by Abbey Clancy
Half an hour later, Jack was fleeing the building with his tail well and truly between his legs, and Vogue and I were sitting, laughing our heads off on the sofa, wine bottle open, flicking happily through the picture collection on my phone:
Jack in a stylish feather boa and corset combo. Jack in a long blonde wig with clip-on hoop earrings. Jack in full make-up, complete with my Scarlet Harlot lipstick. Jack in a very fetching pair of white stilettos that we’d picked up at a shop that specialised in clothes for the gentleman who was in touch with his feminine side. Jack in intimate oral contact with one of the battery-operated products that had been sent in the same package as the handcuffs.
Finally, just for kicks, one with both of us, posing either side of him, pointing at his now less-than-impressive manhood and giggling. That was extra mean—it was completely understandable, under the circumstances, that he’d retracted in on himself like a baby turtle—but it was funny. And anything that made us laugh at this particular time in our lives was more than welcome. We were both in pain—but taking some control back had made us feel better. The wine probably helped as well.
At about two in the morning, when we’d given up on Jack and were watching ancient episodes of Gossip Girl on cable, instead, we checked the download charts.
‘Midnight’—by Vogue, featuring Jessika—has charted at number one.
Chapter 33
I don’t think I’d ever been so cold in my entire life. It was Christmas Day, and I was dressed in a short Santa suit, prancing around outside the London Eye. It wasn’t a porno-level-short Santa suit, but it was small enough to make me wish I was wearing leggings instead of fake tan and furry Ugg boots.
I’d been there since about seven a.m., sheltering in the Portakabins and warming my hands around paper cups of hot chocolate, waiting for the actual broadcast—which would use up about four minutes of my life.
I’d been in hair and make-up, I’d rehearsed my lines—although it wasn’t actually that challenging to say, ‘Happy Christmas, everyone!’—and I’d filmed various clips that would be inserted through the live feed. We’d done trips in the capsules, taking in the amazing views and ooh-ing and aah-ing appropriately. The views were amazing—I just preferred the ones from the Liverpool equivalent.
Now we were preparing for a big group scene at the end, where everyone would make their Christmas wishes then all sing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’, with live reindeers in the foreground.
The live reindeers were not only live, they seemed to have had a curry the night before, and one of the poor TV staff—probably an intern—had to keep rushing forward with a shovel to clear up the less-than-festive remains.
Everyone—apart from us lot, the shivering ‘stars’ being filmed—was dressed up in jeans and sweaters and gilets and bobble hats and gloves, rushing around with cameras and clipboards and microphones, looking busy and important and most of all warm.
‘Hey, kiddo,’ said Vogue, sidling up to me, dressed in a similar outfit and looking just as chilly, ‘welcome to the exciting world of the outside broadcast. This is glamorous, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah?’ I said, teeth chattering. ‘Compared to what? Cleaning a sewer?’
‘All part of the job, babe,’ she replied, laughing. ‘And it’s good PR. Your smiling little face broadcast live on Christmas Day. What are you doing later?’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘the usual: eating, drinking, being merry.’
In reality, I was trying not to think too hard about what the rest of my day held. I’d spent the morning with some of the most famous faces in the UK, as well as the arse-challenged reindeers. But the afternoon? Well, it looked like I’d be spending that alone. I couldn’t think about it right then, or I’d burst into tears, and the whole make-up thing would be ruined. I didn’t want to be broadcast live to the nation looking like a saddo.
She looked at me with a cynical sideways glance, and added: ‘Do you want to come to mine? My mum and dad’s, anyway? There’s always enough food to feed an army.’
For a moment I was tempted—but I shook my head, and said thanks but no thanks. I was feeling a lot more miserable than I’d thought I would about being away from my family, and spending time with someone else’s might just push me over the edge. I was probably better off going back to the flat and wallowing in private.
Luckily, I couldn’t start my wallowing just then, as the countdown to live broadcast started—and enforced happiness was the order of the day. I wasn’t feeling the Christmas spirit—but I hoped I was faking it well enough to not be a party pooper for the millions of people who might be watching. Including my own parents, I thought, wondering if they had the TV on while they all slouched around the living room waiting for the turkey to cook. And if they did, would they be proud of me, or would they boo and hiss as if I was a pantomime villain?
I did the rest of the broadcast on auto pilot, and then got hijacked for a few more interviews. Patty wasn’t there—I’d heard a vicious rumour that not only did she have a family of her own, but that she was with them in Newcastle. Newcastle. After all the stick she gave me for my Scouse accent, it turned out she was a Geordie who’d had a few elocution lessons.
Even without her, though, I think I did okay. The whole thing with Neale had kind of helped—as Vogue said, I needed to learn to always think before I spoke. That came in especially handy when I was asked my opinion of that year’s Christmas number one—the song that had knocked me and Vogue off the top spot. It was called the Parsnip Rap, and came with its own party dance, performed by two grown men dressed in life-sized vegetable suits. My real opinion ran something along the lines of ‘what a load of shite’, but I managed instead to give a big grin, do a few of the dance moves, and say how much I loved it.
After that particular ordeal was over, I gave Vogue a hug, and climbed into the car Starmaker had sent for me. I drove home in silence, but remembered to hand the chauffeur a big tip as I got out at the flat. I didn’t need to—he’d told me he was on triple time—but what can I say? I’m the daughter of a cabbie, and tips had paid for all my dance lessons as a kid.
By the time I made it back to the flat I was ready to sleep for a million years—not just because I was tired, but because I was bordering on the depressed, I think.
I’d woken up alone on Christmas morning for the first time ever. I had the bathroom to myself—no Luke lurking in the background to prank me. I didn’t have to help Mum peel the mountain of veg she had ready in the kitchen. Nobody was throwing sprouts at my head. I didn’t need to shout everything at sonic boom volume so my almost-deaf nan could hear me. I didn’t have to put up with Dad wearing his hideous Christmas jumper, complete with wobbling antlers on his bald head. I didn’t have to put up with anything—it was so peaceful I could have been in a morgue.
I wandered through to the bedroom, thinking I’d probably just crawl under the duvet and wake up once it was all over. My folks had left a message on my phone earlier, all shouting ‘Merry Christmas’ to me, all sounding as loud and raucous as ever—but somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to call them back. Maybe it was pride; I’d made the decision to stay in London for Christmas. I’d made the decision to reject them. I’d chosen my career over them—and now I had to accept the consequences, just as my mum had said.
Perhaps they’d think I was a snotty cow for not calling. And perhaps I was—but I didn’t have it in me. I didn’t have the energy to try and reconnect with them, and wasn’t even sure I wanted to. Every time we spoke, I seemed to get told off, and I was too fed up to deal with the risk of that happening again.
I sat down in front of the dresser mirror, thinking I should take off my make-up. Thinking, as I stared at my pantomime-dame-level slap and spray-bouffed hair extensions, that I should take everything off. Just get rid of it all, even if it was just for a day.
I started with the make-up, brutally scrubbing the seventeen layers off with wipes and lotion, leaving my skin red and blotchy. Then came the eyelashes, whi
ch not only hurt like buggery as I didn’t do it properly, but also took a few chunks of my real lashes with them.
There wasn’t much I could do about the acrylic nails without hurting myself or faffing around for hours with hot water and varnish remover, but I did at least take off the bright red polish they’d painted on me this morning.
Hair extensions were next—and at least I only had clip-ons. One by one I removed them, piling them on the surface until it looked like a Golden Retriever had shed its coat. I half expected them to move, come alive like a Gremlin and bite me on the nose.
By the time I’d finished de-glamorising myself I looked like a totally different person. I realised that under the layers, my skin was dry and pale. My eyelashes were now stubby. My real hair looked flat and dull without its extra boost. Without all the lining and sculpting and definition, my face was … normal. Not hideous, just normal. Only slightly worse than the way I used to look, back in the days when I was Jessy. When I could leave the house without hiding under all of this—when I didn’t always need to look perfect, to be photo-ready, to shine and sparkle even when I felt like I was dying inside.
I looked at the pile of discarded hair, cotton wool, spidery lashes and soiled baby wipes scattered across the dressing table. I’d shed my skin, like a snake—and I wasn’t quite sure what lay underneath any more.
It was Christmas Day. I’d snubbed my family in Liverpool and wanted more than anything to call them back. The man I’d thought I’d loved had turned out to be a cheat who now did everything he could to avoid being near me. Neale still wasn’t returning my calls.
It was Christmas Day, and I was completely alone. I wasn’t sure who I was any more. I supposed I was becoming Jessika—and I really wasn’t sure I liked her.
I swept everything off the dresser and into the bin, even the hair extensions. I was starting to see how silly I was being. I had a number one single; I finally had what I wanted. I should get over myself and call my mum back.
I picked up the phone and dialled but it just went through to voicemail.
I was rooting through my drawers for a suitable onesie, still thinking that sleep was the best option, when I heard my phone beeping to tell me that a message had landed. I hoped it was my family.
I pulled the phone out of my bag and stared at the screen, wondering if I should do an ‘au naturel’ Jess selfie and scare them all to death.
I realised then that the message wasn’t from my parents. It was from Daniel.
‘Merry Christmas, Jessy,’ it said. ‘Hope you’re having a good one.’
Three kisses and a winky smiley.
On impulse, I hit the Call button, thinking I’d get voicemail. Instead, I got the man himself. I could hear music in the background, something loud and fast and bass-y.
‘Sorry—are you at a party?’ I asked, immediately regretting the fact that I’d called. Daniel might be back in my life—but we weren’t teenagers any more. We didn’t live next door to each other, we didn’t have sleepovers, and I shouldn’t expect him to be my own personal counsellor every time I felt a bit gloomy.
‘Nah,’ he said, ‘I’m in the car on hands-free. That’s one of my client’s tracks in the background—I’m not quite happy with it yet. I stayed at my mum and dad’s last night and I’m on my way home—the B&B’s full, so they’re cracking on with Christmas lunch for their guests. Where are you? You okay? We saw you on telly—Mum almost wet herself, she was so excited! She ran round telling everyone who was staying there that she knew you.’
I smiled at the thought—at least I’d cheered someone up by staying in London.
‘I can’t believe you’re on the motorway on Christmas Day, Daniel. Shouldn’t you be opening presents and getting drunk on Baileys?’
‘I like the motorway on Christmas Day. It’s completely empty, so I get to drive too fast, listen to rap, and pretend I’m straight outta Compton. And Baileys is a girl’s drink.’
‘You love Baileys.’
‘I know. I was just trying to be macho. As soon as I get home I’ll be cracking open a bottle. What about you—any glamorous showbiz parties to attend?’
‘No,’ I said, after a pause. ‘No showbiz parties. No family lunch. Not even a bottle of Baileys. I’m all by myself, as the old song goes.’
He didn’t reply and for a moment I thought we’d been cut off.
‘Well,’ he said eventually, the music suddenly gone, ‘If you want to, you can come over. See the studio. Meet my cat. Say hello to Ruby. Share my Baileys.’
‘I would,’ I said, pathetically grateful for the offer, ‘but I’m in London. And you’re in … where the hell are you anyway?’
‘In Sussex. The South Downs to be precise. It’s only about two hours from there, you know … if you were interested. I could send you directions. Do you have a car? Or are you too drunk to drive already?’
‘Cheeky bastard!’ I snapped, grinning even as I said it. ‘I’m not drunk! I don’t have a car, either, but I do know a very nice driver who works for Starmaker. And, as luck would have it, I gave him a massive tip about an hour ago.’
Chapter 34
By the time I’d met the cat (Kylie) and said hello to the cow (Ruby) and helped him collect eggs from the chicken coop (all the chickens were named after members of Girls Aloud), it had gone completely dark. And by that, I mean really, really dark—not city dark, but countryside dark. The farmhouse was set in its own land, tucked away in rolling hills, miles from what I thought of as civilisation. There were more stars shining in that velvety black sky than I’d ever seen in my life. It was beautiful, and incredibly quiet. I could see why he preferred it to packed clubs in London.
After doing the chores and having a look around Daniel’s impressive-to-the-max recording studio we settled down inside, wrapped in blankets and lounging on the sofa together in front of a wood burning stove. I’d called at a corner shop on the way there and bought the very best set of festive gifts I could find—more Baileys, a giant box of Roses, a set of clothes pegs, and a bottle of Brut aftershave. It was what you might call an eclectic mix—but it was better than nothing.
We were both drinking the Baileys, and both eating the chocolate, but I left the Brut all to Daniel. He doused it on liberally before we sat down, and was now stinking the room out.
‘Is it wrong,’ I said, wrinkling my nostrils, ‘that I’m starting to find that smell attractive? It should remind me of my uncles or something, but it’s actually kind of … sexy.’
‘That’s because I’m wearing it,’ he said, giving me a comedy wink that made me laugh out loud. Really, he was such a dick. But he was an adorable dick—especially in his own home. He was wearing a battered, faded old pair of Levis, and an equally well-washed black T-shirt that was snug enough to show off his buff new physique. His feet were bare, which just felt especially intimate, and his blond hair was freshly showered and flopping in a touchable, silky mass across his forehead. Plus, he smelled of Brut.
I, on the other hand, was probably looking the worst I’d looked for years—and certainly since Daniel had come back into my life. Every time he’d seen me, I’d been ‘done’—and now I was the total opposite. I was completely undone, in many different ways.
‘I’m sorry I look like the elephant woman,’ I blurted out, as soon as the thought crossed my mind. I’d turned up on his doorstep in leggings and a baggy jumper that reached my knees, carrying a bag that only contained clean knickers and a onesie. Compared to my usual image, I looked like a refugee seeking asylum in his countryside kitchen.
‘Erm … you don’t?’ he said, frowning at me. ‘You just look like the real you. You look beautiful, just like you always do. So give over—you don’t need all the crap to look good, Jess. At least not with me. I’ve held your hair out of your face while you were sick, remember.’
I smiled at him, feeling tears well up in my eyes at his comments. He was so, so … perfect. Always had been, always would be. I didn’t know quite what I’d done to de
serve a friend like him—or if that was even all he was these days. When I looked at Daniel now, I didn’t just see a friend. I saw a fit, healthy, drop-dead gorgeous, grown-up man. But a grown-up man who still seemed to ‘get’ me in exactly the same way his teenaged self had. I’d sat next to him on a sofa drinking many times before—but this time, it felt different. At least it did to me—I had no idea what he was thinking.
‘Yeah. You were always good at that, and I took terrible advantage of you, Daniel. I’m a bit worried I still do, if I’m honest—turning up like this, interrupting your life, bringing all my drama.’
‘Yes, but you brought Baileys and Brut as well as drama, Jess, so I forgive you. What’s up anyway? If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. We can just sit here and chat and drink and maybe later, I can hold your hair back while you’re sick. But I can tell there’s something wrong—what is it?’
‘I think,’ I said, unable to stop the tears from finally spilling, ‘that, actually, everything is wrong. My family can’t stand me. My best friend Neale blames me for ruining his life. My boyfriend was cheating on me. And … I just don’t know who I am any more, Daniel. It’s all just so … fucked up!’
‘Come here,’ he said simply, gesturing to his side. I did as I was told, and scooched over. He nestled me into his chest, took my legs and placed them over his lap, wrapped his arm around me, and rested his chin on my head. I was completely cocooned in Daniel, and it felt good. It felt safe.
‘Now,’ he added, once I’d snuggled in and he’d thrown the blanket over us both. ‘Tell me everything. And let me know if the Brut fumes are about to give you a blackout.’
‘I might get snot on your T-shirt,’ I said, sniffing the fabric and finding that everything smelled just perfect. The mix of Brut and Daniel and whatever he used for his laundry was a marvellous blend of sex and security.
‘I have more T-shirts. Now spill.’
So I did—tears, snot, and all. I told him about the breakdown of relations with my family, some of which he’d witnessed himself. I told him about missing my nan’s birthday, and cancelling Christmas, and not spending any time with them when they visited, and about me never phoning them. About how guilty I felt about getting angry at them because I was stressed and tired, about how I always felt pressurised, and as if I’d let them down, and as though they were constantly disappointed in me instead of proud of me.