Remember My Name

by Abbey Clancy

  I took the rest of the day to let myself decompress and think about what I was doing, and what I wanted to do. My life had been completely mental for so long now—I’d not had a minute to sit still, take stock, and think. I’d been bouncing all over the shop like a pinball in a machine, ricocheting from one set of circumstances to another. In my desperation to become a star, to be a success, I’d lost sight of what really mattered—and it was time to figure at least some of that out.

  I started the day after by visiting Yusuf. I found him where he usually was—behind his counter wearing a hairnet and a stripy apron—and stayed for a good half an hour, eating my free kebab and signing a poster of me he had Sellotaped up on the tiled walls of the shop. He now had a new tenant, he told me—but he wasn’t anywhere near as pretty as me, and played loud dance music at all hours of night and day, and if I ever wanted to come back, he’d let me have the flat again.

  I didn’t really want the flat again; nostalgic as I felt, I could still remember the damp and the cramped bathroom all too well. He settled for a hug and the promise that I’d stay in touch, and I left.

  My next stop was more difficult. I caught a cab from Kentish Town to Clapham, where Neale had a tiny ground-floor flat that looked out onto the Common. On the way, I called at a florist’s shop and bought him an enormous, totally over-the-top bouquet of flowers. He might end up lobbing them at my head, but a girl could only try.

  As I stood on the steps, waiting for him to answer, shivering in the icy breeze, part of me was hoping that he might not be in. Even though it was a Monday, and usually his day off, the cowardly lion section of my mind was wishing for him to be at work so I could run away from it all.

  Typically, I had no such luck. Neale opened the door, wearing a red-and-black kimono that yet again made me wonder how on earth his parents hadn’t known the truth about him. He took one look at me, my face peeking out from behind the flamboyant lilies and black orchids, and said, ‘My God. Did you steal that flower arrangement from Elton John’s house?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied, nervously. ‘I had to mug David Furnish to get it. Can I come in, please, Neale?’

  He waited for a few moments, his arms crossed over his chest, chewing his lip and staring at me. Eventually, he turned around abruptly and walked back into his flat. I followed quickly, just in case he changed his mind and slammed the door in my face.

  ‘Erm … where do you want these?’ I asked, gesturing at the flowers.

  ‘I don’t know. My bouquet room is being refurbished at the moment. Just put them down in the corner there. What do you want, Jess?’

  ‘I want to apologise,’ I said simply. ‘I messed up. I didn’t think before I spoke, and what I did was unforgivable—well, hopefully not completely unforgivable. I just wanted to say how sorry I am, even if you never want to talk to me again. And to tell you I’ve learned my lesson—I promise I have. I’ll always think before I speak from now on, at least to the media—I probably can’t promise it all the time, you know what I’m like.

  ‘You’ve been such a good friend to me, Neale, and I don’t want to lose you. I’m gutted that I hurt you. I never intended to, I was just a naive idiot. And I’ll do anything to make it up to you, if you will just give me the chance.’

  He looked undecided for a moment, and I wasn’t sure if he was going to kick me out or not. Then he pushed his little glasses back up on his nose in a gesture I was so familiar with, and said, ‘I’m making coffee, with brandy and squirty cream. Are you in?’

  ‘I’m in,’ I said, more relieved than I could ever have imagined.

  Chapter 36

  The next thing I had to fix was a lot more complicated. In fact, it took several days of scheming, several secret meetings between me and Vogue, and a call with Daniel where we all spoke over each other on speaker phone.

  Ultimately, we came up with a plan. It was ambitious and risky and brave, and if we pulled it off, it would change our lives—mainly mine and Vogue’s, admittedly, but Daniel was right behind us. I think he genuinely believed in what we were doing, but he also probably wanted to stick it to Jack in a way that he knew would probably hurt him a lot more than a punch in the chops would hurt him.

  We’d checked with Heidi that Jack was at the office and not in one of his many ‘meetings’—which both of us now assumed could very likely mean shagging someone else—before we turned up. We didn’t have an appointment, but we did have killer outfits and a lot of righteous justification, which was just as good.

  The look on his face as we walked into his office together was absolutely priceless—a combination of terror and a vain attempt to seem professional and in control. He gestured at the seats in front of his desk, instead of inviting us to sit on the casual sofas in the break-out area—obviously, he felt a bit safer with a block of wood and steel between him and us. As Vogue had threatened to remove his testicles the last time we were all together, I can’t say that I blamed him.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked, pushing some paper around on his desk, checking his phone, tapping his fingers and generally looking like he had ants in his pants. It was so strange, how I’d once found him irresistible; now, when I looked at him, I saw how handsome he was, but it did nothing for me.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ said Vogue, simply. ‘And I’m taking Jessika with me.’

  He stared at her for a moment, frowning. Clearly, what she was saying did not compute. His hands finally stopped fidgeting and he gave us both his full attention. I’d seen this face before—this was Serious Starmaker Jack. This was business—and possibly even more important than his testicles.

  ‘You can’t,’ he replied. ‘You’re both under contract.’

  ‘I think,’ I said, stepping in and loving every second of it, ‘that you’ll find I’m not. Legal never drew one up for me, and, as you told me, I didn’t really need a manager because I could trust you with everything, nobody ever chased it up.’

  ‘But we’ve been paying you …’ he spluttered, completely and ironically outraged at my apparent lack of loyalty.

  ‘For services rendered,’ I said sweetly, giving him a wink. ‘I’ve worked hard for Starmaker. I’ve done everything you asked—I was on the single, the video, did all the promo, all the appearances. Plus, you know, I was sleeping with you as well, in case you’d forgotten. I’m not sure if that counts, but I’d be happy to discuss it with HR and accounting if you need me to.’

  Jack narrowed his eyes and glared at me. I had him, and he knew it. I felt Vogue stifle a laugh in the chair next to me, and silently high fived her under the table.

  She was hurting a lot more than I was at Jack’s betrayal—it had been going on for so much longer for her, and she’d sacrificed so much more than I had. I knew she was still in pain—but she was taking the direct approach to recovery. The Girl Power approach.

  ‘And you, Paulette?’ he asked, turning his gaze to her. He even managed to look sad. ‘You want to leave me too?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘More than you can possibly imagine. And I am under contract—but my lawyer is going to talk to your lawyer, and we’re going to sort it all out as quickly and amicably as possible, aren’t we Jack? Because you promised you’d make things easy for us. And because you owe me. And because … we still have the photos. It’s a liberal business—nobody would really care if you were a secret S&M trannie. Apart from you, that is.’

  He nodded, taking it all in, and leaning back in his chair. He looked at us both for a few more seconds, obviously turning everything over in his scheming little mind, wondering how he could get out of this mess.

  Presumably, he didn’t come up with anything—and the next words out of his mouth were: ‘Fine. Now both of you, get out of here. Leave the building, and don’t come back.’

  We stood up, and Vogue gave him a jaunty salute before we walked out of the office, out of Starmaker, and into our brand new world.

  The world where In Vogue Records was about to be born, with a completely fresh
approach to music, performing, and talent. The world where In Vogue Records would work with cutting-edge producer and songwriter, Wellsy. The world where In Vogue Records would, within a month, make its very first signing—the incredibly grateful, incredibly excited, Jessika.

  Chapter 37

  ‘What did you say, love?’ my nan asked, peering at me over her bifocals, her little face wrinkled up like a pickled walnut.

  ‘I said,’ I repeated for the third time, ‘I’m SORRY I MISSED YOUR BIRTHDAY!’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, girl,’ she answered, settling back into her wheelchair. ‘I’ve got plenty more in me, don’t you worry. I’m planning quite a do for my ninetieth.’

  I leaned down and kissed the skin of her papery cheek, and tucked her tartan blanket more firmly around her skinny legs. She really was great, my nan.

  She was also very much enjoying herself, being out and about, and getting lots of fuss made of her in the auditorium of my old college. I suspected she’d had a couple of paper cups of sherry, and she had a death grip on her plate of sandwiches, gnarled old knuckles holding on for dear life.

  My mum was sitting next to her, at the end of a row that also contained my dad, Luke, and Becky, who was taking up two seats and glaring at anyone who dared ask her to move up.

  It was the first week in January and I’d been home for three days. Three days of apologising and explaining and listening. Which wasn’t as bad as it sounds—the listening part, especially. Once I was out of my London bubble, away from the insane pressures of Starmaker, away from my infatuation with Jack and my obsession with chasing fame at the cost of all else, life made much more sense.

  I’d sat in our living room, nursing mug after mug of tea, talking things through with my family. Listening to how worried they’d been—about my schedule, about my lifestyle, about my weight loss, about the types of people I’d been mixing with.

  Everything I’d mistaken for an attempt to control me, as judging me, was nothing of the sort—it was worry for me, worry that they didn’t know quite how to deal with. And I’d thrown their concern back in their faces, time after time, eventually almost cutting myself off from them completely—the lack of phone calls, not coming home for Nan or for Christmas, snubbing them when they’d come all the way to London and were making every effort to spend time with me. Fobbing them off on Tilly. Storming out on the single launch. Even hanging up on my mum on the phone, which still made me cringe.

  ‘You see, you daft cow,’ Becky had said, throwing a cushion at my head. I batted it away before it made contact—years of experience. ‘You were getting a cob on with us, and it was just because everyone loves you so much.’

  ‘I know,’ I replied, chucking the cushion back at her, but gently, as she was a baby mama the size of Jabba the Hut.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, to all of them. Apart from Luke—he’d got fed up with the girl family drama after about half an hour and was playing Call of Duty in his bedroom instead.

  ‘It’s hard to describe,’ I continued. ‘The way everything changed. It wasn’t just the fame, it was the time before it—when I was an intern, as well. I was so embarrassed at how badly everything was going. I felt humiliated by the fact that I felt like I was failing, letting you all down when you’d believed in me. When you came down to visit, Becky, and it was all so crap—I was obviously nothing there, and Patty was, well …’

  ‘Patty was a bitch to both of us,’ Becky finished for me. ‘I can’t believe you’re thinking of asking that woman to join you and Vogue at the new label.’

  ‘She’s excellent at her job,’ I said, grinning. ‘And we’ve made it part of the deal that she has to use her real accent. She’s a Geordie. Anyway … I was low. So once things started to pick up, once it all started to happen, I kind of lost my balance I suppose. I was so desperate for it all to work out. I had all these ideas and plans—and I wanted to pay your mortgage off, Mum and Dad, and make life easier for you.’

  ‘Oh, love,’ said my dad, squeezing me into a giant Bald Eagle-sized hug. ‘You daft mare. We paid our mortgage off about five years ago!’

  ‘What!’ I spluttered. ‘Why do you both still work so hard then?’

  ‘We like work, Jessy,’ answered Mum, smiling gently at me. ‘It’s just part of who we are. Neither of us is ready to retire just yet but believe me, when we do, we have a few bob tucked away so we can afford the odd cruise or a hip replacement. We’re your parents—it’s our job to look after you, not the other way round. At least until we’re as old as Nan, and you lot can be on wheelchair duty.’

  I shook my head in amazement. I’d been such an idiot. I mean, I hadn’t been chasing fame just for them—I wanted it myself, badly. I still did. I still wanted to sing in front of packed crowds, and record music that affected people’s lives, and be able to use any talent I had to live a full, rich life. But at least part of my motivation had always been them—and I’d been self-obsessed and arrogant enough to think that if I made it I’d be able to swoop in like the big hero, and solve all their problems. I was starting to realise, the more we talked, that the main problem they’d had recently was me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again, shaking my head. ‘I’ve been a tit. I hope you can forgive me.’

  ‘Course we can,’ said Becky, grimacing as she lumbered to her feet. ‘You’re our Jessy whether you want to be or not. You’re stuck with us. Now, I’m off for my hundredth pee of the day. Is Daniel coming to this thing tomorrow night?’

  She’d paused in the doorway, waiting for my answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, feeling my heart sink a few inches. ‘I suppose we’ll see.’

  To be fair to Daniel, I’d organised this event all by myself—no Tilly, no Patty—at the very last minute. A special appearance at the college, where I’d sing a few songs, talk about my time there and how it had started me out on this path, and answer questions. I’d donated some prizes for a big raffle—signed pictures, merchandise, some autographed albums that Vogue had given me—and all the funds were going to the college’s Performing Arts department.

  I suppose it was part of my attempt to make up for being such an idiot—getting back to my roots and all. I’d even called Ruby and invited her. I think she was more embarrassed about the story in the papers than I had been, plus she’d broken up with Keith, which had to be a good thing.

  I wanted Daniel to be there—he was part of my past, and I desperately hoped he’d be a permanent part of my future—but all he’d said was he’d try and make it. It was short notice, and he was busy being an internationally renowned music producer. Our relationship was still completely undefined, and neither of us had made any promises. I knew I had no right to expect him to come—just a whole lot of hope.

  *

  And now we were here, and my nan was half cut, and the place was absolutely packed and completely buzzing. As the head teacher introduced me, and I walked up into the stage, I felt more nervous than I had at my own single launch, or on a live TV broadcast on Christmas Day. I felt nervous because this was home—this was where the heart was, and this was what mattered.

  I didn’t have Neale with me—he was serving out his notice with Starmaker, and would be coming with me and Vogue as well—and had done my own hair and make-up. There were no backing dancers. No clever lighting. No dry ice. It was just me, and some video from my end-of-term show from all those years ago. Just me, a microphone, and my voice—and that would have to be enough.

  In the end I really shouldn’t have worried. The reception was mental—like those scenes on The X Factor when the contestants go home in the last week. There was screaming and shouting and so much applause I thought the roof might come in, and then I’d have to do another concert to raise funds to replace it. I was asked questions I expected, and questions I didn’t, and I was as honest as I could possibly be. At the end, after doing ‘Midnight’, I sang the final song from Daniel’s school show—the one where our triumphant cheerleader heroine saves
the day, and saves the planet.

  By the time I finished, the place was in uproar. It was so strange, standing there, listening to the applause and the cheers, all those years later. I was older, and wiser, and there was a whole ocean of experience under the bridge—but in some ways, I felt exactly the same. Blinded by the dazzling glow of the lights, deafened by the response, sweating from the effort. Gazing out at those bopping blobs and knowing I’d entertained them, knowing they were cheering for me. It still felt worth it—especially with my family back in my life, waving and shouting with the best of them.

  Eventually, after several minutes of insanity, the curtains closed, just as they had done back when I was a teenager. I could hear the head teacher out front, urging everyone to get more raffle tickets and get their refreshments and to believe in their dreams (in that order), and smiled. I’d done it—and it had felt better than any of my other appearances so far.

  I glanced around, taking in the familiar surroundings—the wooden floorboards and the faded red velvet curtains and the clunky lighting suspended from the ceiling. The clutter in the wings, the electrical wires held down with duct tape, the random props from previous shows stacked in the corners. The same smell of sweat and dust and organised chaos.

  ‘It’s hardly changed at all, has it?’ said a voice from the shadows. A voice I knew. A voice I loved.

  ‘No,’ I said, waiting for him to emerge from his traditional hiding place backstage. ‘Unlike us.’

  Daniel walked forward, tall and broad and lean, hair perfectly clean and not a spot in sight, unlike his seventeen-year-old self. He’d definitely changed—and not just in the way he looked. He was still private; he still protected himself from what he perceived as showbiz insanity. His farmhouse was now his version of hiding in the sound booth back when we were teenagers. But these days, he did it because he wanted to, not because he was shy—he was confident enough, successful enough, to survive in that world. He just chose not to, and I had to respect that. He’d always been better at seeing through bullshit than I was.