by Abbey Clancy
I gathered up my clothes from where they’d ended up randomly scattered around the bedroom, and made my through into the lounge. Wearily, I pulled on my waitressing skirt yet again—I’d been in and out of it all night—and, as I did it, noticed Jack’s phone and keys lying on the coffee table next to the wine glasses we’d used earlier to celebrate our victories. We’d drunk quite a lot of wine, enough for two bottles to be sitting there next to the glasses.
I bit my lip slightly as I stared at the phone, knowing I was considering doing something I really shouldn’t do, and attempting to mentally talk myself out of it. After a few minutes of mouth-gnawing while devils and angels danced on my tired shoulders, I reached out and picked it up.
I wasn’t going to turn into one of those crazy women who checked their boyfriend’s text messages—because, let’s face it, we’ve all been there and it never leads anywhere good—but I really, really wanted to talk to Daniel again. Jack had said he’d swap our numbers, but when I’d asked for it earlier, he’d brushed it aside with a vague ‘Yeah, I’ll do it in a minute …’ type comment, before pouring more wine.
I flicked on to Jack’s contact list and was faced with a sea of names, some of them so mind-bogglingly famous that I was half tempted to jot them down as well—I mean, who wouldn’t want to call Cheryl Cole for a late night chat about the latest X Factor contestants?
I restrained myself though, and scrolled down to ‘D’. I felt a momentary swipe of disappointment when it wasn’t there, before I had to give myself a slap around the head and a great big Homer Simpson ‘D’oh! ‘—of course it wasn’t filed under ‘D’, which in my case would have stood for ‘Dumbass’. It was under ‘W’ for Wellsy—both a mobile number and an email address. I quickly tapped the details into my own phone, and noticed that Vogue’s was just above it—so, while I was already violating the sleeping prince’s privacy, decided I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and typed that one in as well. I most definitely owed her a great big thank-you message.
After that, I felt so guilty I called a cab straight away—leaving Jack a note scrawled on the back of a Thai takeaway menu, explaining that I’d gone home to try and decontaminate my hair.
Once I finally made it back to the flat in Kentish Town, after a dream-like drive through the dark London streets, I didn’t even have the energy for that. I dragged myself up the stairs, inhaling the familiar smells of stale kebab, and collapsed straight into bed, just about managing to get changed into a reindeer onesie that Ruby had given me last Christmas.
*
That, I realised as soon as I looked in the mirror when I woke up, had been a big mistake. I hadn’t even taken my make-up off and, after a night of energetic bonking, it was sprawling all over my face in a post-coital stupor. Seriously, my make-up was so relaxed, it wanted to light up a cigarette. My mascara was streaked over my cheeks, and the layers of caked foundation were flaking off. My hair was completely glued into a shape that looked like something from a science-fiction film, and at least one of the lilies had hung on for the whole of the night. I pulled the hood of the reindeer onesie up over it, watching the little felt antlers bounce around.
I also had a wicked hangover from drinking way too much wine back at Jack’s place, on what was essentially an empty stomach. My head was thumping, and all I could do was stagger to the fridge, and get to work on a large bottle of water.
I was rooting through the drawer in the kitchen, searching for paracetamol, when I heard my phone buzzing. I didn’t have a landline, and it took me a couple of frantic seconds to locate my mobile, skittering away on my bedside cabinet. My first thought was, ‘I wonder if this is Daniel?’ and my second thought was, ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, he doesn’t even have your number.’
I glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was Becky, my sister. I quickly answered it, mumbled a hello, then paused to swig down the painkillers. My body would thank me for it later. I didn’t hear the first few sentences that she squawked at me, and had to ask her to repeat herself.
‘I said,’ she drawled, sarcastically, ‘what the fuck has been going on with you? Luke woke us all up this morning, saying there was loads of stuff about you on his Google alert.’
I could hear the sounds of screaming toddlers and hyped-up kids in the background, which told me she was at work, at the soft play centre she managed.
‘This morning?’ I mumbled, confused. ‘Isn’t it still morning? And Luke has a Google alert set up on me—why, so he can take the piss?’
‘It’s almost one in the afternoon, sleeping beauty. And I’m sure Luke would like to take the piss, but he’s too excited right now. I’ve just been over there, and everyone is buzzing about it. That show you did last night is all over the internet … the YouTube clip already has, like, a million hits, and your Twitter account’s gone insane. Since when did you have two hundred thousand followers?’
Uhh. Since, never. I barely even used my Twitter account—it was something I’d set up to promote the Princess-party business, and I cringed as I realised there was still a profile picture on there of me as Cinderella. Yet another thing I needed to get fixed, before Patty skinned me alive.
‘Wow, that’s weird …’ I muttered, feeling as though my whole life was suddenly making no sense at all. ‘I mean, I know there were a lot of media people there, but I didn’t think it would all happen quite this quickly. I was planning to call you lot this morning and tell you about it, just in case.’
‘Well, you didn’t!’ she snapped, sounding a bit huffy. I didn’t really know why—I mean, I know I should have texted her last night, and let her know, but it had all been so hectic. Crazily hectic.
‘And,’ she carried on, still sounding frosty, ‘we’re also wondering why you’ve changed your name to Jessica with a K?’
‘Ummm … what do you mean? Like, Kessika?’
‘Oh God—you’re hungover as well, aren’t you?’
‘No!’ I said, a bit too loudly. It made my non-existent hangover hurt just that little bit more.
‘Yes, you are, I know the signs. Anyway, no, not Kessika, you idiot, Jessika—with a K where the C should be. That’s how it’s spelled, everywhere. Not just on one website, which could have been a mistake, but everywhere. It looks daft—like that hairdresser’s at the top of the road called Krazy Kutz.’
I took a few more sips of water, and tried to wipe some of the mascara crust out of my eyes. This was all a bit too much. Plus, it was the afternoon—I should have been in the office hours ago.
‘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.
Chapter 17
It 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 d
oing 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.
Chapter 18
To 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.