Generation Next (13 page)

Hunter yelled over to his barman to rustle up some amaretto sours, which I thought might be gross but actually weren't bad at all.

“Here's to no business talk at parties,” Callum said, holding his half-empty glass in the air. “Cheers, Jack.”

I clinked my glass to his. “Cheers!”

“Another?” Hunter asked, grinning. “As I said earlier, you can drink whatever the hell you like here.”

The party sounds cool, right? Wrong! Cut to me waking up on a massive pink sofa with a banging head, feeling disorientated and horribly sick at eleven o'clock the next morning—at least I really
hoped
it was the next morning; I had the sense that time had passed but I had no idea if it was hours or days, or just how drunk I'd got. There was this panicky flutter high up in my chest like something bad had happened, but for the life of me I couldn't think what it might be. In fact, I couldn't remember anything much about the previous night after a certain point. It was weird. I mean, you hear stories about people my age getting crazy drunk and blacking out, but that wasn't something I could imagine happening to me—no way.

It took a while for the fog to clear and for me to realize that I was actually in the upstairs living room I'd walked through the previous evening. There was no one else in the room and no sign that there'd even been a party—the place was pristine. I also had no fricking idea how I'd got there or why the hell I hadn't made it home to my own bed—did someone just dump me here? Was I that much of a mess? I desperately tried to unscramble
my thoughts, trying to figure out what the very last thing I remembered was. Was it the second, or the third cocktail? Sure, I could remember being in Hunter's den and the conversation with his creepy uncle, but did we stay in that room for the whole night? I had a weird feeling that at one point I'd been outside in the fresh air, and I had flashes of people shouting and cheering, but those flashes didn't connect to any specific memory I could pinpoint.

I was properly awake now, and the more I thought about it, the more panicky I felt. I tried to tell myself that I was fine and there was no harm done—except where the hell was my shirt and jacket? OK, something had clearly happened that night, but as hard as I tried, I just couldn't find the missing pieces of the puzzle, and the way I was feeling at that moment, perhaps it was better that way.

Sophia Chance-Addison wasn't exactly what you'd call a star, despite what she might tell you, but she was one of those people you just sort of knew because she was on the front of at least two of the celebrity gossip magazines every week. Even if you couldn't quite remember her name, you knew her face, and if you were a young, straight guy, you might be familiar with certain other parts of her body, too, as she wasn't afraid to ditch the vast majority of her clothing for a photo-shoot if the mood took her. She'd originally made her name as “the blonde bitchy one” on one of those scripted drama-slash-reality TV shows—you know, where a group of mostly attractive friends all sleep with one another and then argue about it in posh restaurants before jetting off to Marbella or Ibiza—but since the show's decline in popularity, Sophia seemed to be aligning herself with anything cool or slightly edgy in an attempt to cast off its cheesy
reputation. I guess that's why her agent had asked us to interview her for GenNext back when the site had really started to take off at the beginning of the summer.

Don't get me wrong, we were very happy to get Sophia, as long as she agreed to our terms on the style and content of the interview, which I conducted and which proved amazingly popular with much of our male audience. Ava filmed the segment and spent the entire afternoon rolling her eyes, tutting and insisting that Sophia was shamelessly flirting with me and that I was lapping it up and couldn't keep my eyes off her. I'd argued that as we were both in our swim gear in a bath of chocolate milk, it was very difficult for me to look anywhere else and/or even concentrate. I know, I know, but it was Sai's twisted idea, not mine, and thank God Ella wasn't around that day or I probably would have bottled it completely, but the up side was we got a ton of hits from the interview, plus a nice wad of cash from the company who made the chocolate milk.

Now the reason I'm telling you all this is because the morning after my lost night at Hunter's dad's party, Sophia Chance-Addison started tweeting me—publicly, not privately—saying how much she loved GenNext and how cool it was and how she'd been thinking about me and would love to see me again and that we should get together for dinner sometime. OK, so I'm not dumb; I knew there was a good chance she might just be latching
on to me because I was part of something she saw as cool and different, but then I thought, why the hell not? Sophia seemed like a fun girl—if a tad overconfident—and it was about time I stopped mooning over Ella and went out on a proper date, you know? And no, I didn't let Austin's blatantly envious taunts of “she'll eat you for breakfast, mate” and “you're punching well above your weight” get to me either. In fact my first date with Sophia went pretty well, I'd say, once she'd finally got off the phone to her agent, her ex-boyfriend (awkward, lots of shouting) and her mum, and despite the fact that the restaurant she chose served the smallest portions of food ever in the history of the world and I had to go get a Five Guys Bacon Cheeseburger and Cajun fries after I dropped her off in the cab afterward. We did share a pretty passionate kiss goodnight, though, and although it didn't have quite the shiver-down-the-spine factor that Ella's had a couple of weeks before, it wasn't exactly dog food either. Plus Sophia said she definitely wanted to see me again, and soon, so I'd say it was all good, right?

That same evening, while Sophia and I were just finishing our tiny desserts, I had a disturbing phone call from Hunter's uncle Callum, who was about to board a plane back to the States and was very keen to talk to me about his “little company” getting involved with GenNext with a view to helping us get to the next level,
whatever that was. Initially his tone was friendly enough, so I didn't see any real harm in a quick chat.

“Hey! You're a switched-on guy, Jack. I know you can see the potential in what GenNext could be with the right help and investment,” he said, over the noise of Heathrow airport.

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Exactly. I knew you were smart.” Callum was clearly trying to sound friendly, but there was an urgency in his voice that unnerved me.

“I guess there are all sorts of possibilities when you think about it,” I said.

“And you should grab them, Jack.” Callum laughed, but it sounded forced. “Don't get left behind, man. Ventures like GenNext are a dime a dozen; it's only the smart cookies like us who rise to the top.”

“Yes, well I think I'm smart enough to know that GenNext is about the five of us—my team—doing what we do best. It's grown organically and that's the way it needs to continue,” I said. “We're just fine as we are right now, thanks.”

To be honest, I felt a little bit out of my depth even having that kind of conversation, and it wasn't that I didn't like the idea of GenNext getting bigger or having someone help us. There was just something about Callum that I really didn't like, and that wasn't even taking into account the fact that he was related to Hunter, who, despite his recent efforts to be friendly, was about as genuine as a
snake in a suit selling double-glazing door-to-door. The whole thing stank and I wanted nothing to do with it.

“You know, it would probably be a big mistake to dismiss this without seriously considering all the options, Jack,” Callum said, after another speech about how amazing he and all his pals were.

“Look, Callum, I'm really not interested in getting involved with your company or any other company,” I said, putting it as firmly as I could. “We're cool with the way things are, OK?”

He went quiet; all I could hear for the next few seconds was breathing and the sound of a bustling airport. When he finally spoke again, his tone had changed from smarmy to extremely pissed-off.

“Do you know what I don't like, Jack? I don't like it when I try to be helpful and friendly to someone and they throw it back in my face—that really gets my back up. Don't you hate that?”

“Look, Callum—”

“You know, you'll regret it in the long run,” he said. “I'm not someone who gets along well with the word
no
. Do you see what I'm saying, Jack?”

There was clearly no telling this guy, and by this time he was coming across like something out of a Guy Ritchie movie, so I bit the bullet and told him to get a life and then hung up. Yeah, I know that might sound all very brave and cool, but trust me . . . I'd just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

It must have been about two in the morning when I heard the ping on my phone that signified a text, followed by an email alert on my phone, laptop, desktop computer and iPad one after the other. Then Facebook Messenger beeped its signature beep, followed by WhatsApp. WTF? Somebody was clearly trying to get through to me, so I picked up my phone, staring at it until my eyes adjusted to the light of the screen, then hit play with my thumb and stared down at the blurry moving image.

I jumped out of bed and headed over to my desk, scrambling round in the dark for my iPad. I tapped the screen, bringing it to life, and quickly located the message with the video attached. Now I could see it properly, but as far as I could make out, it was just some drunk guy stumbling around at a party, drinking out of a bottle, shouting and climbing on to a table, then taking his jacket and shirt off—basically making an absolute idiot of himself.

What the hell was this, and why send it to me? Did somebody expect me to upload it on GenNext or what? Only there was something familiar about the scene, as if I should have known what I was looking at but couldn't quite put my finger on what the hell it was. Then it hit me: the bookshelves and the heavy drapes. This was Hunter's secret room, and it was clearly the night of Hunter's dad's party, so I was there, right? But surely I'd have remembered . . . I would have . . . I would . . .

As the video rolled, I suddenly felt the blood drain from my face and my stomach lurch like I was on the world's tallest drop-ride. The half-naked drunk was now in full performance mode on the table. And yes . . . it was me. It was me on the table. But how was that possible? I mean, can you imagine watching a movie of yourself doing something that you have absolutely no idea you did? It was surreal and scary. And do you know what the worst part about it was? I was singing a One Direction song at the top of my voice, that's what. I was shirtless on a table, singing into a champagne bottle and pretending to be Harry Styles. There's pretty much no coming back from that, reputation-wise, you know?

Eventually the guy . . . I mean,
I
fell off the table and staggered into another table full of glasses, knocking everything flying. The others around me were laughing and pointing and then a couple of them lifted me up, practically dragging me out of the room with my feet scraping along the floor. Then the screen went dark for a couple of seconds, but there was still more to come. When the picture resumed, the camera was close-up on me and I was sitting in the driver's seat of a car, with the sound of people around me cheering and egging me on with cries of “Do it, Penman. Do it!”

I couldn't believe what I was looking at. It was impossible to comprehend that I could have got myself in such a state, and worse still, got behind the wheel of a car. It was right there in front of me, though, and as the jerky
iPhone footage zoomed in and out of focus, I realized that someone was very intent on capturing every single embarrassing moment. I felt sick, and the sheer panic I'd experienced the morning after the party roared back with a vengeance.

As the camera pulled away, I could see that the car was no less than one of Hunter's dad's Ferraris, and I was just sitting there shaking my head and looking ill. All of a sudden, a member of the cheering crowd jumped into the passenger seat and leaned across me, trying to start the ignition. Surely I wasn't going to try to drive the bloody thing? Please, no, I wouldn't have . . . would I?

“Do it, Penman, do it!”

My cheerleaders were getting louder and more aggressive, but in the end I was relieved to see myself stumbling out of the car before throwing up all over Hunter's driveway, the laughter finally fading as the screen went to black.

Once the video was over, I just stood there in the dark of my room in my underwear, desperately searching every corner of my mind for a single scrap of recollection and wondering what the hell this was all about. At that moment every gadget in my room lit up, bleeped and buzzed with a follow-up message.

It was obviously a sick joke. I mean, who would even think of doing something like that? Only one person I could think of. I grabbed my phone, furious, but I didn't recognize the number the text came from and there was no contact name on the WhatsApp. So I texted whoever it was a brief message back. Just two words and an exclamation mark; I couldn't be any clearer than that, could I?

Anyway, I couldn't sleep the rest of that night, wondering how it could have happened. I was sure Hunter was behind it, but what was he hoping to achieve? And how did I get in such a mess in the first place? There was more to it than me just having a few drinks, I was sure of that, but at the end of the day, I was the one who'd idiotically put myself in a position to let it happen, and that just made me feel stupid and scared. That wasn't me in that video, or at least any version of me I could ever imagine. Only it was.

I spent the remainder of the night praying that Hunter hadn't shown the video to Ella—or anyone else for that matter, but especially Ella. As it turned out, that was the least of my worries.

Austin was on the phone at 8 a.m., which was ridiculously early for him and not great for me as I hadn't slept a wink.

“What is it, mate? I'm knackered,” I said, yawning and trying to unglue my eyes.

“I don't even know where to start,” Austin said. He didn't sound massively happy, it has to be said.

“What's happening, Austin?”

“What's happening, are you kidding me?” he repeated in an unnervingly high-pitched voice. “OK, J, I'm going to give you enough time to get up, go online and then call me back. You've got ten minutes, tops.”