of you. Nobody would think you’d failed.’

Nobody apart from me, I thought, but didn’t say it. When I didn’t respond, she carried on.

‘Because home,’ she said, screwing up her eyes in effort, warning me what was coming next, ‘is where the fart is.’

The sound of that one—along with the sound of us both giggling like the little kids we were not so very long ago—was the last thing I remembered before I fell asleep.




Chapter 10 (#ulink_d28e45b8-c712-5436-92de-b66d31081350)


When the text first landed, I thought I’d finally made it into the inner circle. How wrong could I have been?

‘Get to the Panache Club by 8 p.m.—urgent! Make sure you’re clean!’ it read. Typically, Patty hadn’t bothered with any internal debate about whether to add kisses or not, and was presumably labouring under the illusion that Scousers didn’t wash. I had no idea where she got that concept from, but I spent a good twenty minutes standing under the lukewarm jets of the shower before I left for the club. Just in case she checked behind my ears or something.

The Panache Club was in central London, and was currently considered the Cool Place to Be. It was the kind of club where Rihanna would go for a boogie if she was in town; the kind of club where supermodels would ignore canapés and look moody. The kind of club I was never, ever invited to.

I knew there was a big event there—Patty and her pals had been having orgasms about the tabloid opportunities for weeks now—but, as usual, I wasn’t asked along. It was a Saturday, and I was supposed to be in my broom cupboard, polishing my glass slippers and wishing for a Fairy Godmother. Instead, I thought excitedly, I was maybe—just maybe—going to make my first public Starmaker appearance.

Maybe Jack would be there, and we’d snog on the dancefloor. Maybe Rihanna would be there, and we’d down some tequilas together. Maybe the tabloid snappers who turned up would be wowed by my awesome beauty and stunning star quality, and I’d be papped as I arrived.

Maybe, I thought, rubbing myself dry and feeling the chill of a flat that simply never warmed up until the kebab shop did, I would finally be accepted.

I heard the phone beeping again, and dashed over to check it out, hoping it would be from Jack—saying he’d pick me up, or meet me beforehand, or that we’d spend the night together after the party. Also hoping—if I was entirely honest—that he’d magically arranged for a beautiful dress to be delivered, so I could make some grand entrance in modern-day Pretty Woman style. Without the prostitution angle, obviously.

Shivering, I swiped on the phone to check my messages. Huh. No such luck—it was from Patty again.

‘Black skirt and white blouse. No stains.’

As the words and all that they implied slowly sunk in, I fell backwards onto the sofa, deflated and disappointed and damp. Black skirt, white blouse—I knew what that meant. It meant they needed an extra pair of hands for the waiting-on staff, and I was their very first draft pick.

So much for downing tequila with Rihanna—I’d be the one serving it to her. Not that she’d be there, of course—this was my fictional Rihanna.

I did a grumpy face for a few minutes, and considered texting Patty back to say I couldn’t make it—that I had a hot date at a cage fight with Tom Hardy that night, or I was busy strolling down the Ramblas on a city break in Barcelona with Orlando Bloom. It would serve her right for the ‘no stains’ comment—I mean, as if! My mother was the queen of laundry, and some of it had been passed on by genetics.

I toyed with the idea of refusing for a while, and started to mentally compose the message, before I turned off the phone and placed it well out of reach on the mantelpiece. I gave myself a good talking to, recalling all of Jack’s words about playing for the Starmaker team, about learning my craft, about understanding the industry from the inside out. Starting at the bottom, soaring to the top.

I wasn’t entitled to anything—and I needed to keep my feet on the ground, and not give in to the depression.

But truth be told, since Becky had left, I’d been struggling. We’d spent her last morning here wandering around Camden Market, where she’d bought an entire set of baby clothes decorated with tiny skulls, before I saw her off at Euston. As I waved her away with tears in my eyes, part of me just wanted to jump on that train with her. To give up, to abandon it all, and head for home. Liverpool was only two hours away on the train—but a whole world away on the lifestyle scale.

At home, I could sleep in my own bed, get annoyed with my baby brother, and be fed huge plates full of bacon and eggs the next morning. Without any guilt whatsoever. Mum and Dad would welcome me back, and I could pick up right where I left off.

Except … where I left off wasn’t exactly brilliant, was it? I was sharing a flat that was almost as crappy as the one I lived in now, with Ruby and her perverted geriatric boyfriend, singing princess songs to spoiled brats every weekend. I might not have any spare cash now—but I didn’t have any then, either.

I realised, as Becky’s face in the window dwindled to a tiny blob heading into the tunnel, that I didn’t care about the flat, or the money. Or even the bacon and eggs, that much.





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