Remember My Name. Abbey Clancy
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and I was going to miss her.
I was going to miss everyone. Even Luke, and his rugby tackles. If someone rugby tackled me in London, I’d probably emerge without my handbag and my front teeth.
If I was being honest, I was a bit scared. I mean, I’d been to London before, obviously. On school trips. For auditions. To see Mamma Mia in the West End. But living there was a whole different kettle of fish—especially when I was heading to a flat I’d never seen in person, and to a job I didn’t really understand.
Jack had called me back the same day I emailed him.
‘So,’ he’d said, once we’d exchanged small talk. ‘Can I tempt you down to the big city, Jess Malone? Are you ready for the challenge?’
Something in the way he’d said it sounded flirtatious—like he wasn’t just challenging me to come and work at Starmaker. Like he was challenging me was a woman as well. It prompted two reactions. One was horror, in case he just wanted me down there so he could, to put it bluntly, get his leg over. The other was a tingle of excitement that floated around in my tummy like tiny, sex-starved butterflies. He was gorgeous, and I’d been a good girl for a very long time. Maybe I wouldn’t object quite as much as I should if he did want to get his leg over.
The call had been short, and he said he’d get back to me with some details. And now, four weeks later, I was off. Leaving my home, leaving my family, leaving my friends—for my next big adventure. My first big adventure, really. Ruby had already found someone else to take my seat in the Princess Mobile—which didn’t exactly make me feel useful—and Mum and Dad had been absolute saints.
Jack had explained that I’d be joining as a kind of paid intern—I’d do some practical work that would help me get to grips with the way the business worked; get enough money to live on (barely), and he and Simon would work out a mentoring programme for me that would involve singing coaches and studio time and laying down some tracks with one of Starmaker’s producers.
I’d tried to explain it to the folks, to put their minds at rest that I wasn’t moving all the way to London to work as a high-class call girl, but they hadn’t really understood it. Which was fair enough, as I didn’t either—I just had to take the chance.
‘So,’ Luke had said, frowning, ‘it’s a bit like The Apprentice crossed with The X Factor. Are you sure you can’t come up with a really good business idea as well so we can get Dragon’s Den in there too?’
My dad had perked up at that one. He always had some great invention he’d come up with—it was the way he kept his mind busy in a job that involved lots of sitting around. His latest concept was the ‘Mini Ciggie’—literally a half-sized cigarette for people who were trying to give up and just wanted a few puffs, or for drunk people on a night out who were too hammered to smoke a whole one without falling over. He based the psychology of this on the many interesting sights he’d seen in Liverpool while looking for fares on a Saturday night, and had even taken a photo on his phone of all the almost-unsmoked discarded butts outside the smoking spots.
He’d never make it happen—but it kept him ‘out of trouble’, as my mum always said.
The two of them had helped me pay for the deposit on my new flat in Kentish Town, as well as booking my train for me—and paying the extra so I could go first class.
‘Start as you mean to go on, love,’ Dad had said, when I protested that it would cost too much. ‘Nothing but the best for my girl.’
‘Plus, it was only ten quid extra,’ Mum had piped up as she did the dishes.
So now, finally, the big day had come. I was packed. I was ready. I was willing and able to take on the world. And Team Jessy was a blubbering wreck around me.
As the train pulled in and we waited until the queue had cleared, all four of them huddled round, hugging me and kissing me and giving me words of encouragement. By the time I had to leave them, and drag my wheelie cases down the platform, we were all messed up with snot and tears. Even Luke had a few drops in his eyes, but that could have been misplaced hair gel from his perfect combover.
I watched them as the train slowly chugged away, waving and jumping around in their daft T-shirts, knowing I was leaving behind much more than Liverpool. I was leaving behind the very best family a girl could ask for.
I swiped away my own tears—they were going to make my mascara run, and panda eyes was not the look I was going for—and waved until they disappeared from view. As soon as they’d gone, I heard a text land on my phone—from Dad.
‘Knock ‘em dead, girl,’ it said.
They had so much faith in me. So much belief. I couldn’t let them down.
I settled into my very comfy chair, looking around me. First Class was a bit posh, and so were the people in it. Lots of sun tans and expensive-looking clothes, and fit-looking businessmen who already had their laptops on the go.
I felt a bit out of place, and a bit knocked for six emotionally by the farewell scene at the platform. I fought an urge to get off at Runcorn and run all the way home, and gave myself a good talking to.
I was taking a leap of faith. It was time to believe in myself as much as my family did, and make them proud. If this all worked out, I’d be travelling first class everywhere I went—and so would they. Dad would be chauffeured around rather than driving other people. Mum could get a cleaner instead of doing it herself. I could make this work—I could change everything for the better.
A lady in a smart red uniform came round and offered me one of those little bottles of wine. Obviously, I took it—Dad had paid an extra tenner after all, it’d be rude to say no. I poured my drink, and made myself relax.
I was going to London. I was finally going to get the break I’d been waiting for. I had to believe that it would work—that my voice would finally be heard by the world, and that I’d manage to fight my way to a first-class life.
First Class trains. First Class flights. First-class clothes, and food, and a gorgeous place to live where nobody dropped their old kebab wrappers in the street.
I knew I’d have to work for it, but that was fine. I’d work my arse off if I needed to.
As I sipped my wine, I visualised my new world. The gigs and the studio time and the fans. The interviews. The TV appearances. The stylists and make-up artistes. The holidays I could afford; the fantasies I could live out. The islands in the Caribbean I could visit. I could almost feel the sun on my skin, it was that vivid.
I leaned back, starting to feel a bit snoozy. I willed myself into a light sleep, urging my own brain to be positive while I rested—to see those images coming true. To give me the encouragement I needed to overcome the fact that I was practically pooing my pants with fear at leaving home.
Before I drifted off, I tucked my clutch bag tightly between my thigh and the window, just in case. I was sure nobody in first class was going to rob my purse—and if they did, they’d be very disappointed—but old habits die hard.
I conjured up a picture of the beautiful house in London that I’d buy. It’d be like something from one of those lovely films—Notting Hill or Bridget Jones or Love Actually—all whitewashed, with steps up to the door, and columns either side of it. There’d be a courtyard garden, and cobblestone streets, and all the cars parked there would be Jags and Bentleys … and I’d have my own PA, and my own stylist, and my own chef … my own songwriting team, my own publicist, my own manager … it was going to work, I thought, as I fell asleep, a big daft grin on my face.
It was going to work. It had to.
‘It’s not working!’ Patty screeched at me, throwing a pen at my head. It bounced off my cheek, leaving a faint dent, and landed on the plush cream-coloured carpet.