by Abbey Clancy
Bouquets of flowers—so many I couldn’t have them in the flat—from people I’d never met, or heard of, or even knew existed, all with little cards congratulating me. Fruit baskets, which I just left in the staff room for everyone else to help themselves to. Boxes of chocolates and cakes and other tasty treats, which I also left in the staff room—it was too dangerous to have them at home in case I accidentally ate them all and died of a sugar rush.
There were perfumes and toiletries and make-up and accessories and clothes and jewellery, even a small array of shiny techno gadgets like phones and music players. One package contained ten different onesies in a variety of animal forms, which was definitely a keeper.
I had no idea why anybody would want to send these things to me—until Patty explained that it was just another type of PR. If I was photographed wearing their product, or made a comment about it, it was a big win for the company concerned, and might well end up used in a magazine or on a blog. That did make sense, after all those phone interviews, it would have been really easy to slip one of them in there.
Patty, as ever, took control—but on this occasion, I was grateful. She told me to pick what I wanted to keep, and if I liked it, to let her know. Then she would make the decision about whether it was ‘brand appropriate’ for me to mention it in future interviews. I had no idea what brand appropriate really meant, but took a wild guess that she wouldn’t want me praising the pink package of mildly S&M sex toys that had landed for me in the office. I did, however, sneak them home—you never know when you might need some fluffy handcuffs and a bottle of baby oil.
The rest I gave away. Two new interns had arrived—one to take my place as Patty’s slave, and one specifically to help me. She was called Tilly, and was about nineteen, and I had no idea what to do with her. So I gave her some free body lotions and asked if she could help me carry the rest of the packages through to the break room, where I left them scattered around, beneath a cardboard sign that said FREE TO A GOOD HOME!
The other major change that had taken place in my life was the fact that ‘going to parties’ now seemed to be included in my job description. I’d been to four events in the last five nights, and was absolutely exhausted.
Never in a million years would I have believed that I’d prefer a night at home in one of my many animal onesies to bopping away with soap stars—but I was starting to believe that it could be true. I’d been photographed outside clubs on my way in; inside clubs with celebs; outside clubs on my way out—I’d even been offered a line of cocaine in the Ladies’ by someone I’d once seen on Big Brother, which I politely declined.
Nights out in Liverpool need a lot of stamina—but these were getting crazy. ‘We’d have a glass of wine, put on some R. Kelly and run through my dance moves together before he tarted me up. Then we’d have a chat and Neale would sneak in a cheeky Marlborough Light whilst we waited for my car to pick me up’ I was starting to realise that I looked forward to talking to Neale and getting ready more than I looked forward to the party itself.
It wasn’t like I could let myself go and enjoy them anyway—Patty had drummed that into me so hard, I could never forget it. It was work—not pleasure. Her set of rules was staggering: don’t drink too much; don’t fall over; don’t flash your knickers getting into a cab (unless it’s been prearranged, of course); don’t get photographed stuffing your face with food; don’t dance suggestively with anyone; don’t vomit in the street; don’t smoke; don’t do drugs in public; don’t criticise anyone for anything, even in a casual conversation. These were all, I’d been told, classic pitfalls that I could be expected to clomp my way into—and they didn’t leave much room for spontaneity or, you know, actually enjoying myself. I had a tendency to disconnect my brain from my mouth at the best of times, so I lived these nights out in a constant state of near terror.
Staying out until the early hours with Ruby, or my sister before she was preggers, was easy—I’d be so hammered by the end, I often had no idea how I’d managed to get home from town. But this was a lesson in control, and I was on a steep learning curve.
Still, I reminded myself that it was a huge step in the right direction. That I was big girl, and I could handle it. That it wouldn’t always feel this confusing—that one day, I’d get it all right, and the rewards would be so worth it.
One of the reasons I’d not called my parents was because of the sheer physical demands of my schedule. I was busy—and usually, by the time I got a moment to myself, it was four a.m. and they’d both be fast asleep. But the other reason was that I needed to get more of a handle on it all before I spoke to them—I wanted them to be happy for me, and proud of me, and excited about my future, the way I was. I didn’t want them sitting round the kitchen table at breakfast time worrying about whether I was eating properly or whether my shoes were too high or whether I really, honestly, truly knew what I was doing.
Jack and Neale were at opposite ends of the spectrum, and were both brilliant people to have around. Jack could take a strategic global overview of my digital presence—and could explain what the hell that meant, as well. And Neale could make me laugh and make me relax and make me look gorgeous while he did it. But I still felt a bit discombobulated, as Nan used to say—and the only other person I could think of talking to was Vogue.
I’d tried calling her, using the number I’d sneakily filched from Jack’s phone the night of the first gig, but something really weird happened when I did. I dialled the number, and she immediately answered, saying, ‘Well, hello there, sexy,’ in an amazingly sultry voice.
Now, not to do myself a disservice or anything, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t expecting that call to be from me, and equally sure she didn’t find me that sexy. Not unless she was hiding a very big secret indeed. So I just spluttered something along the lines of, ‘Erm, um, aaagh, this is Jess?’, in an apologetic tone.
There was a long pause, and eventually, Vogue’s voice, saying, ‘Oh! Hi, Jess … sorry about that, babe. I thought it was someone else.’
‘Yeah. I guessed that. Have I called at a bad time?’
‘Nah, don’t worry about it—how’s things?’
‘I … I just wanted to thank you. For the other night. And to see if you’re okay.’
‘Doing good, kiddo. All is well in the land of Vogue’s arse, you’ll be relieved to hear. Look, I’ve got to go—stuff going on, you know how it is—but we’ll catch up soon, okay? You’re coming in to do some vocals with me next week, aren’t you?’
Ah, yes. That was the other thing I’d wanted to discuss with her. The fact that the Starmaker team had decided that the best way to capitalise on my new-found fame was for me to be featured on Vogue’s new single—adding in some vocals, and filming some new scenes for her video. I’d still be very much the ‘featuring’, rather than the star, but I’d be there. And I had been a bit worried about how she’d respond to that—the Vogue I’d always known in person was kind and funny and down to earth, but the Vogue I’d read about in the papers was a legendary diva who might get pissed off at the new kid on the block necking in on her fame.
‘Think so, yes,’ I answered, nervously. ‘As long as that’s all right with you?’
‘The more the merrier, babe,’ she replied. ‘No worries. It’ll be all fun and games. See you next week—try not to get snapped in your PJs between now and then.’
I’d been disappointed that I’d not been able to arrange to see her—but that was hugely presumptuous of me, anyway. She’d been good to me, and we were going to work together, but that didn’t automatically make her my new BFF. Plus, she was clearly busy enough without having to listen to me bleating on.
But at the very least, she’d sounded genuinely all right about the single, and me essentially hitching a ride on the back of all her hard work. She was a superstar but, instead of being resentful, she seemed happy to share her time in the spotlight. I could only hope I’d be that nice if I ever got to her level.
As in that moment I was dete
rmined that I would. I was just going to have to toughen up if I was planning on making this my lifestyle permanently.
Especially as there were so many benefits. Like dreams coming true. Like cash. Like my new pad, which I was sure I’d get used to. Like fame and recording and touring and finally, finally making it in the life I’d always wanted. I just needed to relax and take it all in, to enjoy finally getting everything I’ve been working for.
I was sending my parents selfies of my new lifestyle partly to make up for the fact that I hadn’t called them—and partly because, well, let’s face it, this was everything I’d ever dreamed of.
After I’d sent them the one of me on the balcony, with the river lit up beneath me, I’d added Daniel’s number on a whim and sent it to him as well. Yet another person I’d not managed to catch up with—and we had years’ worth of catching up to do.
He’d texted me straight back, which meant that he must have been up at four in the morning as well.
‘Welcome to the crazy train,’ he said. ‘Just remember you can stop it if you want to get off.’
Two kisses at the end. Nice.
Chapter 21
‘The selfies are all well and good, Jessy,’ said Mum, ‘but we already know what you look like.’
She might have been hundreds of miles away in Liverpool, but I could picture her perfectly: she’d be sitting at the kitchen table, wearing her work uniform, and already be getting the family dinner ready to cook later. She would also, I knew, be frowning—because I could hear the irritation in her words.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I said, trying to sound more sincere than I felt. ‘But I’ve just been so busy.’
There was a pause, and the sound of saucepans clattering—something going onto the stove, while she held the phone in the crook of her neck. It was such a familiar sound, such a familiar image, but it felt like one that belonged to a different life. A different world.
It was ten a.m. I was sitting in the rehearsal studio getting ready to rehearse some steps with Vogue and the other dancers for a scene we were adding to the video for ‘Midnight’. The main video was not only already made, but had been playing on the music channels and streamed on Vogue’s own YouTube account for weeks. Just like the song, the original recording had nothing to do with me. But the vocals had now been added—at least to the download version—and we’d be filming a few moody scenes of me in some moonlit back alley to cut into the vid. It was yet another thing I needed to get very, very right.
I hadn’t even made it back to the flat at all the night before—I’d been at an album launch for Beckett, one of the other Starmaker signings, and had ended up crashing at Jack’s, partially tipsy and completely exhausted. I’d thought my old schedule was tiring—but at least it usually ended up with me in bed by eleven. These days I was lucky if I saw sunlight at all. I was living life at a breakneck speed, and sometimes I barely had the energy to put one foot in front of the other.
None of which my mother knew, of course. Because I hadn’t told her. I’d hoped the pictures and texts would keep them happy, reassure them—keep them off my back, if I’m entirely honest, which made me cringe a bit inside, but was true. I had a lot going on—and I just didn’t need the extra pressure. I was trying to be a perfect pop star—and apparently failing spectacularly at being the perfect daughter while I did it.
‘Yes, well,’ she replied, banging a pan lid on with way too much force. ‘We’re all busy. I’m working and looking after your nan and your dad and your brother. Your dad’s doing all hours. Becky’s got enough on her plate. But how long does it take for a quick phone call?’
Oh God, I thought. Too bloody long, that’s what. I could see Vogue warming up in the corner, and the dance teacher looking expectantly at the big clock that was hanging on the white wall over the door. I could see myself, reflected in the full length mirror, my face all scrunched up, biting my lips.
‘Okay. I said I’m sorry. I’ll try harder, all right? But I’ve got to go now. People are waiting for me—important people.’
Again, there was a pause, which gave me the chance to reflect on what I’d just said—no matter how unintentionally—and take a deep breath while I waited for what would come next.
‘So we’re not important?’ she asked. ‘We don’t matter, then, now you’ve got your new showbiz friends?’
‘Of course you are, Mum! All of you! But … I’m doing my best. You don’t understand …’
‘No!’ she snapped back, in her very best you-are-in-such-deep-shit-my-girl voice. ‘I don’t understand, because you don’t tell me anything. All I know is what I read in the magazines, and what Luke finds online, and whatever daft photo you choose to send us to try and replace actually bothering to call. But what I do know is that you are still my daughter, Jessica, whether you like it or not—you might have changed the way you spell your name, but you can’t dump us as easily. I’m sorry if we’re pains in the backside, but we love you, and we won’t be shutting up any time soon. Are you even listening?’
No. I wasn’t really. I was looking at Vogue, and Dale, the choreographer, and wondering when I’d next be able to sleep, and wondering where Tilly had got to with the chilled water I’d asked for, and wondering when my mother would just shut up …
‘Yeah. Message received and understood, Mum. Now, I’ve really got to go.’
I didn’t give her the chance to reply—I just hung up. I’d never hung up on my mother in my life, and I didn’t quite believe I was doing it then. But, somehow, she was much harder to handle now my own life was so hectic. The sensible part of me knew that it was the flip side of how much she cared—that she and my dad had been there for me through all the tough times, supporting me and believing in me and funding me in my crazy escapades. They’d even paid the deposit on Yusuf’s flat, for goodness’ sake. If it wasn’t for them, I’d have had to have given up on this dream yonks ago.
But now it was all happening, I couldn’t quite figure out what to do with all that concern—somehow it felt less like love, and more like an added burden. I’d already repaid them the money for the flat deposit, and was saving more to send home to them. I hadn’t dropped off the face of the earth—I’d stayed in touch the best way I knew how. But asking me for more felt like too much—it seemed impossible to be both Jessika and Jessy at the same time, and I was sick of tearing myself into pieces trying to clone myself. Something had to give—and just then it felt like it might be my sanity.
By the time Tilly finally arrived, bearing bottles of water, I was too annoyed and stressed to even say thank you. I just grabbed them from her, gave her a nod, and drank half a litre down as I walked over to Vogue and Dale.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, screwing the lid back on the water and lobbing it onto the floor in the corner. ‘I didn’t mean to keep you waiting …’
‘Trouble in paradise, babe?’ asked Vogue, taking in my bitten lips and pale skin. I looked like boiled shite—which was appropriate, as that was exactly how I felt.
‘Oh, no, you know—it was my mum. I always seem to be in trouble these days.’
She nodded, and gave me a sympathetic smile.
‘Yeah. I know. It’s hard fitting it all in—everyone wants a piece of you. There aren’t enough hours in the day. I’ve been there. Just remember who you are, and where you came from—believe me, I learned the hard way how much you have to give up to make it in this business, and I’m still not convinced it was a good deal.’
I stared at her—looking majestic even without make-up, and dressed in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt—and wondered how she could possibly even say that. She’d sold millions of records all over the world; toured to sell-out crowds in arenas in every corner of the globe, and presumably made enough money to make her own future and her family’s future completely secure and comfortable. She was a megastar—and one who never seemed down about it, either. I didn’t know her that well, but I knew enough to admire her and respect her, and basically want to be her. She see
med to have it all sorted—but hey, maybe I was wrong. It had happened before.
Dale broke our bonding moment by clapping his hands and switching on the music. There was no more time for chatting, or thinking, or doing anything at all but sweat and work. And bearing in mind the conversation I’d just had with one of my nearest and dearest, that was more than welcome.
Chapter 22
Two weeks later, I was seeing my nearest and dearest in the flesh again for the first time in months. They’d all come down on the train—and this time it was me shelling out for the First Class tickets—and arrived at Starmaker in a tumble of noise, Scouse accents, and confusion. Not to mention the ever-present camcorder that Dad had been using since we were kids. It wasn’t even digital, and he hefted it around like he was a bald Scouse Steven Spielberg.
Luke was excited beyond himself; Becky looked large and uncomfortable, and Mum and Dad, well … they just looked out of their depth. It’s hard to explain how much of a shock to the system that was. My parents had always seemed so big, so solid—completely larger than life, always full of energy, and always totally at home in their own skins. If they’d ever suffered from nerves or self-doubt, I’d certainly never seen it—and it was one of the things that made our home life so secure when we were growing up. They always greeted the world with complete conviction that they held a place in it, and it rubbed off.
But I realised, as I watched them shaking hands with strangers in a world they didn’t understand, that I’d only ever seen them in environments that were natural to them—at home in Liverpool, or on family holidays where we were always surrounded by other people just like us: working class folk blowing off a bit of steam and downing a few beers around the pool in the Costa Whatever.
