Authors: Abbey Clancy
‘Y
ou look gorgeous, darling,’ Neale said, standing back to admire his handiwork. ‘And if I was on that particular bus, I’d be tempted to ask you for a ride.’
I giggled, far more loudly than his lame joke merited. It was the nerves; I was so terrified, every cell in my body seemed to be vibrating with fear. I hadn’t eaten all day, and was surviving on coffee and Red Bull, so pumped up on adrenalin and caffeine that my hands kept shaking and my mouth was constantly dry. I’d even considered joining Neale for a cigarette break earlier, even though I didn’t smoke.
It probably wasn’t the ideal condition to be in when I was about to perform—but there wasn’t much I could do about it. My mental state dictated that I couldn’t eat, couldn’t relax, could barely breathe. Although part of that was down to the hideously tight leather corset affair that Neale had me strung into—it was either made for a dwarf, or for alien beings who had no need for oxygen.
I stood up and looked at myself in the dressing room mirror. I was barely recognisable as the girl who’d been serving smoked salmon twists just a few weeks ago—Neale, plus the
work I’d been putting in myself, had transformed me into some kind of borderline kinky sex goddess. My hair was sleeked smooth with some industrial strength serum, a fake pony tail shimmering down over my back all the way to my now tiny waist. My eyes took smoky to a whole new level, and my legs were encased in black fishnet tights that somehow made them look a lot longer than they actually were. Although part of that illusion might also have been down to the thigh-length boots as well.
I pulled a face like a horse at my reflection, admiring the dazzling shine of my newly whitened teeth—sleeping with plastic mouth guards on had so been worth it for the end result.
‘Neale, you are a genius!’ I said, grinning at him. ‘Thank you so much.’
My nerves about the single launch weren’t completely soothed by looking this good—but it definitely helped. I knew Vogue was in the room next door, and that she’d be looking like a squillion dollars, so my confidence had needed the boost. I wasn’t in competition with her—but neither did I want to feel like her dowdy little sister, or the plain one all the boys would want to avoid at a party.
‘I know,’ said Neale, doing a theatrical fake sigh as he packed away his brushes and picked up the hairspray for a final toxic waft. ‘I’m like the Van Gogh of make-up—except with both my ears.’
I knew the score now, and shielded my eyes with my hands as he sprayed me, making sure I didn’t breathe in before the fumes had dissipated.
Althea, the stage manager at the club, popped her head
through the door, radio in one hand and all miked up like an aircraft controller.
‘Ready, Jessika?’ she said.
Two words. Two very simple words—both of which struck horror into my heart. Was I ready? Well, I certainly looked ready. The outfit was perfect—if a little out of character from my usual clobber. The make-up was done. The hair was amazing. The teeth would probably be visible to passing satellites, they were so white.
I’d rehearsed this song with Vogue over and over again. I knew my notes, I knew my words, I knew my key changes. I knew my dance steps, I knew the other guys’ dance steps, I knew the lighting, I knew my marks. We’d done it several times on this stage throughout the day, we’d ironed out any wrinkles, and we’d nailed it. Technically, I was ready.
Except … I was still petrified. The shaking hands and rumbling tummy were now accompanied by their good friend nausea, and my whole body felt like a big, wobbly jelly. Or at least it would have done, if most of it hadn’t been strapped into a too-tight corset.
My parents were out there. Becky and Luke were out there. Pretty much everyone who worked at Starmaker was out there, including Jack, his bosses, and possibly the cleaners and the bloke who came round to water the corporate plants with a spray bottle once a week. There were reporters and bloggers and columnists, not just from the UK but from all around the world. The single was available for download the next day—and this was our way of shouting about it. And of shouting about me—Jessika.
Jessika, I knew, should be thrilled. She should be ready to take on the world, and think the world was lucky to have her. But Jessy—who was still alive somewhere, under the products and the costume and the slap—was feeling like an absolute pussy.
Neale took one look at my face, and grabbed hold of my shoulders, shaking me so hard I thought my head might rattle off and roll across the dressing room floor.
‘Get it together, superstar!’ he said, pinching my arm really hard. ‘Don’t you dare fall to pieces now—there’s not time to fix that make-up!’
It snapped me back to reality just enough to do exactly as he said—get it together. I couldn’t let him down—or my parents, or Jack, or Vogue. Or—let’s not forget—myself.
‘‘Kay,’ I mumbled, rubbing my arm where he’d pinched it. ‘Ta for that. I’m ready now.’
I strode out, glad I’d spent the whole of the day wearing the scary boots to get used to them, and met Vogue, as she emerged from her dressing room looking predictably stunning. The dancers were already on stage. The live backing band were ready to go. The audience was waiting.
Vogue gave me a huge grin, her teeth even whiter than mine, and held up her hand for a high-five.
‘Come on, babes,’ she said, as I slapped her palm. ‘Let’s nail this.’
W
e did nail it—and it was euphoric. The launch was finally the culmination of everything I had wanted, and felt like fireworks and confetti cannons and a celestial choir singing all at once. Of course I was exhausted too.
I suppose it was understandable—I’d hardly eaten, and I’d been running on fumes for so long, I had very little left to give. Everything had been building up to this night, this performance, this show—and now it was actually ATL, I felt like one of those people you see staggering over the finishing line at the end of a marathon, who immediately gets wrapped in a foil blanket and eats a Mars bar. Except there was no foil blanket, and instead of curling up in a foetal ball on the floor with some chocolate, I was going to Go Forth and Dazzle—more interviews, more videos, more posing for photos, more talking to VIPs, and more wondering if my family were doing all right. Just … more everything.
The first gig I’d done—the one that changed my whole life in ways I’d not been at all prepared for—had been kind of accidental. If it wasn’t for Vogue’s cholera/tummy bug, I would never have been on stage—and while that had been
terrifying in its own way, I’d also only had half an hour to be terrified for. This one—this one had been a slow build of not only terror, but of pressure and expectation and sheer bloody hard work. Doing a gig as a waitress-slash-intern, with no advance warning and wearing a curtain, was tough—but I’d had nothing to lose.
If I’d messed up, nobody would have been surprised. But this one … this was completely different. I was established. I was featured on a single by one of the world’s biggest divas. My parents were there. I was being well paid. I had a K in my name. I had a lot to prove—and I don’t think I realised quite how much pressure I’d been under until I stepped off stage at the end of it, drenched in sweat, high-fiving the dancers as they swarmed off behind me. I was too tired to even admire the view of glistening, perfect torsos going past me, which is a definite sign of chronic fatigue.
Vogue gave me a big grin and a thumbs up as she unhitched her ear piece and mic, and Neale immediately appeared and led me back to the dressing room. I had about ten minutes to change—this time, at least, I wasn’t expected to walk around and schmooze people still wearing my stage costume.
I chugged water as he unhooked the corset thing, and was so relieved when it was finally undone that I spluttered a whole mouthful out of my lips in a ladylike display of pure elegance and class.
I pulled a face and wiped my hand across my damp chin, admiring the way Neale had jumped out of splatter reach so nimbly.
‘Good reactions,’ I said, laughing, as I peeled myself out of the now dripping black leather.
‘I’ve been around you long enough now to have the reflexes of a fashion ninja, Jess,’ he replied, helping me climb into my next outfit. This was much less revealing, but in a way quite a lot sexier—a black catsuit with a gold belt that looked like links of chain tightly cinching in my waist, and a plunging neckline that was held together with prayer and tape. I wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, which made me very nervous—we’ve all seen wardrobe malfunctions, and I really wasn’t keen on the idea of my boob popping out in front of my dad and brother.
Neale, though, worked his magic, and stood back to look me up and down. He stared at my chest so intently I was starting to wonder if he was straight after all and the campness had all been a ruse, especially as he then stepped forward and started to physically poke, prod, and push my breasts around, frowning as he did it.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ he said, once he’d finally finished his inspection, ‘you’re safe as houses. You could go upside-down pole dancing and those titties would still stay in place. Talking of dancing, do you fancy coming out later? Once all this is done? I’m meeting some friends at a … well, a place where you’d be safe, even if your boobs did fall out!’
‘You mean a gay club?’ I asked, shielding my face as yet more hairspray clouded around my head.
‘Yes, darling, but I didn’t want to be so blunt. I might have shocked you!’
‘I don’t think so, Neale. There’s a big gay scene in Liverpool,
you know—I did backing vocals to an all-male burlesque night once. Bloody hilarious, watching a six-foot-two-inch drag queen try and squeeze himself into one of those giant plastic Martini glasses … I’ll have to take you some time. But as far as tonight goes, I think I’m probably going to get this over with, see my family, and head back to the flat as soon as I can. To be honest, I want nothing more than a mug of hot chocolate with some squirty cream and a flake.’
‘You decadent bitch,’ replied Neale, wafting me with a quick spritz of perfume.
‘I know,’ I replied, ‘I might even watch old episodes of
Sex and the City
while I’m in bed. Okay. Round two. Ding ding!’
I flicked my fake pony, did an equally fake boxing pose, and strode back out into the venue.
I was immediately met by Patty, who was glowering at me and pointing at her watch as though I’d kept her waiting for hours instead of minutes. I glowered back—some of the boxing pose must have worked—and strutted towards her with as much confidence as stiletto-heeled dominatrix boots can give a girl.
‘All right, all right,’ I said, before she had a chance to open her skinny lips, ‘don’t get your knickers in a twist, I’m here. Just tell me who I need to talk to, what you’d like me to say, and how long for.’
She narrowed her eyes at me, then quirked one corner of her mouth in a vaguely upward direction. For Patty, it qualified as a delighted grin—at least when pointed in my direction. She normally viewed me with as much enthusiasm as she would a fungal nail infection.
‘At last,’ she said, beckoning for me to follow her, ‘you seem to be getting the hang of it. I’d say I was surprised, but I suppose you could even train a chimp to make a cappuccino if you tried hard enough.’
I rolled my eyes and trailed along behind her, desperate to accompany the eye rolls with a few choice finger gestures but knowing I could be snapped at any stage—and a shot of me flicking the Vs to the back of my PR manager might not be the ideal photo opp. Anybody who’d ever met Patty would understand, but the millions who hadn’t would think I was just being rude.
The next hour and a half was spent in the company of various journalists, bloggers, YouTubers, music writers and other assorted people classified as important by Patty. It was similar to the first time we did the meet-and-greets after the Panache gig, except this time, I was a bit better at it. By better, I mean I didn’t yell at anyone, swear, or otherwise embarrass myself or Starmaker. In fact, to be truthful, I’d even got to the stage where I kind of enjoyed it—I mean, I’d wanted to be a pop star the whole of my life. I’d always imagined being interviewed, and even practised my awards speeches in front of the bathroom mirror with a hairbrush in my hand.
I knew—because I’d done it—that if the media stuff went on all day, it became not only tiring, but mentally confusing. After more than a few hours answering inane questions about yourself, your brains begin to dribble out of your eyes, and you start to fantasise about climbing out of the toilet windows like a kidnap victim when you’re on a break.
But this—an hour after a gig—was fine. It was more than
fine—it was part of my job, and another chance for me to cement the progress I’d made so far. I’d had a great and unexpected start—but it was just a start. There was a lot of hard work ahead of me before I reached anywhere near the levels Vogue was at, and doing the rounds like this was all part of the process.
So I smiled and laughed and chatted and tried very, very hard to come across as fresh and exciting to every single person who asked me exactly the same set of questions over and over again. I tried to give them all something a bit different, a bit personal, and I tried to be both myself and somehow more than myself—I was aiming to find the ‘special’ that came with my ‘K’.
I briefly saw Jack and Vogue at separate times as we did our choreographed waltz around the room, received encouraging smiles from both, and finally—finally—got the nod from Patty. The nod, followed by her abruptly turning her back on me and stalking off in the opposite direction, that meant I was done for the evening.
She hadn’t slapped me or called me a cretin, so I assumed I’d done all right, and immediately started to dream about the luxuries of food, drink, and sleep. I would have loved to have snuck out the back and jumped a taxi home, but even thinking about escaping—especially in a black cab—made me feel guilty. My parents had come all the way down from Liverpool for this, and now I needed to find that extra little bit of energy and enthusiasm to go and show them that I appreciated it. Because I did, even if I wasn’t feeling very energetic or enthused right then.
I decided to nip off to the Ladies’ first, just to give my brain a few minutes’ breathing space. Then, I told myself, I’d take a deep breath, and head straight back out—all smiles, all laughter, all excitement. The living embodiment of Pharrell’s ‘Happy’.
I headed into one of the cubicles to do my business, and only realised exactly how tired I was when I almost fell asleep sitting on the loo. You know when you’re drifting off to snoozeland, and suddenly your muscles give a little jerk, and you’re suddenly awake again and a bit surprised by it all? Well, that happened—but instead of being tucked up in bed when it did, I was leaning against the toilet wall, and jerked upright so hard I clanged my head on it. It was seriously a very glamorous moment.
I screwed my eyes open and shut a few times as I emerged back into the fancy little bathroom, and wished I could splash my face with water—except Neale would kill me for ruining his masterwork.
The lighting in the ladies’ was low, and the walls were painted red. There were huge mirrors on the wall all framed with heavy gold ornamental designs, and the dresser area was fringed with red tassels. It looked a bit like a whorehouse in a movie set in the Wild West.
I stared at my own reflection, pulling various faces, trying to figure out if I looked as bad as I felt, when one of the women who’d just interviewed me walked in. I’d be lying if I said I could remember exactly who she was, or her name, or who she worked for. But I did remember that she’d asked me if I’d be going home for Christmas, which had felt like a daft question
until I realised it was only actually weeks away. My life had been moving so quickly—taking the plunge and coming to London, my internship, the gig, everything since, my romance with Jack—that I’d barely registered the months flying by.
‘Hi!’ she said brightly, meeting my eyes in the mirror. She had one of those very straight, very thick, black Cleopatra bobs that may or may not have been a wig, and was wearing vivid red lipstick. She could have stepped straight out of a manga cartoon.
I tried to switch right back into Media Barbie mode, but my brain was lagging a little behind my face and in the end I gave her a huge grin but said nothing. I just washed my hands, still grinning, then fumbled for a few minutes trying to complete the next Mission Impossible—turning the tap off.
‘Are you all right, Jessika?’ she asked, frowning at me.
‘What?’ I stuttered, giving myself an imaginary slap across the face. ‘Yes! Yes, I’m fine—just a bit …’
‘Knackered?’ she asked, in such a sympathetic tone of voice that I almost buried my head in her chest and started sobbing.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The grin was still on my face, though, apparently stuck there—the wind must have changed. I could feel the muscles in my cheek and jaw starting to aching, but didn’t seem capable of shutting it down. Patty had trained this particular chimp a bit too well.
She nodded, and started to root in her handbag, black bob bouncing around her face as she did it.
‘I can only imagine—those routines must be exhausting, and I bet you’ve not had a minute to yourself for days. Look, would a bit of this help?’
She held out her hand, and I saw a small, square wrap of white paper. I knew what was inside it. I hadn’t led a sheltered life, and I’ve seen my fair share of people using drugs—in the street, in clubs, in toilets exactly like these. And I’d never, ever given in to the temptation—I was quite happy getting high on traditional drugs like alcohol and tiramisu, thank you very much.
But just then, I have to admit, for fleeting moment, I was. Tempted, that is. Very tempted. I was so tired—physically and mentally strung out. I still had to face my parents, the rest of the night, Jack, and entirely possibly some of the Starmaker VIPs who’d come to the launch. My hands even trembled a little bit as I looked on, so wanting to reach out and take the little bit of pharmaceutical assistance that was on offer.
‘It’s all right,’ said the woman—Holly, I belatedly remembered was her name; she was a writer for one of the big teen mags—’I’m not looking to stitch you up. It’s not going to turn into one of those “my drug-fuelled-night-with-pop-starlet” type stories, honest. You just look like you need a bit of a boost.’
Even as she said it, I realised how naive—or possibly how fatigued—I really was. I mean, I was in the public lavatories of a nightclub where I’d just performed, giving some serious (if very temporary) consideration to accepting cocaine from a random journalist I’d only just met. I didn’t need Patty around to tell me that that was a situation potentially fraught with danger—and yet, I’d forgotten. For a few moments, I’d forgotten that I NEVER do drugs; I’d forgotten that I was a celeb and she was a reporter, and I’d
forgotten that I had to go back out there and see my bloody parents! I really was very close to falling over the edge into major league stupidity.
‘Aaah, that’s really kind of you,’ I said, adjusting my grin from worryingly bright to something that was hopefully a bit more genuine. ‘But not for me, thanks. I think I’ll go and grab a Mojito, and maybe … erm … a bag of crisps!’
Holly smiled back, and started to unfold the paper. Looked like she was going to indulge anyway, and who was I to judge?
‘All right,’ she replied, as I prepared to leave. ‘Be careful with those crisps though—they can be more addictive than this stuff!’