Authors: Abbey Clancy
‘Well, I don’t know anything about that, honest, Becky. I didn’t choose it—and if they’d asked me, I’d have said no. It’s just … it all happened so fast, Sis. I’ll tell you all about it later, but the short story is, I went there to work as a waitress for the night, and Vogue got sick, and—’
‘She’s in rehab, apparently,’ Becky cut in.
‘No, she’s not! At the worst she’s got cholera. Anyway, I ended up going on in her place, and it was all bonkers, and I had to do interviews afterwards, and then Daniel turned up, except he’s not Daniel any more, and …’
‘Stop! Daniel turned up? Daniel who? Daniel from next
door
? And what do you mean, he’s not Daniel any more? Are you on some kind of acid trip?’
‘No, but it’s starting to feel like it. Becky. Yeah, Daniel from next door. He works in the music business now, he’s some famous producer called Wellsy, and anyway, he was there. Which was … brilliant.’
‘I bet. You two were always close. Does he still look like Leonardo di Caprio’s fat little brother?’
I paused, recalling the way the new Daniel had looked. All long limbs and soft blond hair and sparkling blue eyes.
‘Erm, no. He doesn’t. He looks like Leonardo di Caprio’s taller, better-looking brother. He’s really changed, Beck, you just wouldn’t believe it.’
‘Well, there’s a lot I wouldn’t have believed this time yesterday, Jessika with a K. And you’re going to have to tell me all about it later—Mum and Dad have been trying to get hold of you as well, so you need to call them as soon as you can. They’re dead pleased, but a bit worried as well—so make sure you let them know you’re all right, will you? I’m on my break so I’ve got to go. There’s a fourth birthday party due in any minute.’
‘Okay. And, yeah, I’ll call them as soon as I can, I promise—but tell them I’m doing fine. And tell them I’m sorry about my name getting changed. And tell them about Daniel.’
‘Tell them yourself, superstar—assuming you’re not too famous to bother any more. Listen, before I go, are you still coming home for Nan’s eighty-fifth? Mum’s booking a table at the Harvester and she needs to know how many for.’
Shit. I’d completely forgotten about my nan’s eighty-fifth, even before I’d become an overnight Jessika with a K—I couldn’t even blame that. I’d just lost track of time, between my work in the office and my work on my music and, well, my work on Jack. I knew how excited my nan would be too. The Harvester was her favourite restaurant because they let you take as many turns at the carvery as you like.
‘Course I am,’ I said, lamely, wondering if there was still enough time to book one of the cheapo train tickets back to Liverpool.
‘Good,’ replied Becky, sounding relieved. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without you, even if you do spell your name like Krazy Kutz, you soft mare.’
As she disconnected, I put the phone back down on the cabinet, and put my head back down on the pillow, desperately wanting to go to sleep. I didn’t even want to look at how many missed calls I had—at least some of them would probably be from the office, wondering where I was and what the hell I was playing at. I mean, in the normal world, what I’d done last night would have been enough to earn me a lie-in—but with Starmaker, and with Patty in particular, I had no idea.
I didn’t know if I’d be going back in as Jess the PR slave, or be able to make a grand entrance as Jessika with a K—or what the reaction there was going to be. I needed to see Neale, and thank him for his help, and call Vogue, and see how she was, and, mainly, call my mum and dad. At some point, I also needed to go online and see what all the fuss was about.
But just then, all I really wanted to do was sleep for seven hours straight, then wake up to find the Bacon Butty Fairy had magically visited my flat and left me a stash of goodies at the side of the bed.
I lay there, hiding my eyes with my fleecy arm, and tried to ignore the pounding in my head. And the buzzing in my ears. And the doorbell that wouldn’t stop ringing …
I sat up, so sharply I thought I might puke, and frowned as I listened properly. Yes. It was definitely the doorbell. I hadn’t
recognised it at first as nobody ever visited me—the only time it had been rung before was when some drunk mistakenly staggered from the kebab shop to the door at the side and tried to get in because he’d forgotten to ask for salt and vinegar on his chips.
I groaned, and dragged myself to my feet. It didn’t seem like they were going to stop, whoever it was, and I stood no chance at all of getting back to sleep with that racket going on. I grabbed a pack of baby wipes from the rickety old table I used as a dresser, and scrunched off what I hoped was the worst of the leftover make-up, before heading down the stairs.
It might, after all, be the Bacon Butty Fairy—and I didn’t want to scare her away.
I was still giggling at my own nonsensical non-joke—in that way you do when you’re basically still a bit drunk the morning after—by the time I reached the downstairs hallway and pulled open the door.
I
t wasn’t the Bacon Butty Fairy. It was a whole squadron of Photographer Fairies, complete with flashing lights and shouted instructions and recording devices being shoved under my chin.
‘Jessika! How does it feel to wake up famous?’ one of them yelled.
‘Jessika! Tell us all about it!’ banged another.
‘Look this way, Jessika!’ screeched another.
‘Is that a reindeer?’ asked yet another, in a delighted tone of voice.
I grasped hold of the doorframe for balance, trying not to reel back in shock as the barrage continued. I was terrified—and suddenly very conscious of my bleary eyes, smeared make-up, and less than glamorous ensemble. I mean, it was all well and good in Notting Hill—but I was no Julia Roberts. I wasn’t even a Rhys Ifans, looking like this. I was just a hungover Scouse girl dressed as a reindeer, wondering what the hell was going on.
I could see Yusuf and his sons lurking in the doorway to
the kebab shop, looking just about as confused as I was, but definitely more stylish in their striped aprons and hairnets.
Even at my best, I probably wouldn’t have been able to handle this—the shouting, the questions, the constant and annoying flashing as I was captured in all my glory. And this really wasn’t my best, by any stretch of the imagination.
I realised that the mass of bodies was lurching closer and closer towards me, and if I didn’t do something soon, my stairway would be invaded by the ladies and gentlemen of the press. Once they’d breached the barricades, I’d have no choice but to run back up the steps, and then they’d have photos of my arsing retreating, with its little reindeer tail bobbing away.
I slammed the door shut, and leaned back against it, still able to hear the commotion from outside. I stood there for a moment, learning how to breathe again, until I felt someone open the flap the postman used to deliver junk mail, and leapt away.
I pounded up the stairs as fast as I could, back into my flat, closing and locking the door. I felt sick and scared and trapped—plus the doorbell was still ringing.
I held my face in my hands, not having a clue what to do—I couldn’t get away, unless I did a Batman over the fire escapes, and I had no clue how to handle the hordes outside. It was like being under siege by a zombie invasion, and I wondered how long my water supplies would last.
I forced myself to take some deep breaths, and walked back over to the bed, all dreams of a few more hours’ sleep well and truly kyboshed. I picked up my phone, having no idea who I
was going to call. As I didn’t have the Ghosbusters on speed dial, I was faced with few choices: Jack or Patty.
Much as I hated to admit it, Patty was the sensible option. This was her world. These were her colleagues and contacts. This was probably, if I analysed the situation without panic, entirely her doing anyway—I mean, how did they know where I lived in the first place? Only Jack and people at Starmaker and my family had my London address. I’d spoken to Becky minutes earlier, and she didn’t mention anybody getting in touch with them about it—not that they’d have told them anyway.
And Jack … well, Jack might have told them, but he’d have warned me first. Patty—it had to be Patty.
I looked at my phone and finally forced myself to check all the missed calls and messages. Sure enough, as well as the ones from Mum and Dad’s landline, there were three missed calls from Patty’s mobile, and one text from her: ‘Expect media after lunch. Make sure you’re out of bed and looking good.’
Aaaagh. She
had
warned me—I’d just been too out of it to notice. But still—she should have tried harder. She should have come herself, or cancelled the whole thing when I didn’t reply. She should have … oh God, I couldn’t even properly blame Patty, much as I wanted to. Yes, she could have prepared me better. She could have mentioned these evil plans the night before. She could have taken me to one side and told me to go home and get a good night’s sleep because the world’s media (okay, that might be an exaggeration—but at least London’s) would be camping out on my doorstep the next day.
But really, I should have been ready. I’d worked with her long enough to know this kind of thing was her bread and butter—and I’d even had that chat with Becky about the Twitter and the YouTube and the Google alerts … I was an idiot. I was a hungover, exhausted, unprofessional idiot. Dressed as a bloody reindeer.
I hit Redial with shaking hands, praying to all that was holy that she answered; that she wasn’t getting a mani-pedi or doing her shopping or worshipping at whatever Church of Satan she attended—it was a Sunday, after all.
‘Yes?’ she screeched, her voice high-pitched and already annoyed with me. Bizarrely, I’d never been so glad to hear anything in my whole life.
‘Patty! I need help! The world and his wife are outside my flat, and they all have cameras, and … and … I’m wearing a reindeer onesie!’
There was a pause, and a sound that reminded me of long fingernails being dragged across a chalk board. I thought maybe it was Patty breathing fire.
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Get ready, and make sure you look like a star. Life as you know it is about to change, and you’d better get used to it, you idiot—I won’t always be around to hold your hand and coddle you.’
She hung up, and I physically shivered at the thought of Patty’s ‘coddling’—if this was coddling, I’d hate to see her when she was being deliberately unpleasant. Still, I did feel an immediate sense of relief that she was on her way—as well as a sense of underlying anxiety about the rest of that sentence.
The part that had included the words ‘life as you know it is about to change’.
I’d come to London looking for change. I’d desperately wanted change. I’d hungered for it, and worked for it, and fought for it.
And now it was here, ringing my doorbell, and I was suddenly worried that I wouldn’t know how to deal with it at all.
T
o say that the rest of the day was strange would be a vast understatement. It was a day unlike any other I’d ever experienced—and it ran from the good, to the bad, to the downright ugly.
The ugly part would be me, when I got off the phone to Patty, and burst into tears. Big, fat, over-emotional morning-after tears that I knew I hadn’t earned, but I couldn’t keep back anyway. I felt so very, very alone—especially after I called Jack and it went straight to voicemail. I considered phoning my mum and dad, but I was too upset. It would break their hearts to hear me sobbing, hundreds of miles away, and knowing Dad he’d just load them both up in the cab and head down south.
Much as seeing them again was a comforting idea, I knew it wasn’t a good one—they wouldn’t be able to help me with this, and they’d just end up getting dragged into the madness with me. I needed to talk to them, but I needed to have a better grip on my senses before I did it. I reminded myself that everything that was happening right now was good—it was what I wanted. And by the time I spoke to my parents,
hopefully that would feel more real, and the conversation would go a whole lot better.
So I let the floodgates open, until there were no tears left. I drank more water. I jumped into the shower for a very quick and very much needed wash. Then I wrapped myself in a towel, and stared at my wardrobe, wondering what I should wear—what would meet Patty’s concept of ‘looking good’ without the assistance of Neale to get me professionally ready for my big media meet and greet.
In the end, after standing there shivering for five minutes, dripping onto the carpet, I pulled out a pair of brand-new super-skinny Topshop jeans that I’d picked up in the sale in town. They looked a lot more expensive than they were, and now fit me even better than they had when I’d bought them. I pulled out a pair of Kurt Geiger platforms that I’d never worn, and settled on a silver shimmery Reiss top I’d used a few times for nights out.
I gave it a quick sniff test, and came up with nothing worse than deodorant, so we were good to go. Once I’d decided on my outfit, I got to work on the rest of the transformation—giving my hair a good backcomb, Bridget Bardot-style. I really needed to get my highlights touched up, but money and time had been scarce, so this would have to do. I still looked mainly blonde—and maybe they’d think I was starting a dip-dye. After that, I put on my make-up as well as I could with very nervous hands.
As I did it, I tried to remember everything I’d picked up by osmosis from working with Patty, recalling the way she’d stage-managed various star’s ‘impromptu’ appearances. I
didn’t want to be too showbiz, but I couldn’t be too girl-next-door either—I was supposed to be anew-found star, and needed to find the balance between being glamorous and being approachable. Someone you could aspire to be like—but still root for. Like Katniss in
The Hunger Games,
but without the death and the bow and arrows.
Luckily, you can’t grow up female in Liverpool without learning a few make-up tricks—or without learning how to survive nights out in sub-zero temperatures wearing a mini and no coat. The weather was much cooler now, but I’d be fine—it was in my DNA.
By the time I was almost done, a beep from my phone told me there was a message—and having well and truly learned my lesson about ignoring them, I looked at it straight away. Patty. Telling me she’d spoken to Yusuf, and that he was going to sneak her in through the back door. ETA two minutes.
I wondered if Yusuf had offered her a free kebab, and wondered what she’d say if he did. It wasn’t a natural match, Patty and kebabs. Or Patty and food, for that matter.
I hooked in some dangly feather earrings, sprayed on some Marc Jacobs perfume, and sat nervously on the bed, tapping my fingers against my knees and not daring to look in the mirror again. The first time I’d been fairly pleased with my emergency efforts—the second time I might feel differently. It wasn’t worth the risk, so I kept my eyes carefully averted.
When the short, sharp knock finally came at the door, I leapt up again, practically flying across the room to let Patty in. It was a crazy, messed-up world when I was looking forward to seeing her, that’s for sure. I was even willingly inviting her
into my own home, which I might live to regret if she turned out to be a vampire.
She pushed past me and immediately threw a paper-wrapped package into the bin in the kitchen. I could tell from the delicious smell that Yusuf had, indeed, given her a free kebab—but at least she’d accepted it, and not been rude to him. Being rude to me was one thing, but I’d have been peeved if she’d lashed out at my lovely landlord.
‘Kebab?’ I said, lamely, pointing at the steaming parcel.
‘No, my firstborn child,’ she snapped back, standing hands on narrow hips to look me up and down. She was dressed elegantly and smartly, in a sleek black dress that managed to be both business-like and vaguely hot. I had no idea if she’d also had to put together her look for the day, or if she always dressed like that. In fact, I realised, I actually knew nothing at all about her—and now I was putting my life, or at least my mental health and my career, in her hands.
She nodded once, very briskly, and said, ‘That’s not too bad. Slutty but wholesome. Appeals to all markets. Now, are you ready?’
‘For what?’ I asked nervously, running my hands over my hair, not really that happy with the ‘slutty’ part of her comment. I mean, nobody ever called Katniss slutty, did they?
‘To go out there,’ she replied, sounding completely exasperated with me. ‘Honestly, Jess, you’ve worked with my team for long enough now—I expected you to be able to handle this better. I left a message, I warned you—I didn’t throw you to the lions, tempting as it was. I have to admit there are more of them out there than I anticipated, but that’s not a bad thing.
That’s the whole point, in fact. What you did last night was adequate—the rest starts now, and you need to pull yourself together.’
I stared at her for a moment, fighting down the urge to cry like a big fat baby again, and nodded in agreement. Because I did agree, unlikely as it seemed. This might not have all happened in the way I’d anticipated, but it was happening—and I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself, and start seeing it as the fantastic opportunity I’d been hoping for.
‘Okay. But what about the reindeer photos?’
‘Don’t worry about that now. They’ll use them—of course they will—but it could have been a lot worse. At least you didn’t answer the door in S&M gear, or even worse, in a Liverpool kit … although we might get some mileage out of that at a later date. Reindeers are cute. Everyone loves reindeers. And onesies are both common and adored by the unwashed masses, so that works. Anyway, it’s too late to change it—now we have to go out there and do some damage control.’
‘And … erm … how do I do that?’ I asked, amazed at my sudden and total lack of ability to think for myself. Maybe this was part of the process of becoming famous.
‘You smile. You laugh. You simper pathetically. You talk about how grateful you are to be in this position. You talk about Vogue as though she’s your hero, and you stay completely and utterly vague about what happens next. Can you manage that, do you think?’
‘Yes,’ I said, firmly, trying to put some self-belief into my voice. Because, in all honesty, all of that was completely true—so I should be able to sell it.
She turned away from me, whipping her phone out, and I heard her talking to someone about bringing a car around. Once she’d finished issuing orders, she snapped her gaze back at me.
‘Sorted. Grab what you need for the next few days—you might not be coming back to this place for a while. Which,’ she said, glancing around her in complete disgust, ‘must come as a huge relief.’
I wasn’t quite so sure about that, and muttered back at her: ‘It’s not that bad …’ as I scurried around throwing underwear and make-up into the only bag I could find, which happened to be a stylish little number that was plastic and said Superdrug on the front.
‘Maybe, if you’re an Albanian refugee,’ she replied, grabbing the bag out of my hands as soon as I was done. ‘Or from Liverpool,’ she added, giving me one of those pointed stares that made me realise all over again how much I hated her. ‘Now come on—they won’t wait forever, and you haven’t earned the right to be a diva just yet.’
The experience itself was short, sharp, and scary. Patty went out first, hiding the carrier bag behind her, and did a little announcement, making a reindeer joke before she let me walk past her. For a few moments, I just stood there on the step, smiling, and doing my best to respond to what felt like a million separate commands. Look this way, look that way, give us a wave, turn round and look at us over your shoulder … the list was endless.
All the time, people also shouted questions at me, and I answered them as well as I could. They were all about the
show, and about Vogue, and about when I’d be releasing a single and, on one occasion, about my love life.
‘Are you single, Jessika? Are you looking for love?’ I heard, yelled over the din by a short, round man with a beard that Yusuf would have been proud of. I froze for a second as soon as the question was asked, my mind whipping me back in time to the night before—to everything that Jack had said.
‘Yes,’ I replied, grinning on demand. ‘I’m still one of the single ladies!’
The worst thing was, I had no idea if it was a lie or not—I wanted to believe that what Jack and I had was special, was going to last, but we’d never discussed it. Never defined it, or set out terms and conditions. But I did know that I’d given the right answer—at least from his perspective. And admitting I’d been sleeping with the boss of Starmaker for all this time wasn’t exactly going to play well with the public, was it? People would immediately assume that was why I’d been given my big break, no matter how far from the truth it was.
Luckily, nobody had the chance to quiz me any further in that particular direction, as the car arrived. It was a big car, and it was black, and it wasn’t a cab; beyond that I can’t describe it, other than to say I was bloody relieved to see it turn up. I waved goodbye to the journalists and the photographers, and sank into the comfort of the dark leather seats, delighted beyond belief that it was finally done with. I’d not tripped over my own feet, said ‘fuck’, or vomited—all of which I was counting as a massive victory.
I glanced at Patty as she climbed in next to me, waiting to hear her verdict—but she ignored me, and immediately got to
work, tapping away on her iPhone as though I wasn’t there. As the car started up and we pulled away, I saw Yusuf out of the window. He was watching me, a confused smile on his face, as we drove past.
I waved at him and kept my head turned in his direction until he disappeared out of sight. I had no idea when I’d see him again, and felt a bit sad about it.
The car took us straight to the Starmaker offices, where there were also a few members of the paparazzi hanging around. Despite what I’d just been through, and despite what Becky had told me on the phone, I still automatically assumed they were there for Vogue, or Beckett, one of the other Starmaker acts. It wasn’t unusual to see photographers there, looking for a shot—but this time, bizarrely, they were there for me.
We got out of the car, and after Patty hissed ‘stop looking like you’re here to clean the bloody toilets’ in my ear, I realised that was the case. I slipped back into the ‘pose and smile’ routine, and hoped I wasn’t pouting too much, like a bad selfie, before Patty shooed them off and I was ushered into the lobby.
The same lobby I’d walked through, exhausted, on so many nights since coming to London. The one with the chrome and the flowers and the platinum discs and the huge, blown-up shots of the label’s biggest stars. The one I usually snuck through, slouching, feeling tired and out of place and vaguely anxious, scared that the security guards might pull me up and ask me what I was doing in the building.
This time, though, it was all different. As soon as I walked in, I saw Heidi, Jack’s assistant, waiting for us. She was dressed, as usual, in a business suit that looked slightly too
small, and she was wearing a big, dazzling smile that told me very clearly that she was up to speed on the strange twists and turns my life had taken.
I wanted to go and give her a hug—she was one of the few people at Starmaker who’d treated me like a human being since the day I got there—but she immediately flipped open her notepad, tapped it with her pen, and announced, ‘They’re waiting for you in the Mash Up room, Jess. How do you take your coffee?’
I paused, completely taken aback by this new development. I’d handled the show last night. I’d handled the media this morning—sort of. I’d handled the fact that my name had magically changed its spelling, although there would be words about that at some point. I’d been driven here in a luxury car by a chauffeur, and been greeted at the door by paparazzi.
But what truly amazed me the most was this: I was no longer the one
making
the coffee. I was the one who had the coffee made for me. It was, utterly and truly, an astounding moment—and the one that finally made me start to realise that this was all real. It was actually happening. I was going to be a star!
‘Erm … could I maybe have … would it be possible to have a cappuccino?’ I mumbled, still a bit gobsmacked by the whole thing.
‘Sure,’ said Heidi, ‘I’ll get the new intern to make it—we seem to be one down all of a sudden. Now, come on, they’ll start scribbling on the walls if I leave them alone for too long.’
She gave me a cheeky wink, and walked away.
‘Who will?’ I asked, scurrying to catch up with her as
she headed to the lifts. Patty, I noted, had traipsed off up the stairs without so much as a goodbye. I suppose she was busy plotting world domination and changing innocent people’s names behind their backs.
‘Oh, you know—the creatives. The execs. The
team.
Honestly, they have the combined attention span of a six-year-old child.’
I just nodded as she pressed the button for the top floor. The floor I’d only ever visited once before when, in fact, I was delivering coffee, funnily enough. Jack’s own office was on the same level as the PR team and the admin offices. The make-up people and stylists and dance and vocal coaches all tended to stay in their own gangs, around the studios and rehearsal rooms. There was another enclave for people who worked on cover design and things I didn’t really understand like digital distribution and international sales.