by Alesha Dixon
“Yeah, but I quite like the idea of having a chef who isn’t trying to kill me with pondweed disguised as juice.”
“Naomi, can we focus on what happened today please? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”
I shrug.
“Look around the room,” Mum says sternly, gesturing behind her. “All of these people in here are working very hard right now to make sure the story doesn’t become bigger than it already is. Do you know what’s going to happen as soon as the paparazzi print this? We have to do some major damage control.”
She sighs again before softening her voice slightly. “You have to start being a bit more responsible. It’s tough being in the spotlight all the time, believe me I know, but you have to try.”
Mum may be my manager, but she’s also a famous pop star herself, or she was back in the day, so she’s always making comments like this about how she “gets it” and she knows what it’s like to be me.
But she doesn’t get it. Nobody gets it. Nobody knows what it’s like to be me.
“You do realize that it was an accident, right, Mum?” I point out. “And if it had been anyone else then it wouldn’t be a big deal! It’s only because it was me. Other teenagers don’t have to worry about anything like this. I do one thing wrong and suddenly—”
“Other teenagers don’t have number one albums, world tours and thousands of fans who look up to them and count on them to set an example,” Mum retorts, shaking her head. “You have to start behaving like a role model.”
“Is there any way we can talk about this later? I’m starting to get a migraine from everyone telling me what to do.”
“Um, Miss Starr?” My assistant appears with a tray of three different glasses of juice on it this time. “The chef made different blends so you could choose which one you liked best. He deeply apologizes for the . . . uh . . . pondweed one.”
Mum rolls her eyes as I take my time having a sip from each one and swilling the juice in my mouth as though I’m taking it very seriously. If I’m honest they all taste the same to me, but I don’t want them to feel as though they’ve wasted their time, especially as I made a fuss.
“This one is good, thank you,” I say, choosing the nearest one. “Also, can you change all the flowers in this room today.” I gesture at the various large vases dotted around the room bursting with beautiful, colourful flowers. “I’d like white roses, please. I think they’re more calming.”
“Absolutely,” he says, nodding vigorously. “I’ll get those changed at once.”
“Thanks, Simon.”
“His name is Sam,” Mum corrects as he hurries off.
“Ms and Miss Starr?” One my publicists comes scurrying over, looking frazzled and holding out her phone. “You asked us to keep you updated. I’m afraid the incident is out. It’s all over social media.”
Mum looks at the screen and takes a deep breath before clapping her hands loudly.
Everyone in the room immediately stops what they’re doing and turns to face her, like an army awaiting instructions from their general.
“All right, team, the story has broken. Things are about to get even crazier. Jennifer, I need you to call every morning breakfast show and book Naomi in for first thing tomorrow to tell her side of the story. Max, I need you to get in touch with your contacts at the major newspapers and offer formal interviews with Naomi. She will be available to journalists in about half an hour and we can give them eight minutes each, no more because she has a rehearsal later for the London concert. Helen, please can you get the hair and make-up team here straight away, along with the stylist as we’re going to need different outfits for the various interviews. Make sure they know it’s sophisticated looks we’re after, nothing too glitzy. And can someone tell Sam to cancel the white roses that Naomi has ordered? The colourful ones are better if any journalists have to come to the house.”
She pauses for breath before continuing.
“Mia, can you find a premiere for a children’s film that Naomi can attend after her rehearsal this evening? We want her public image to be family-friendly right now. That’s important. And, Oliver, we have some free time between morning shows tomorrow morning and our meeting with the record label before rehearsals in the afternoon, so let’s make use of it – could we book Naomi in to appear on a radio show? See what you can get me. And we need to know EXACTLY what Marina Blair is going to say about what happened today. I want to be five steps ahead of everyone else involved. Right, that’s a good start for now, I think. Does anyone have any questions?”
I raise my hand. She looks at me wearily.
“Yes, Naomi?”
“Hi, yeah, I was wondering when I was going to have a moment to breathe during all this? It kind of feels like you and Chef are in this whole trying-to-kill-me thing together.”
“All right, everyone get to work,” Mum orders the rest of the room before turning to answer my question. “You know, Naomi, everyone here is trying to protect you. They’re working hard for you. You’re very lucky.”
I snort. “Sure. I feel really lucky right now. Instead of doing anything I want to do, I have to do stuff like justify my mistakes to the world on live television at five a.m. tomorrow morning and spend this evening watching a stupid children’s film on my own.”
She ignores me, shaking her head and stalking off to chat to the publicity team as they get to work. I look down at my phone and, dreading what’s about to come up, I type my name into the search engine. I read the top headline.
CATWALK CALAMITY!
NAOMI STARR ATTACKS MODELS ON THE RUNWAY AND RUINS MAJOR FASHION SHOW!
IS THIS THE POP STAR’S MOST DIVA MOMENT YET?!
My heart sinks. Brilliant. It’s all LIES. Yeah, I did ruin the fashion show and yes, the whole thing was definitely a calamity, but it was also an ACCIDENT. And I did NOT attack any models.
Here’s what happened – firstly, I was EXHAUSTED. I got off the plane late last night from a concert I did in Paris and then Mum dragged me out of bed at a ridiculous hour this morning for a photo shoot for Vogue, so I only had a few hours’ sleep, and then we had to go straight from there to a posh brunch with the CEO of the company launching my next perfume range and who also, by the way, had the craziest eyebrows I’ve ever seen, so I couldn’t concentrate on anything she was saying.
I just stared at her eyebrows. The whole time.
Anyway, I was so dazed and distracted by the eyebrow situation that I forgot to eat anything. Before I knew it, I was ushered out of there to some press conference about a film cameo I did last year, which I can’t even remember doing. So, in answer to every question about the role, I had to say stuff like, “Yes, well, you’ll have to wait until you see the film,” because I genuinely have no idea what the film is, let alone what role I played in it.
That’s when I thought enough was enough. My day was getting out of control. So I asked my assistant to give my favourite spa a call and get them to close to the public for the afternoon, so I could go relax in privacy.
But my mum got all grumpy when she heard that and said that I was supposed to be going to Marina Blair’s fashion show. According to her it would be a huge insult to not bother turning up.
“You were the one who was going on about this show and how you had to be front row!” Mum said, looking at me strangely. “You told Marina Blair that you would be her guest of honour before she’d even asked!”
So, I went to the show because Mum made me feel guilty, but I was so tired that I can hardly be blamed for what happened when the models took to the catwalk.
Which was . . . I nodded off.
And I must have had some kind of nightmare, because I woke with a start and screamed, throwing the glass of water that had been resting in my hand on my lap right up in the air. The water went everywhere, including over the catwalk, right in the pathway of a model walking down in huge stilettos. . .
Yeah. It didn’t end well.
She slipped and fell on h
er bottom, causing the model walking the other way to trip over her leg and fall on her bottom too. Then, when the models behind them tried to help them up, they slipped and fell as well so it was like a big model pile-up.
And that’s when I did the worst thing I could possibly do, according to Mum.
I laughed. Really loudly.
Honestly, I know it looked bad but I couldn’t help it! It was like a scene from a sitcom, the way they all kept trying to stand up and slipping all over the place with their long, elegant limbs, like Bambi on ice! It was HILARIOUS.
Anyway, there were all these rules about guests not being allowed phones during the show so no one could put stuff up on social media while it was going on – I don’t know why, maybe Marina was trying to be all mysterious and edgy or something – so Mum and I were hoping that MAYBE the story wouldn’t leak out.
But obviously someone was breaking Marina’s rules. There are all these photos everywhere online of me ruining Marina Blair’s fashion show and then laughing about it.
Oops.
“Great news!” someone announces from the other side of the room. “I’ve managed to get Naomi premiere tickets for a children’s film tonight. It’s called QUACK-A-DOODLE-DOO: I LOVE YOU! It’s about a duckling who wants to be a cockerel. Attendees have been asked to dress like ducks or cockerels.”
“That’s PERFECT!” Mum cries, giving her a thumbs up. “A lovely, family-friendly public image. You see, Naomi? Everything is going to be just fine! You’re very lucky. Can someone track down a duck or cockerel outfit for Naomi, please? We need it ASAP!”
I slump back on the sofa and bury my head in my designer cushions, wishing I could sink right into them away from here.
Seriously. No one gets what it’s like to be me.
CHAPTER THREE
“Sorry! Didn’t see you there!”
I regain my balance after Noah, one of the most popular boys in school, walks right into my back, knocking all my books out of my hands and sending me stumbling into the wall.
His apology doesn’t seem very heartfelt considering he calls it out over his shoulder as he walks away. I rub my arm where it banged against the wall and crouch down to pick up the books that have gone scattering across the floor. Some have already been trodden on by students making their way to class.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say irritably under my breath, piling up the books. “I’m invisible.”
“Let me guess,” someone says from above me. “You tripped over your own feet again?”
I smile at Beth’s voice and take her outstretched hand so she can help pull me to my feet, while my other arm cradles my now-scuffed books.
“Nope, not this time. Noah barged into me. Apparently, he didn’t see me standing here in the middle of the corridor. He didn’t even—” I pause, smiling at her appearance. “Hang on. Your hair.”
“Yes?”
“It’s pink.”
“Well observed.”
“Bright pink.”
“VERY bright pink.” She runs her fingers through her hair proudly. “You know me. If I’m going to do something, I have to go big.”
“You know what, Beth, if anyone can pull off neon-pink hair, it’s you. What did your dad say?”
“He’s a big fan,” she says, giving me a knowing grin. “Just as big a fan as our dear headmaster. Apparently if I don’t dye it back, I’m looking at a good few weeks’ detention.” She shakes her head. “Let me ask you this, Ruby, how is the colour of my hair affecting my academic performance?”
I laugh and fall into step with her as we head down the corridor to our form room. Beth is my favourite person in the world. We have been best friends ever since I moved to the same road as her when I was six years old. She was instantly fascinated by my big family because she’s an only child, raised by her dad.
I still remember her face the first time they popped round for a cup of tea to welcome us to the neighbourhood. They had stepped through the door, ushered in by Mum, only to find themselves right in the middle of pure chaos. We’d just come home from seeing a superhero movie at the cinema and we were all running about the house, pretending to be heroes saving the world from an evil genius, a role played with great enthusiasm by Dad.
“Goodness,” Beth’s dad, Tim, had said with eyes wide as saucers, “what a big family!”
“Sorry?” Mum had asked, unable to hear him over all the noise.
Roman was jumping from the sofa on to Dad’s back with a great war cry, while Reggie and John bounced up and down on the furniture chanting, “Surrender! Surrender!”
“I SHALL NEVER YIELD!” Dad had bellowed. “THE WORLD SHALL BE MINE!”
The fire alarm had then started going off and we’d heard Jeroame yell, “Damn it!” from the kitchen as whatever he’d been baking began filling the kitchen with smoke. He’d grabbed a chair and stood on it, fanning around the alarm with a tea towel.
“HELLO! I’M ON THE PHONE!” Isabella had then shouted down the stairs, before stomping into her bedroom and slamming the door behind her as loudly as possible.
“I said, what a big family!” Tim had repeated at the top of his lungs.
Beth, meanwhile, had come out from behind him and wandered into the room to get closer to the action. I’d been crouching behind a coffee table ready to leap out at the best opportunity, having fashioned a cape out of one of Jeroame’s big jumpers. When I saw Beth standing there, watching us in awe, I took off the jumper and held it out to her.
“Want to play?” I had asked.
She’d nodded, taken the jumper, tied it round her shoulders and then cried out, “THE WORLD SHALL NEVER BE YOURS!” before hurtling towards Dad at full speed and rugby-tackling his legs.
We’ve been best friends ever since and she’s spent so much time at our house, it’s like she’s a member of the family. Her dad is a very busy lawyer and could not be more serious and straight-laced. Beth, on the other hand, is spontaneous, bonkers and loves breaking rules so she can argue why they shouldn’t be rules in the first place.
I wish I had half her confidence. She’s not afraid of anything.
“Are you going to dye your hair back to its normal colour then?” I ask as she stops to study the school noticeboard. “I don’t want to face another term of you in detention all the time. Who else can I hang out with? Please don’t get into trouble already.”
“I’ll think about it,” she says, before shooting me a mischievous smile. “But only for you. Not because of what my dad or the headmaster says.”
“Is that why you didn’t get the bus as normal this morning? Were you dyeing your hair? I messaged you. I thought you’d missed your alarm.”
“No, I was actually early for school this morning. I asked Dad to drop me off on his way to the office. Sorry, I meant to text you.”
“You were early for school? Why?”
She points at a notice pinned to the board. “That’s why.”
“Photographers wanted for the school newspaper. Send your application to the email address below describing why you love photography along with two of your recent photographs,” I read aloud, before turning to her, impressed. “You’re applying for the school paper?”
“That’s right. You remember that cool camera Dad got me for my birthday? I came in early to get some shots around the school grounds while they were empty.”
“Wow! That’s amazing. Have you sent your application?”
“Not yet. I will, though.” She hesitates and then points to another notice pinned to the school board. “By the way, have you seen this?”
I roll my eyes at her. “Yes, I have.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Come on, Ruby,” she says enthusiastically, “the auditions are next Friday, so we’d have this weekend and all next week to put something together. You’re not at all tempted?”
“By a talent show? No, Beth, I am not at all tempted.”
“I don’t understand why you won’t
even think about it.” She sighs. “You could do one of your amazing dance routines and—”
“Shhh!” I glance around us nervously. “Someone might hear you!”
“Why is that a bad thing?”
“Because, they would laugh at me,” I remind her. “Just the idea of someone like me entering the school talent show is an absolute joke! Events like that are created for people like—”
“Excuse me!”
I jump as Ali Carlton’s voice rings out right behind me. She breezes past us, holding a pen aloft and then flicking her long, glossy red hair behind her shoulders with such gusto that it hits Beth in the face, she writes her name down for the talent show in big, bold letters.
“Oh my god, Ali, this is so exciting,” squeals Charlotte, one of her best friends who is standing behind her and clapping her hands. “You are SO going to win, just like every other year. What are you going to sing this time?”
“I’m going to do three songs, I think,” Ali replies, clicking her pen triumphantly. “I’ll be doing a—”
“A ballad, a West End song and then finishing off the set with an upbeat pop hit,” Beth finishes her sentence cheerily. “Just guessing considering that’s what you’ve done every talent show for the past few years. Am I right?”
Ali scowls at Beth. “I haven’t decided exactly what I’m going to do yet, but it will be different to last year’s performance. Maybe I’ll do four songs.”
“Wow.” Beth raises her eyebrows. “Ground-breaking.”
“Whatever, Beth – you’re just jealous of Ali because she’s the best singer in the school,” Charlotte snaps.
“How do you know that?” Beth says. “Have you heard everyone in the school sing? Is that what you’re telling me? You’ve heard every single student at this school sing? Every single one?”
Charlotte blinks at her. “Well . . . no . . . but I—”
“Then how do you know Ali is the best? How do you know someone like, oh, I don’t know, Ruby isn’t a better singer?” Beth suggests breezily.
“Who?” Ali asks, confused.
Beth nods at me and they both swivel round, surprised to find me right next to them, as though they’ve only just noticed I’m there.
