Remember My Name

by Abbey Clancy

  Typically enough—because these things never worked out simply—it didn’t stop, and I was forced to throw on a robe, and go to the intercom panel by the door. I hit the screen button, and saw grainy black-and-white pictures of my entire family standing in the lobby of my building, accompanied by my assistant Tilly. She was the one pressing the buzzer, and looking pretty scared about it too.

  I may, at that point, have said something very rude indeed, just to myself, before I buzzed them up. I had about two minutes while they were in the lift, and I used it to swill my face at the kitchen sink, and put some clean pants on. I did a quick scan of the flat for anything incriminating—used condoms, talcum powder that could be mistaken for something more sinister, drunken drag queens stashed in the wardrobe—and trained my face to smile before I opened the door.

  Hungover as I was, I still remembered what Daniel had said the night before—about needing to forgive them for being clingy, and being lucky to have people in my life who cared about me, and not about my earning potential. He was right, and I needed to try and make things right with them. They were due to leave that afternoon, and whatever else I had on, I’d make sure I went with them to the station and waved them goodbye.

  Becky was the first through the door, and she immediately gave me a wink and handed me a can of chilled Diet Coke. I mouthed a silent ‘Thank you’ to her, realising the gesture meant she’d figured out I might be a bit the worse for wear this morning. She was always the perceptive one—or possibly I was always the predictable one.

  Luke ambled through, paying more attention to his phone than to me, mumbling a quick ‘All right, Sis’ as he entered.

  Mum and Dad were the last through the door, and I tried out a smile for size. I had the urge to say I was sorry, but I didn’t know quite what I had to be sorry for. All I’d done was work hard, follow the dream they’d always told me they believed in, and make a success of myself. Somewhere along the line, though, I’d cocked up.

  My dad took one look at me and gave me a great big hug. The kind of massive, bear-like hug that only a dad can give.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jessy,’ he said, whispering it into my ear before he pulled away. I felt my eyes filling up again, and knew not to push it. I immediately felt guilty and wanted ask him exactly what he was sorry for; I was the one who had snapped. But that wouldn’t be worth it—I needed to accept the olive branch, and try and move on.

  ‘‘S’okay,’ I sniffled. ‘I got you back by wiping snot on your jacket.’

  He glanced down at his lapel, and laughed.

  ‘You’ve done worse to me in the past, love—like that time you did a projectile shit all across the room and it hit my ankles!’ Me, Becky, and Luke all simultaneously made variations on ‘uggh’, ‘yuk’, and ‘eew’ noises, and Mum added, ‘She was only three months old at time, Phil. And you’d better get used to things like that, Becks, because you’ll be the one shovelling it before long.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Becky, stroking her round belly lovingly, ‘I’ve ordered one that doesn’t poo.’

  All at once, all five of us looked up and said at the same time, ‘If you don’t shit, you die! ‘, and burst into laughter.

  It was an old saying of my grandad’s, who was obsessed with bowel movements. He used to constantly ask all of us to ‘Pop down the chemist for something to make me go,’ and had a whole cabinet full of various laxatives. As far as anybody could tell, he’d never had any particular problems in that area—but perhaps that was down to his daily breakfast of All Bran and prunes. He’d toddled off to the great chemist in the sky five years ago, but the saying had always stuck. It was kind of our family motto—possibly we should get it made up into some kind of personalised Malone bunch coat of arms.

  ‘What time’s your train?’ I asked, realising I had absolutely no clue what time it was. ‘I’ll come with you to the station.’

  ‘Erm …’ said Tilly, who’d snuck in behind my dad’s bulk and was hovering nervously at the rear of the group, ‘in about twenty minutes? We did try calling earlier, Jessika, but there was no answer. So we decided to just pop in on our way to the station. We really need to get going now, if we’re going to make it through the traffic …’

  She looked terrified, as though I was likely to give her a mighty back-hander and knock her across the room for daring to suggest such a thing. I had no idea why she was so scared—we weren’t best friends, and I barely knew anything about her, but I’d never approached at Patty-style levels of intern abuse. Maybe she was just always anxious.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, looking around and wondering where I’d left my coat, or if it had even made it home. ‘Okay. Give me two ticks to get dressed …’

  ‘No, it’s all right love, we’ll get off,’ said Mum. ‘Tilly’s got the car waiting downstairs, our bags are all in it. We just wanted to call in and say goodbye. And, well, you know you can always come home, don’t you, Jessy? You know you’re always welcome with us, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do?’

  I cringed guiltily. Admittedly, I looked like death not even warmed up this morning—but it was just a hangover. They’d seen me worse before, and I supposed that was the thing. They were used to seeing me worse, used to having me close. Under their protection—and their control. Now I was down here, hundreds of miles away and living in a different world—one that hadn’t impressed them a great deal.

  I took a deep breath and tried to keep my smile in place. I didn’t want us to lose the ground we’d just made up, and for it to be constantly one step forward and two steps back between us—but neither could I just pack it all up and go home because my parents were worried about me. I was a grown-up—and I needed to live my own life.

  ‘I know, Mum. But I want to stay. I know it’s not your world, but it is mine—and I’m happy here.’

  I noticed her lips press closed, really tight, as though she was physically forcing the words to stay inside her mouth. She looked as if she was keeping as much held back as I was—which was undoubtedly a good thing, or this whole doorstep reunion/fond farewell would end up in a massive slanging match that even the doorman twelve floors down would be able to hear. Nobody fights like a Scouse family fights.

  Instead, she just nodded, and we all shared in another round of hugs before Tilly herded them out of the door, and back into the lift. I stayed in the doorway, waving at them, until I heard the ping of the lift heading down.

  Again, the main feeling running through me was absolute relief. This was getting to be a habit—watching Tilly walk away with my nearest and dearest, and being pretty damn pleased about it. It didn’t feel nice—it felt a bit, I don’t know, it’s hard to describe, but … icky. It felt icky. I was used to my family being my world—and now they didn’t seem to have a place in my world at all, other than as a bit of a head fuck. I knew they loved me, but they didn’t seem to understand me—and didn’t seem to be trying all that hard to understand me, either. It felt horrible.

  Still, they were gone, for the time being. I could relax again. I could scrub my face off, catch up with Patty and Jack and Vogue, and check that Neale was still alive and feeling as good as I was. I could risk looking at my Twitter account and my newsfeed, even though Patty did all that for me, and see what the feedback about last night was. I could take a moment to feel … pleased with myself. Because family dramas aside, I’d done well last night—and my life was starting to resemble the dream I’d always wanted it to be. Even if, I thought, catching another scary glimpse of myself in the mirror, I was looking like more of a nightmare that morning.

  I decided on a long, luxurious bath rather than a shower. I’d mastered those Jacuzzi controls now, and the whole bathroom was full of luxurious toiletries I’d been sent for free—everything from high street names through to mega-posh organic essence of everything-berry type stuff. I was going to chuck it all in, create a Smellies Stew, and hope for the best.

  I did, though, at least check my phone first. I’d learned from my mistakes
before with that one, and needed to be sure that Patty hadn’t arranged for Radio 1 to pop round and do a live broadcast from my balcony or anything.

  There were four messages from her, three relating to interview requests from people she thought I should bother with. Two had been sent the night before and one this morning—but all of them, she reckoned, could be done later in the day or even tomorrow. That was good. I knew I had to promote the single for all I was worth, and really make the most of this fame to extend it from its traditional fifteen minutes, but I could also really do with a few hours off. Plus, you know, it was Vogue’s single after all—I was just the afterthought add-on.

  The other said something mysterious about a story she’d declined to comment on, and not to worry about it. Under normal circumstances, that would immediately make me worry—but I didn’t have the energy just then.

  Jack had called a couple of times, and left a text: ‘Be ready by 3 p.m. I’m coming to take you away from all this.’ Mmmm. That sounded promising, and I decided to call him back after I’d wrinkled up like a prune in the bath.

  Neale had sent me a photo of the two of us at the club, with him sitting on my shoulders like he was my Glastonbury girlfriend, waving a glow stick that seemed to be in the shape of a giant penis—one for the family album, for sure. I giggled and saved that one to laugh at again later.

  There was also a message from Daniel, and even seeing his name pop up on the screen made something inside me feel a bit … clenched. A bit nervous. A bit weird. And a bit wriggly. These were not sensations I was used to associating with Daniel—he was safe and solid and reassuring. He was friendship and home and history, no matter how much time had passed and how much our lives had changed. If men were drinks, then Jack would be something sleek and expensive and decadent and gorgeous from the top shelf—and Daniel would be a nice mug of tea on a cold day.

  Except … I wasn’t totally sure about that any more. I’d always loved Daniel—as a friend. And now he was back in my life, I’d expected that to stay the same. Instead, the new Daniel was way too tall and way too built and way too good-looking for me not to notice. And that moment, last night, in the club, where we’d almost … well, I had no idea what we’d almost done, or what it meant, but I’d wanted to shag him right there and then. Which was just too bloody confusing for a girl with a hangover the size of Peru, whose boyfriend was coming over that afternoon anyway.

  I pressed Play, and heard the sounds of traffic and honking horns and sirens. I pictured him outside the club last night, holding the phone up to his mouth, shielding it from the wind.

  ‘Jessy,’ he said, firmly, as though he was about to issue some important statement or manifesto. There was a pause, the sound of more traffic in the background, and then: ‘See you soon.’

  Hmm. That was something of an anti-climax. I knew I should call him—make sure he’d got home okay, make sure we were still cool, make sure there wouldn’t be anything awkward in the air between us—but I couldn’t do it then. I was too tired, and too mentally and physically drained. Instead, I texted him a thumbs-up picture with a couple of kisses after it.

  It was the best I could do—and even that was enough to make me wonder what kind of signals I was sending out.

  Everything felt too confusing, so I did the grown-up thing—stuck my tongue out at the phone, and got into the bath.

  Chapter 26

  ‘Wow,’ said Jack, lounging around on silk sheets and looking highly amused at the online newspaper article he was reading on his phone. ‘I never had you down as the threesome type, Jess—it opens up all kinds of interesting possibilities!’

  As he was stark bollock naked and vulnerable in all types of places, I thought he was taking a bit of a risk winding me up even further, and lobbed a peanut at his crotch in retaliation. It was only a peanut, but he over-reacted in the time-honoured way of men and their crotches, and folded in on himself as though someone had just whacked his crown jewels with a mallet. I’d have felt some sense of satisfaction if it wasn’t for the fact that he was still laughing.

  I suppose, to him, it was funny. Seeing a picture of me, clearly asleep, with Ruby and Keith apparently naked in bed next to me—one on either side, and giant grins on their faces.

  I had no recollection of it being taken, but it had to have been in the last few months I was in Liverpool, as it involved Keith, and presumably his bloody ever-present selfie stick. I might have found it funny as well, apart from the fact that the two of them were claiming it was taken after a ‘sizzling threesome’ in our ‘love nest in Liverpool’.

  There were other lovely phrases in there as well; the kind of tabloid-eze you read about other people all the time, but which feels ever so slightly different when it’s about you. I was, according to Keith, ‘Obsessed with sex—any time, any place, anywhere.’ I’d apparently talked the two of them into a dirty ménage à trois after a booze-fuelled night out in town, and exhausted them both with my rampant sexual appetite.

  I wasn’t entirely sure the photo fitted with that story—as I was fast asleep in my now-famous reindeer onesie, oblivious to the fact that my alleged ‘friend’ and her perverted partner had jumped under the duvet with me.

  Jack had, true to his word, arrived at the flat at three p.m., to ‘take me away’. He took me away to a blissful manor house in Surrey, where we were treated like royalty, and were spending a whole ecstatic night in their biggest, poshest suite. It was the kind of place aristocrats and millionaires went for a naughty weekend away, with views over the grounds and roaring log fires and champagne on tap and in-room his and hers massages available. It was the sort of night I’d normally have loved—but this latest little revelation had somehow spoiled it for me.

  Patty had sent the link through with a little note saying, ‘Don’t worry—obv crap—warn family but no damage done.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what her definition of ‘no damage’ was, but it was very different from mine. I felt embarrassed, humiliated, and angry. Angry that the two of them had ever taken a photo like that in the first place—and angry that they’d presumably sold it to the paper, and made up such a crock of lies about me.

  I was also—underneath all those layers—really, really hurt. I’d known Ruby for so long—almost as long as I’d known Daniel—and I’d trusted her. I’d thought of her as a friend, but she’d obviously moved on and now saw me as a way to make a quick buck, no matter what fibs she told or how much it could affect me. I’d have believed it of Keith in a flash—he was always a sleazy so-and-so—but I was so disappointed in her.

  ‘Stop fretting,’ said Jack, emerging from his foetal ball once he was sure nothing else was going to get aimed at his manhood. ‘And give me a peanut. I’m starving—you’ve completely worn me out with your rampant sexual appetite, you naughty nympho you.’

  I glared at him, but passed the peanuts anyway. I supposed the fact that Jack—who had a lot of vested interest in my reputation and the way it could affect my career—was finding it all so amusing should be reassuring. If he wasn’t worried, maybe I shouldn’t be either.

  Except it wasn’t him who’d just had the world’s most excruciating conversation with his father, was it? They’d just landed back at home when I called to warn him what was likely to show up on Luke’s Google alert. It was awful, for both of us. I mean, no dad on the face of the planet wants to hear the word ‘threesome’ coming out of his daughter’s mouth, does he? Especially in relation to a childhood friend he’d known since she was in nursery school.

  He’d been shocked when I explained what had happened—or more accurately what hadn’t happened, ever—but seemed to totally, one hundred per cent believe that there was no truth in it, which was a bit of a relief after the last few days. A tiny part of me had been worried he’d add ‘sex maniac’ to the list of fictional faults he seemed to be compiling about me. Trust had taken a bit of a battering on both sides recently, so I was relieved when he accepted my version of events without too much probing—o
r maybe he was just too embarrassed to pursue it further, who knew? I did know, though, that he’d be in for a lot of ribbing from his cab driver mates, and apologised for the fact that this was now part of our new reality—not that it was my fault, I thought. But it definitely wasn’t his.

  After we’d got the issue of group sex out of the way—sighs of relief all round—he went a bit quiet on me.

  ‘So, have you been in touch with Ruby?’ he asked, after a few seconds of awkward silence. Awkward silence—or in fact, any kind of silence—was not something I’d ever associated with my dad before. ‘Since you’ve been in London, I mean?’

  ‘Erm … yeah. A bit,’ I said, even though what I actually meant was, ‘No, but I really intended to be—does that count?’ I’d been feeling twinges of guilt about ignoring Ruby myself, but I didn’t want my dad getting in on the act too. I know my family had been a bit peeved at me not being in contact with them often enough—but surely I didn’t have to check in with everyone I’d ever met at any stage in my life every day, did I, just to ensure they didn’t lie about me in the press? If something came with that many strings attached, it wasn’t friendship, surely? Wouldn’t someone who cared about you give you the benefit of the doubt if you forgot to call them for, well, a few months or so?

  Part of me had wanted to get straight off the phone to Dad and straight on the phone to Ruby. I’m pretty easy going and don’t have much of a temper, but the diva in me was starting to emerge—and I really felt like tearing a strip off her. It all felt so unfair—not just the story, but the criticism I felt I was getting from my family. They had no idea what pressures I was under, and it felt like they were constantly questioning everything I was doing, as though I was some out of control idiot instead of their now pretty successful daughter.