by Abbey Clancy
‘The short answer is, no,’ I said—or yelled, to be precise, as the noise levels in the club were still set to brain-splitting. ‘None of that is true. My mum works in Tesco, and my dad’s a cab driver. The closest they’ve ever come to doing drugs is taking some Alka-Seltzer after a big night out in town. We weren’t rich, but I wasn’t ever deprived. The school didn’t close down, it was merged with another one because there weren’t enough pupils—and as far as I know, they were never any gang shootings. Not there, at least.’
‘But there were elsewhere? Were you involved? Were you ever in a gang?’
I laughed out loud at that one—as if my parents would ever put up with any of that nonsense.
‘The closest I ever got to being in a gang,’ I said, trying to keep my voice pleasant and not show how annoyed I was, ‘was being in the netball team. Admittedly, it could get a bit rowdy, but the only things we shot were goals. Liverpool isn’t some third world country, you know.’
I could feel Patty incessantly pinching my side as I spoke, and could practically feel the heat of her scowl, and Jack’s persistent tug on my elbow as he tried to draw matters to a close.
I shook Jack off with a twist, and slapped Patty’s hand away as subtly as I could; much as I didn’t like this particular interview, neither did I want to hit the headlines for assaulting a PR manager in public, even if she did deserve it.
‘I’m proud of where I come from,’ I said to the reporter, ignoring the fact that Jack was staring at me with a ‘shut-the-fuck-up’ expression. ‘I’m proud of my family. And Liverpool is not a shithole.’
I don’t know why I even said that. The guy hadn’t said it was a shithole—but Patty’s comments earlier in the night were still bugging me, and the fact that she was trying to make people believe I was a character from some Scouse-based Girlz n The Hood style drama was starting to really piss me off.
I was willing to do a lot of things to achieve my goals—but this was a fiction too far.
Unfortunately for me, the one single, solitary pause in the ear-numbing music chose that exact moment to present itself. After a whole night of non-stop thumping, there was a perfectly timed break before the next tune was pumped out. It might have been a DJ error. It might have been a moment of serenity at the end of a fast and furious dance track. It might have been God’s way of agreeing with Jack, and telling me to STFU—whatever it was, it meant that anyone within listening range heard that last word of mine.
To make matters worse, my voice had done that thing that Liverpool girls’ voices do when they’re upset or over-excited, and gone up a couple of octaves at the end—so it ended up not as a good old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill ‘shithole’, but a long, high-pitched ‘shithoooooole’. I felt immediately embarrassed and ashamed of myself—not for the intentions, which were good, but for the delivery, which wasn’t exactly classy. Calling myself Jessica hadn’t, apparently, been enough to turn me into a proper lady. My very own Henry Higgins, standing by my side, was trying not to look horrified.
The journalist, luckily, was made of sterner stuff. He took it in his stride and laughed.
‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’m from Manchester. I was winding you up a bit. Anyway … congrats, Jessica. That was a great night. I’m sure we’ll being seeing a lot more of you.’
I nodded and smiled and looked around me, feeling a bit sheepish, and insanely glad that the music was now back up to its usual levels. I purposely avoided meeting Jack’s eyes, and accidentally on purpose trod on Patty’s foot as I walked away. It didn’t have much effect as I wasn’t wearing shoes, but it’s the thought that counts.
I decided that I’d talked enough. I’d given enough quotes. I’d smiled enough smiles, and posed for enough pictures. I’d handled enough bullshit, frankly—and I was fast realising that this particular aspect of stardom wasn’t as fun or exciting as I’d always thought it would be.
I needed to rehydrate, go home, and sleep. This whole fame thing was a minefield, and I was too exhausted to stay ahead of the game. Without asking Patty or Jack their opinion, I strode off, aiming to head back to the dressing room and deglamorise myself before setting off for my flat. I might even treat myself to a taxi, I decided. I’d earned a bit of luxury, and sitting in the back of a black cab would remind me of my dad and calm me down.
I was pretty sure, beneath the tiredness and the stress, that I’d probably cave in if Jack invited me back to his place instead—but for five glorious minutes, I decided I just wasn’t going to care one way or the other. It had been a mental night, and my head was mashed. I didn’t want to be a diva—but I really needed to put my feet up for a bit. Not many pop stars, after all, do a full shift of waitressing before their stage shows, do they? I can’t imagine Madonna or Gaga have to hand out the snacks before they strut their stuff, anyway.
I started to politely push my way through the crowds, making my excuses, telling anyone who asked it had been a fantastic night, thank you for coming, and smiling so hard I genuinely doubted my mouth would ever feel the same again.
As I neared the Promised Land—that door to the backstage area that I’d walked through as a waitress not so very long ago—I was stopped by a firm hand on my shoulder.
I wasn’t delighted about that for a few reasons—mainly, I really needed ten minutes to myself. But also, there was every possibility that a firm hand on my shoulder could make my whole curtain dress drop off, and there were way too many cameras on the go in here for that to be a cool thing.
I glanced behind me, trying to keep my polite smile in place even though I felt a bit like stabbing someone, and saw a tall, beautifully built blond man towering above me. The lights from the strobes were casting his face in shadow, but I could make out white teeth and a huge grin and golden hair, a bit too long, a bit too floppy. He looked vaguely familiar. Or, no, to be precise, he felt vaguely familiar—something about the smile, I think.
‘Jessy?’ he said, raising his voice to be heard over the racket. ‘Is that actually you underneath all that war paint? I wasn’t certain, until I heard that magnificent “shithole” echoing through the place …’
I turned around to face him, screwed up my eyes against the flashing lights, and squinted in what was probably a super-attractive way as I tried to figure out who this person was. This person who seemed to know me—well enough to call me Jessy, at least, which narrowed it down to very close family and friends. None of which, I’d assumed, had been here tonight.
‘Jessy?’ he said again, starting to look a bit confused now. ‘It’s me.’
‘Erm—who is “me”?’ I said, still unable to either see his face properly, or put a name to the voice that was nagging away at me as belonging to someone I knew. Someone I’d be glad to see under normal circumstances.
‘Daniel,’ he said. ‘Daniel Wells, the Evertonian from next door. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already?’
Chapter 15
I was so shocked I didn’t know how to react for a moment. My whole day—my whole life these past weeks—had been insane. I’d managed to draw a line between my London world and my Liverpool world, and now Daniel was here, right in front of me, crashing down the walls between the two.
After staring at him, befuddled, for a few seconds, I threw my arms around him, crushing him to me in a hug.
It was Daniel. My neighbour, my friend, my ally in life. And somehow, he was here—in London, in the Panache Club, in my arms.
He was also, I couldn’t help but notice, a lot … more. He was taller, and bigger, and firmer. He felt like a man, instead of the pudgy boy I remembered. Somehow, I’d frozen Daniel in time, and done him a disservice by freezing him at a time when he was overweight and awkward. We’d both changed since we last saw each other, I knew—but my brain hadn’t compensated for those changes, and was still in shock at this new Daniel. Daniel version two.
‘Oh, my God!’ I said, pulling away from him, breathless and overwhelmed. ‘I can’t believe you’
re here! I can’t believe you still exist!’
‘What,’ he replied, that familiar laughter in his voice, ‘did you think had happened to me? That I moved to the South and disappeared from the face of the planet? Brighton’s not that far away, you know!’
He was mocking me—but in that quiet, fond way he always had. Like I was the funniest thing ever, and he loved me for it. There was never any viciousness to his mocking—it was just teasing, his way of showing he ‘got me’, and that even though I was pretty daft, he was down with it.
‘Well, it felt like that,’ I answered, standing back and trying to get a better look at him. That proved impossible in the dim lighting of the club, so I tugged at his arm, and pulled him through the magical door with me.
Even as I did it, a tiny part of me—the part that was probably dehydrated and on the verge of hallucinating—wondered if we’d go through the magical door and emerge back home, in Liverpool, tumbling out into our quiet terraced street. Years ago, and miles away, at a time and place when everything seemed so simple, so possible. When the world was at our feet, and anything we wanted was there for the taking.
My performance tonight might—just might—have changed my life; but it hadn’t exactly been an overnight success, no matter how much Patty and Jack tried to spin it that way. There’d been knock-backs and knock-outs and so many times when I’d had to dredge up the energy to get back up and fight another day. All of that—every single rejection, every Princess party in the rain, every time I had to go back to my excited parents and explain why the latest stage of the Make Jessy a Star plan had failed—had left its mark on me. Every cheating boyfriend and every packet of noodles and every time I’d had to borrow money from my dad had left scars.
I knew—because I wasn’t completely stupid—that things must have happened to him as well, to Daniel. There’d have been years’ worth of experiences we hadn’t shared; years’ worth of stories to exchange. There’d have been friends and relationships and jobs and highs and lows. I knew that he must have changed too, and not just physically.
I’d thought about him a lot over the years, but in a way that made him unreal. A way that left him firmly rooted in the past, as a distant and comforting memory.
As I dragged him towards the dressing room, I felt the excitement of having him back in my life—of this unexpected appearance—bubble up inside me. It was weird, considering everything what had happened to me that day, but somehow seeing Daniel again felt like the highlight of it all.
I pushed open the door, still clutching his hand, and pulled him inside with me. I stood there, just staring at him, for what felt like ages. He was so tall now—and so perfectly balanced, with wide shoulders and narrow hips, a bit like a swimmer. His hair was still blond and still a bit too long, but it was clean, and shining, and framed those familiar blue eyes that were sparkling down at me.
He was, quite frankly, gorgeous—in a way I could never have imagined back then, even if I did love him to bits. I’d loved him to bits in a purely platonic way; the way I’d have loved him if he was my brother. But he’d blossomed so much, he brought The Ugly Duckling fairy tale to life. He’d morphed into this super-tall, super-built, super-hot man—and I really wished all those girls who’d been mean to him at school could see him now.
‘Why does it smell of sick in here?’ he asked, wrinkling up his nose and looking around cautiously.
‘Oh! Well, that’s because someone was being sick—Vogue to be precise. She had to pull out of the gig at the last minute, and they replaced her with … well, me! Did you see it? Did you see the show?’
‘Yes, I did, Jessy. And I can’t believe that was a last-minute change of plans—you were brilliant. I’ve always wondered, over the last few years, when I was going to turn on the TV and see you smiling out at me … and I guess that time is now. You’ve finally made it.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, sweeping aside my doubts and focusing on the here and now, ‘but I took a long time getting here. A lot’s happened. And a lot hasn’t happened. And … God, I have, like, a million questions for you! What are you doing here, anyway? We’ve not spoken for so long, and you just seemed to fall off the radar—I did try and find you online, but for a techy nerd, you seem to have avoided it. Last I heard, you went off to uni, doing something that probably involved nano-secs and things that make robotic beeping noises …’
He laughed and pulled a face—it was amazing how quickly we were falling back into our familiar routines.
‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘I studied music production. You weren’t the only one bitten with the bug after the school show, you know. And after that … well, I tried working for a few labels, doing internships, that kind of thing. It just didn’t stick. As you know, my amazing social skills, together with my male-model-like appearance back then, always made it hard for me to get on with people. You were pretty much the only person I ever spoke to at school, and that was only because our parents made us have baths together when we were two. The London life … all the people, the parties, the crap that went with it … well, it wasn’t for me. So I went my own way—started my own production team. Well, I called it a team, but to start off with it was just me: Wellsy.’
‘Wellsy?’ I said, frowning at him, trying to figure out where I’d heard that name before. Within a few moments, I had it—Jack had mentioned him. At the time I’d stalled on thinking it sounded like Banksy, and wondering if he was an anonymous graffiti artist slash music producer, not giving it a second thought—and certainly not connecting it to my old pal Daniel.
Wellsy was the hot-shot producer that Jack had been hoping to woo to Starmaker—his aim had been to get him to sign an exclusive contract to work with his acts, something that Wellsy had never done before.
‘He’s one of those self-styled lone-wolf characters,’ Jack had said, rolling his eyes. ‘But he’s good—brilliant, in fact. He’s become this mysterious recluse—never gives interviews, no social media profile, doesn’t do meetings. Doesn’t do the scene. Lives holed up in some country house on the coast, and all the artists have to travel to him. Everything he touches seems to turn to gold, though—and he’d be a perfect match for us.’
I tried to make all of that fit with Daniel Wells, the shy, spotty teenager who’d lived next door to us for so long, and found that I simply couldn’t. I don’t know why—I always knew he was talented, and if anyone was going to grow up to be a lone wolf, it was Daniel. He hadn’t even ‘done the scene’ when the scene in question involved nothing more hard core than swigging cider from plastic bottles on the local playground.
‘Jack invited you,’ I finally added, realising that I hadn’t spoken for minutes. I needed to work on my thinking-and-talking-at-the-same-time skills.
‘Yeah,’ replied Daniel, shrugging, and looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘Jack Duncan. He’s trying to talk me into a deal with Starmaker. I don’t even know why I agreed to come—I usually avoid these things as much as I used to avoid all those parties at Ruby’s house. But … well, I suppose it must have been fate, mustn’t it? Because now here we are—back together again.’
He grinned at me, and I felt a very strange tingling sensation in my tummy. I mean, Daniel had grinned at me many times. And, like he’d said, we’d even had baths together when we were kids—and there are still the embarrassing photos around to prove it, stuck in albums back at Mum and Dad’s. But this was different … he was different. This was a very grown-up, very good-looking Daniel. He still talked like the old one—but he looked like the kind of bloke I’d stop and stare at on the street.
It all felt too weird. For a start, I was with Jack. Kind of. And also, this was Daniel. I could never fancy Daniel, surely?
Probably I just needed to go home and eat a kebab. I also needed, I realised, to get changed—me standing here in stockings and seventeen layers of sex make-up probably felt weird for him as well.
‘Well, I’m glad you did come, anyway,’ I replied. ‘It’s brilliant to see you again. List
en, I’m just going to go and get changed, all right? Be back in a tick.’
I scooted to the toilets, and tried not to inhale—Vogue’s stomach problems had definitely made their mark—as I climbed out of my makeshift costume. Unfortunately, the whole thing fell to pieces as I did so, but at least it had held together long enough to preserve my dignity on stage.
I dressed in my waitressing clothes again, and glanced at myself in the mirror before I went back out. I looked utterly ridiculous—normal clothes, and the most abnormal hair and face possible. I knew all the layers of slap would have worked while I was performing, or on the photos and videos afterwards, but in the real world I could have scared young children. The hair was lacquered completely stiff, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to get those spray-painted lilies out again. I’d spend my whole life sniffing, wondering where the fire was.
Still, it was the best I could do until I got home and bleached myself.
When I came back out into the main room, Daniel was perched on the edge of the dresser, long denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.
‘Nice boots,’ I said, pointing at his Timberlands. They were pretty much exactly the same ones as he’d worn all through his teenage years—just newer and less scuffed.
‘Yeah. Thanks. Nice … lilies?’ he said, pointing at my head and looking confused.
‘Long story.’
‘Did you have to use the table decorations as stage costume?’
‘Erm … yeah. Apparently not that long a story. Anyway, tell me all—how are your mum and dad doing?’
‘Great,’ he answered, a wide grin cracking open his face. ‘Still running their B&B. They don’t need to. I’ve … well, they don’t need to. But they want to, so that’s good. Keeps ‘em out of trouble. Dad’s managed to find a few ex-pat Scousers down there, watches the derby match with them on the big screen in the hotel lounge.’