Remember My Name

by Abbey Clancy

  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

  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 ju
st 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

  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.