by Abbey Clancy
Every time someone used one of the mystery words, I felt a little internal ‘eek’, and found myself looking at Jack, who was sitting next to me, in utter confusion. After this had happened a couple of times, he wrote a message on the notepad he was using, and pushed it towards me under the table. ‘Will explain all later,’ he’d scrawled, with a kiss at the end.
The fact that I had Jack as my own personal translator—the fact that Jack was so much more on my side than anybody in the room even knew—instantly made me feel better, made me feel less swamped by it all.
And even though I might not have understood the specific terms of this foreign language they were speaking, I understood what they were saying—all I had to do was sign on the dotted line, and the Starmaker machine would leap into action. I could leave my failures and insecurities behind, and start all over again—with one of the biggest record companies in the world behind me. I could forget that I’d ever been a fake Disney Princess and that I was on first name terms with Patty’s dry cleaner and that I’d only been deemed good enough to serve food at last night’s party. This was a completely fresh start.
I perked up even more once they started to talk about the music. I was mainly interested in what the songwriting and producing team had in mind, and was more than happy to let the business and marketing aspects go over my head.
I knew all of that was important but, for me, it was all about the music—and if I got that right, the rest would follow. At the moment, I’d become famous for one impromptu show, singing someone else’s tracks, doing someone else’s dance moves, and wearing someone else’s curtains. What I was thrilled about was the fact that they were keen to find new material, just for me.
‘You could be the new Adele,’ said Darren, one of the in-house songwriters.
‘Or the new Katy Perry,’ added his partner, James.
‘Or a bit of both,’ replied Darren, at which point I realised this could go on all day. They threw out names and styles—Beyoncé, Ellie Goulding, Rihanna, Rita Ora, Sia, Taylor Swift, and more—and paused after each one to ask if I liked them, if I could sing their kinds of songs, what direction I saw my vocal style going in.
In the end, a bit flummoxed by it all and not really sure what they wanted me to say, I just replied, ‘I love all of them. They’re all great. But I don’t want to be them—I don’t want to be the new Katy Perry or the new Lady Gaga or the new Vogue. I just want to be the new me.’
Darren and James had nodded and ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ at that, as though I’d just said something incredibly profound. I don’t know, maybe I had—completely by accident. Maybe, if I’d been on The X Factor, one of the judges would have said I knew who I was as an artist.
The meeting wound on and, grateful as I was to be there, to be in that totally unreal position in the first place, I did fight two battles. It ended up as a one–one draw.
The first was about my name, which I thought was fair enough, as it was my name. Or at least it used to be.
‘I don’t like the K in the Jessica,’ I said. ‘Nobody asked me about it, and the first I knew of it even happening was when my sister called to tell me. It’s upset my family, and I don’t even understand why you did it.’
There was a momentary silence, while everyone sat there with fixed grins on their faces, wondering how to reply. I wasn’t being rude, or being a diva, or being pushy—but I was being awkward, from their perspective, and maybe that was something they hadn’t expected.
‘I think,’ said Evelyn, after a few seconds pause, ‘that the decision had to be made very, very quickly. From what Patty tells me, there was literally less than half an hour between you agreeing to perform last night, and actually going up on stage?’
I nodded. That was indisputably true.
‘Well, you see, Jessica,’ she continued, the very picture of polite respect, ‘usually, we’d spend months before launching an artiste to prepare. We’d look at image and brand and the target demographic audience, and we’d have meetings with all the lead creatives, possibly even a few sample members of the media. We’d test out names, looks, sounds, until we came up with a good fit. With Vogue, for example, we had six months of intensive training before we even released her first single.
‘With you, we missed all of that—and although you obviously did a brilliant job last night, Patty had to essentially cram months’ worth of marketing and planning into thirty minutes. She went with the new spelling because she thought it gave you a little extra edge. Made you a bit more current. Made you stand out—and Jack agreed.’
Jack, to be fair, at least had the nerve to meet my eyes, face me head on, and nod.
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘She did mention it to me before she went out there and started talking to the media.’
‘Well, why didn’t you tell me last night back at … I mean after the show?’ I said, quickly correcting myself and hoping nobody else noticed. I felt miffed that he hadn’t seen fit to mention it at all—at least then I’d have been better prepared for waking up as a different person.
‘I’m sorry, I should have,’ he agreed, his tone placatory and smooth. ‘But it was all so hectic—all I can do is apologise, Jess. You’re right—we should have asked your opinion before we adjusted the spelling.’
It’s hard to stay angry with someone when they’re apologising—and especially hard to stay angry with that person when he’s running his fingers up and down your inner thigh under the table while you try and keep a straight face in front of a room full of strangers.
‘Is there any way we can … I don’t know, change it back?’ I asked, clamping my legs shut and trapping his hand. I let him squirm for a moment, then let him go.
‘Sadly not,’ said Evelyn, firmly. ‘From a media perspective, last night was a huge smash—the YouTube hits, the Twitter trending, the online and print coverage, it’s all been spectacular. You did a great job—but you did it as Jessika, and I think it would be counter-productive now to try and change that.’
Even her brief mention of the word ‘Twitter’ made me cringe—I really, really needed to get that Cinderella photo taken down, and have it replaced with something more showbiz—maybe me in my reindeer suit. Not.
I had to accept that everything they said made sense, and move on—I wasn’t happy about it, but there was no point becoming a harpy, either. It was only one letter, I told myself, and anyway, K was good. Maybe K could kick ass in a way C couldn’t.
The next battle I fought, though, ended a lot more happily for me. They’d started to talk about style and image and my ‘look’, and how important it was.
‘We all had a chat about this before you arrived, Jess, and we’re all agreed that you are currently our top priority—and that we’ll ask Lucas to work with you on this,’ said Jack, referring to one of Starmaker’s top stylists.
I knew he was meant to be fabulous—the PR team spoke his name in hushed and reverent tones, as though he was the Virgin Mary. He was legendarily good at putting together ensembles and styles that got attention—regularly placed in the fashion mags, featured on those ‘who looks good in what’ pages, almost famous in his own right for his relationship with all the big designer labels.
I also knew, from everyone’s expectant glances, that they thought I’d be over the moon to hear that my image was going to be sculpted by one of their best—but my loyalties lay elsewhere.
‘Ta very much,’ I said, ‘but I want Neale.’
‘Neale … Neale who?’ Evelyn asked, as he was obviously so low down on the hierarchy that she’d never even met him. And even if she had, she’d definitely not remembered.
‘Neale who did me last night. He only had half an hour as well—and he created an outfit and hair and make-up from thin air. He was brilliant.’
‘I agree that Neale really stepped up last night, Jess,’ said Jack, taking over the debate. ‘But this is too big a deal to jeopardise by giving the job to a junior. With Lucas, you’ll be in safe hands, and you’ll be—�
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‘Look,’ I said, cutting in and placing my hand down on the table firmly enough to make a little noise and rattle the coffee cups, ‘I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re saying, and as someone who opened the front door in a onesie this morning, I know I need the help. But I worked well with Neale, and I like him—he gets me. He might be a junior, but until last night, I was an intern and a waitress. The fact that I’m sitting here now, that we’re even having this conversation, is at least partly down to Neale, and how good a job he did. So. I want Neale.’
They all looked at me as if I was a potentially explosive device that needed careful handling, and I noticed Heidi leaning forward, an engrossed expression on her face as though she was watching a particularly dramatic episode of EastEnders.
Eventually, Jack smiled at me, and gave my ankle a little kick.
‘Okay, Jess. You get Neale.’
Yay for me. That K was kicking already.
Chapter 20
It’s quite scary how quickly life can change. One minute, I was slobbing around my flat inhaling second-hand kebab fumes and dreaming of stardom, and the next, I was installed in my luxury apartment block trying to figure out how to make the Jacuzzi jets work properly.
Well, obviously it took more than a minute—but the speed of everything was mind-boggling. I’ve heard people using the phrase ‘it all passed in a blur’ before, and always thought, well, you should’ve gone to Specsavers, then.
But that first week of my life, after that initial meeting, was crazy—a blur, but a multi-coloured one swathed in unicorns and sequins and that glittery stringy stuff you throw at Christmas trees. So much happened, but the overwhelming change was this: people very suddenly knew who I was. They knew who I was, and they wanted a piece of me. In fact, so many people wanted a piece of me, I wondered if there’d be anything left by the time they’d all finished taking their little nibbles.
Some of it was complete and utter fun. Telling Neale that he was now on Team Jessy, and had essentially bagged himself an A-list Starmaker client, was fun. Being swamped in Neale’s hugs for ten minutes straight was fun. Going on a massive shopping trip with him—all official and paid for by the Starmaker company credit card—was fun to the max. I mean, what more could a girl want? Her own personal stylist, gay best friend, and unlimited cash to spend on new clothes? Of course, a girl with any depth to her would add ‘world peace’ and ‘an end to global poverty’ to that list, but that wasn’t where my head was at. Plus, you know, I wasn’t sure that a pop star could manage all that—not even Bob Geldof.
Also fun were the photoshoots. Patty had taken one look at my Twitter account and frozen solid, as if she’d been spray-painted in ice. Not even her mouth twitched, she was so horrified. As soon as she emerged from her shocked funk, she gave me a glare that made me turn to stone myself, tapped her long fingernails on the desk so hard she left marks, and immediately organised a photographer.
It was Neale’s first official job, and he did me proud—managing somehow to do hair, make-up, and clothes that reflected Patty’s brief of ‘make her gorgeous, but not so gorgeous that everyone will hate her’. I had a ball prancing around against various backdrops, pouting and giggling and generally playing the fool, and the other big plus was that the photographer never once asked me to take my top off—which had happened before.
Once the photos were done, Patty completely overhauled my social-media presence—which had, in all honesty, been pretty pathetic beforehand. There was a princess-led Twitter account and a princess-led Facebook page, plus my own personal Facebook page, which I’d neglected in recent years. I mean, I didn’t have much to say—and while my old school and college friends all seemed to be making announcements about career and relationships and babies and new puppies and what they’d had for dinner, I stayed quiet. There’s only so many times you can post a picture of a steaming plate of noodles and not feel like a big, fat failure.
Even after I’d moved down to London, I stayed quiet—I’d made the mistake before of shouting out loud before I had any idea what I was getting myself into, and didn’t want to look like a knob who was counting her chickens before anything came close to hatching.
By the end of that first day, though, I had it all—one of those official Twitter accounts with the little blue tick by them to show I wasn’t an imposter (though why anybody would want to pretend to be me was still a conundrum); my own section on the Starmaker website; a revamped Facebook, and an Instagram that was suddenly and mysteriously filled with photos—from the photoshoot, from the gig at Panache, and from outside my flat in a reindeer onesie. None of it was anything to do with me—Patty did it all.
She also set me up with a day of ‘phoners’—media interviews that I could do on the phone. I got a little thrill realising this was my first real ‘PR’. I mean, I still didn’t have much to talk about—I’d been told to keep it vague in terms of future recording plans, which didn’t leave much apart from me. How I’d felt on the night of the gig; how I felt the day after; what it was like to be Starmaker’s newest hope, which still made me fizz with happiness inside. This was it. I’d finally ‘made it’, a thought which made me beam from ear to ear.
I talked about Liverpool, about my family, about my hopes and dreams and ambitions; about Vogue and about music, and about my favourite food, fashion labels, and colours. I even got asked my star sign (Taurus), my clothes size, and my all-time best pizza topping. Luckily, it seemed nobody else was interested in my views on world peace and ending global poverty either.
In the end, I completely lost track of who I was talking to—and only Patty’s military style schedule kept me on target.
There were bigger changes as well. Like the fact that I was moved into a Starmaker apartment not too far from Jack’s, which might have had a security guard, swish lifts, and the Jacuzzi I could never work properly, but didn’t have Yusuf. Or, for a couple of days at least, any of my stuff. Not that my stuff was any great shakes—and the shopping trip with Neale had stocked my wardrobe. But it was still my stuff, and I felt restless and unsettled until it all finally landed, boxed up and packed for me, without me ever even needing to go back for it. I suspected some poor intern had been landed with that job, and decided to find out who and thank them.
Even though it had saved me the effort, I was still a lot more sad than I expected to be at leaving the flat. It might have been crap, but it was mine—and at the very least, I’d wanted to say goodbye to Yusuf and his sons, and thank them for taking such good care of me. Maybe I could send them a note, I thought, as I unpacked my family photos and cuddly toys and half-empty bottles of nail varnish.
Once I’d done that, the new flat felt a bit more like home—admittedly a home that also came with a lot of chrome fittings and glass-topped surfaces that would drive Mum mad with the amount of dust they’d gather. Not that I had to worry about that—for a start, I was hardly ever there, and then, the Starmaker apartment also came with a Starmaker cleaner. The fridge was already stocked with water, salad, and lean and healthy things like salmon and tropical fruit, and the cupboards already contained herbal teas and brown rice cakes and other things that made me want a kebab more than ever. It looked as though I wasn’t expected to do my own shopping either.
Eventually, I told myself, it would all feel normal—and anyway, it was only temporary. I was being stashed here, like some person in a witness protection programme, to escape the media attention and to allow me to concentrate on ‘reaching the next level’.
I snapped a few pictures of the place, did a selfie of me on the balcony looking down over the city lights with a huge daft grin plastered on my face, and sent them to Becky and Luke and my parents. After three solid days of work—the photo shoots, the interviews, more dance training, vocal coaching, meetings, media training—I still hadn’t managed to have a proper conversation with any of them. Just texts, a lot of smiley faces, and now the photos. Every time I sat down to call them for a long chat, I was grabbed up and ta
ken away to do something else—and by night time, I was either too exhausted, or still busy, or with Jack.
Jack had been round to help me ‘christen’ the new flat, bearing a bottle of champagne and a cheeky plan to christen every room in the apartment in his own very special way as well. True to his word, he’d translated all the stuff I didn’t understand in the meeting, and tolerated all of my stupid questions with the patience of a saint.
He explained that until my contract was fully sorted, and money started coming in from the music, appearances, and other revenue streams (I tried not to pull a face at that one—revenue streams—I could at least figure it out using the few brain cells I had left by that stage), they’d also set me up with a regular allowance that was paid into my bank account direct.
There was a little voice, squeaking away in the back of my mind, that told me I shouldn’t be leaving all of this to Jack—not because I didn’t trust him, but because I should keep finances and contracts separate from my love life. I should, I knew, have an agent or a manager who was nothing at all to do with Starmaker—who was independent from it all. But I told that little voice to shut up, until I could get some advice from Vogue, or pluck up the courage to raise it with Jack at all.
Having money for the first time in my life helped me ignore those nagging doubts—it felt brilliant, even though I didn’t feel as though I’d done anything to earn it. Not yet, at least. That bothered me—the work ethic I’d been raised with was hard to shake off—but at the end of the day it didn’t bother me enough for me to give the money back. Being able to buy something without worrying about whether the card would get declined was an awesome treat—even if I didn’t really have anything I needed to buy.
Normally, I’d be food shopping, or treating myself to some new make-up or lovely smellies, but that was all done for me. And not just by Starmaker—as soon as the publicity machine really started to roll, the gifts began arriving.
