Remember My Name

by Abbey Clancy

  Maybe I was a bit star struck, I don’t know. Maybe I was also a bit grateful, that Jack had seen something in me that so many others had missed. Maybe I was just sex-starved and he was gorgeous. Whatever the reasons, though, the end result was the same—I was hooked.

  When we’d emerged from the bar and climbed into his Audi I’d been merry and giggly and high on life. He was nowhere near as merry—he was driving, after all—but he did seem happy.

  ‘I’ve had a wonderful night, Jess,’ he said, turning towards me and laying one hand on my knee. I don’t know whether he’d planned it that way, but he’d parked right under one of those old-fashioned streetlights that’s made of curved wrought iron and looks all olde worldy, like something from a Dickens film. The glow from it was cast over his face, shining from his dark eyes, glinting on the deep brown waves of his hair. To use an intellectual term, it was pretty hot.

  ‘Me too,’ I said, then straight away burped like a frog with some serious digestive issues. It was a good, strong burp—deep and croaky. Luke would probably have given it an eight out of ten for comedy effect.

  I quickly covered my mouth with my hand, and realised I was too tipsy to be as horrified as I should be. Instead, I started laughing—because, you know, noises that come from your body are naturally funny. At least they are where I come from—we never get fed up of fart jokes in our house.

  He joined in, and we both laughed for a few minutes, until I was able to speak again.

  ‘I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not really,’ I said. ‘It’s your fault for getting me drunk. And at least it was only one burp—my sister Becky can do them on demand. She can even make tunes out of them.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow and grinning. ‘How fantastic. Has she considered going on Britain’s Got Talent?’

  ‘Not yet, but I might suggest it to her … Anyway, I really did have a great night, Jack. I suppose I’d better get home and sleep this off.’

  He nodded, and looked at me seriously, his eyes never moving from mine. Unlike his hand, which was definitely moving—in little circular motions on my thigh that should have tickled, but instead just made me feel a bit gooey inside.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ he said simply, all traces of laughter gone from his voice. ‘To go home? Because of course, I’ll take you if you do. But … I was wondering … if you’d like to take this to the next level? Come back to mine for a coffee?’

  Something in my expression must have changed—and maybe he interpreted it as something negative—because straight away he continued: ‘And by coffee, I do mean coffee—no strings attached.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, leaning back in the plush leather seat in a way I hoped was sexy, but probably just made me look like I needed a wee. ‘Just for a coffee? I can get coffee at my flat.’

  ‘Mine’s better,’ he replied, instantly, smiling at me in a way that I can only describe as Pure Sexy. ‘It’s hotter and it’s smoother and it’ll definitely keep you up all night. If that’s what you want.’

  It was what I wanted. In fact—and I’m so glad I didn’t actually say this out loud—I was gagging for it. I’d always tried to have good intentions about Jack; no matter how good-looking or charming he was, I’d tried to avoid thinking about it becoming anything more. Because he was my boss. Because I didn’t want to behave like an idiot and get the knock back if he wasn’t interested, beyond a few casual kisses. Because I knew I was vulnerable—my glamorous life was taking its toll on me, with the long hours and all the hard work for so little return. I wasn’t at my strongest, and didn’t want to make it all even worse by getting my knickers in a twist about a man.

  But, well … I’m only flesh and blood, you know? And it’s not like I jumped into bed with him. We’d taken the time to get to know each other. We’d had coffee dates and dinner dates and drinks dates. We’d had kisses and cuddles and long, lingering moments where things could have moved quicker—but they hadn’t. We’d taken it slow. Or—if I was being really honest with myself—Jack had taken it slow.

  So, cutting a long story short, I’d spent the night at his flat. His penthouse apartment on the top of a modern building with views over the Thames—a place that I’d have to call a bachelor pad. It was ultra-sleek and ultra-stylish and it had an ultra-big bed—which is where we spent most of the night.

  A lady doesn’t kiss and tell—and neither do I—but it had been fantastic. I was a bit drunk, which helped—I worry less about the way my body looks when I’m a bit drunk, which makes it all a lot better. It’s no fun when you’re too busy holding your tummy in to enjoy yourself, is it? Plus, there was the Jack factor—the way he made me feel, during our dates: as if I was the centre of his world, and he was lucky to be spending time with me. Well, he was like that in the bedroom as well.

  I’m not that experienced when it comes to sex—I’ve not had very many boyfriends, and the only time I ever had a one-night stand, I didn’t know it was going to be one until the next morning. But I was experienced enough to understand that Jack was good at it—and that he could become addictive.

  That was the only thing that was worrying me, as I scuttled around the office carrying the tray of drinks and cookies back to the PR pillocks. That I’d be too into him. That I’d do that girl thing and mix up good sex and good company with something more, and blow it all out of proportion. That even if I didn’t intend to, I’d find myself doodling Jess Duncan on scrap paper to see what my new signature would look like.

  We’d had a bit of a talk about it, afterwards. When we were lying tangled up in his silk sheets, listening to softly playing soul music, the candles he’d lit around the bed burning low and filling the room with the scent of something spicy and musky. We agreed that whatever happened next, we’d need to keep it a secret—for both our sakes.

  He didn’t want to be seen as the Starmaker lech, taking advantage of the talent. And I didn’t want to be seen as a slapper, understandably enough.

  ‘Let’s just go with the flow, Jess,’ he’d said, stroking my hair and leaning forward to gently kiss me. ‘See where this takes us—letting other people in on it will only complicate matters. I want to have you all to myself for a while, anyway. I’m selfish like that.’

  The way he’d said that had sounded so romantic—wanting me all to himself. Like I was a chocolate fudge cake or something. And last night, I’d been happy with that. This morning, as I scooted around my flat trying to find clean underwear and wondering if all that energetic bonking had earned me a bacon buttie for breakfast, I’d still been happy with that.

  Now, as I tried to work and found myself constantly finding excuses to walk past Jack’s office, I wasn’t so sure. I’d checked my phone about three million times. I’d casually chatted to Heidi at her desk only a few times less. And all I got from it was a crick in my neck from trying to stare through his glass door from behind one of the potted palm trees. I don’t know why I bothered—the glass was frosted, and all I could see were vague shapes moving around. It could have been my uncle Brian in there for all I could tell.

  I knew I was behaving badly—stupidly—but I couldn’t quite stop myself.

  I’d been here before. All women have, I think. At that stage where you feel brilliant and crap all at the same time. That stage where everything could happen—or nothing at all.

  That stage where I’d normally have Ruby to talk to, or Becky—and now, here in London, I had nobody.

  Unless you counted Patty—and as she was currently taking off her platform boots so I could go and polish them for her, I really, really didn’t.

  Chapter 9

  ‘You have kebab,’ said Yusuf, thrusting a wrapped paper package at my sister’s hands. He pointed to her belly, which was now noticeably carrying a passenger, and added, ‘Make big strong baby for you.’

  Becky took hold of the parcel and grinned at him, saying ‘thank you’ over her shoulder as we walked up the stairs to my flat.

  ‘I think I’m in love,’ she sa
id, glancing back down the steps as Yusuf waved at her. ‘I might leave Sean and move in with you, just to be near him. He can be my new baby daddy.’

  ‘Yusuf is sixty-four, he’s married with seven kids, and that belly of his won’t go away in a few months’ time like yours will,’ I replied, shoving the key into the door and turning it.

  ‘I know. But who can resist a man who gives you free food? And he seems so nice …’

  ‘He is,’ I said, as I led us back inside. ‘He’s a love. If he didn’t come free with the flat, I’d pay extra for him. I always know he’s looking out for me, and it never matters if I lose my keys.’

  ‘Plus, you know, free kebabs?’ she said, walking to the kitchen counter and unwrapping her food. I grabbed two plates down from the cupboard, and she sighed with contentment as she plonked her mega-meal down onto hers.

  I did what I usually do when Yusuf gives me a freebie—pulled the meat off the pitta, and threw the bread in the bin, leaving just the lamb and the salad.

  Becky pulled a face at me as we collapsed down onto the sofa.

  ‘What’s up with that?’ she said, through a mouthful of meat and lettuce. ‘Is the bread minging, or something?’

  ‘No … I’m just, you know, off carbs,’ I said, looking regretfully at her pitta, which was dripping with juices and sauce. I’d not eaten bread for six weeks now, and it was starting to bite. I sometimes went into a trance-like state, and when I came to, found myself standing outside the French bakery on the corner, my nose pressed up to the window, making a pig face and sniffing deliriously. One day I’d get stuck and they’d have to peel me off.

  ‘Off carbs?’ she said, looking confused. ‘Are you going to Marbs?’

  ‘I wish!’ I answered, making the most of the kebab I did have left. ‘I’m just trying to stay in shape—I have dance classes, and they’re pretty hard. The last thing I need is to be dragging a lard arse around with me.’

  ‘You don’t have a lard arse,’ replied Becky. ‘And you never have had, much as Luke would like you to think different. You don’t need to lose any more weight—you look fantastic. Apart from, well …’

  ‘What?’ I snapped, my eyes wide open. I was on a bit of a roller coaster with my self-esteem these days, and seemed to have lost all balance and control. If someone—okay, Jack—said something nice to me about the way I looked, my confidence would sky rocket. If someone—okay, Jack—said something less nice, I’d plummet into misery.

  It was kind of pathetic, but I didn’t really know what to do to change it. I mean, Jack rarely ever said anything critical—on the whole, he was lovely. He was attentive and flattering and charming and usually made me feel brilliant about myself. When he was around, at least. Which wasn’t all that often.

  After we’d spent our first night together, I hadn’t seen him properly for another five days. He’d texted me, something cute and slightly rude that tided me over and stopped me taking a detour into crazy town, but we’d not actually got together again for what felt like a lifetime.

  By the time we did—a walk along the river, drinks, back to his place—I’d given myself a good talking to. I was taking it all too seriously—I was clinging on to what might happen with Jack because the rest of my life was so empty and depressing. And that wasn’t fair to either of us—it put too much pressure on him, and it made me feel like a great big loser, with a capital L.

  I didn’t want to be the kind of woman who sat around all day mooning over some bloke. The kind of woman who was constantly checking if her phone had run out of charge because she hadn’t heard from a man. I wanted to be the kind of woman who treated it all as fun, who was carefree and light-hearted and good to be around.

  In the end, I kind of became both. When I was with him, I managed the carefree and light-hearted—and he was such good company, he made that easy. It was hard to be miserable with Jack around, and even if I was, he could whisk me off to bed and make me forget all about it. He could even make me forget about bread, it was that good.

  But when I was on my own? Trekking back from the office after a long, exhausting day, hungry and tired and lonely? After not seeing him or hearing from him and wondering what he was up to and who he was up to it with? That’s when I took out my L plate, and stuck that loser sign on my forehead, and wallowed in it.

  It was one of the reasons I’d been so made up when Becky said she was coming to stay for a couple of nights—seeing her would distract me, and take my mind off everything I was worried about. Now, though, I felt suddenly self-conscious.

  ‘Well … you just look a bit tired, Jessy,’ she said tactfully, picking up on how sensitive I was feeling. ‘And a bit like you need to eat some doughnuts.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said quickly, standing up and throwing the rest of the kebab in the bin, where it joined its long-lost bread family.

  ‘I don’t think you are,’ Becky answered, looking around at the flat as I sat back down next to her. I’d spent days scrubbing and tidying before she came, and bought fresh flowers that I’d arranged around the place in old wine bottles, and one of those floral plug-ins to try to mask the eau de kebab that pretty much always wafted up from the shop downstairs. But looking at it through her eyes, I saw it for what it was: small, shabby, and a little bit sad.

  ‘You seem a bit lonely, love. And those cows you work with don’t seem to be helping.’

  I’d taken Becky into the Starmaker offices that day to introduce her to people, hoping, I suppose, to impress her with my glamorous new life. Patty had just looked her up and down, listened to her talk, and said: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand a word you’re saying,’ before flouncing off to meet someone from the Star for brunch.

  After that, it had just got worse—the whole PR department seemed to have chosen that day to have some communal meltdown, and Becky had to sit in reception waiting for me, while I did emergency photocopying and made vats of coffee and generally ran round like a blue-arsed fly.

  The only highlight had been bumping into Vogue in the lifts. Vogue was a megastar—and came across as a total diva on stage. But in the flesh, she couldn’t be nicer. She was about six-foot tall and looked a bit like Naomi Campbell, and she should have been scary. I’d seen her in interviews, and sometimes she definitely seemed scary.

  In real life, though, she was a babe. She’d remembered my name—pretty much a first at Starmaker—and asked when Becky’s baby was due, and even asked her where she’d got her shoes from (Kirkby Market, so I can’t imagine Vogue would be dashing out to get her own pair any time soon). The whole conversation lasted about two minutes, but it had made my day—and Becky’s. At least now she had a good story to tell when she got home.

  Of course, one of the reasons I’d taken her into the office was the hope that Jack would be there. That he’d see us, and come over, and I’d get to feel that thrill of having such a gorgeous boyfriend and showing him off to my big sister.

  Except, you know, he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my … well, I had no idea what he was. And he wasn’t in the office anyway—even though I’d told him Becky was coming. Apparently, according to Heidi, he was at a meeting in Brussels. He did things like that—had meetings in Brussels, or lunch in Paris, or a gig in Barcelona. He was a VIP, and his schedule was just a little bit different to mine.

  It was one of the aspects of Jack’s life that made him feel like an unattainable mega-being from another planet. My reaction varied from ‘this will never work’ to ‘why is a man like that interested in a girl like me?’ to ‘I’m never letting him go, and I want to have his babies’, depending on what mood I was in. Even thinking about him then, with Becky sitting right there, I wondered if he was back yet—wondered if he’d message me, wondered when we’d meet up again.

  I snapped myself back to reality, and met Becky’s probing gaze. She—unlike me, apparently—was looking great. The morning sickness had obviously passed, her fair hair was glossy, her skin was clear, and she’d obviously hit that ‘glowing’ stage tha
t preggers women are supposed to get.

  I gave her a big, bright smile, and said, ‘No, I’m good—honest. I work hard, but I always expected that. And it’s all worth it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she replied, with a look on her face that was very similar to our mum’s when she thought you were hiding something—like the fact that you’d secretly drunk her bottle of Baileys with your mates; or snuck out to go to a party when you were grounded, or put your red T-shirt in the whites wash and made it all pink. It was frightening—Becky hadn’t even had her baby yet, and she was already developing scary Mum-like telepathic powers. It must be hereditary.

  I nodded, gesturing for her to get up as I pulled the sofa-bed out into its bed form. I grabbed the pile of sheets and pillows from the chair where I’d dumped them earlier, and started making it up to sleep on. Becky was having the bed—although not the bedroom, as there wasn’t one. We’d be kipping together again, just like when we were kids.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I said, ‘and I’m knackered. Let’s crash out and talk crap before we go to sleep, like we used to.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she answered, pulling on her pyjamas and laughing. ‘All right. As long as we can talk about boys. Because I know there’s a man on the scene, Jessy.’

  I ignored her, and climbed under the covers, pulling the fleecy blanket up to my chin. Obviously, she was right. But I just couldn’t talk about it to her—because I had no idea what to tell her. It was all very hard to describe, especially to someone who didn’t know Jack, and didn’t know the music business, and didn’t know the way this weird London world worked.

  When I stayed quiet, she took that as her cue to carry on. I’d hoped she’d think I was asleep—I should probably have manufactured some fake snoring.