I'll Be Home For Christmas. Abbey Clancy
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She gave me a nod and a wave as I walked in and scribbled my name on the book we use to make sure nobody ever gets left behind in a fire, and I grinned back. The place is always at least partly full of builders at the moment, wearing their steel-toed boots and crack-revealing jeans, the smell of sawdust and work competing with the fragrance of the flowers.
I gave them a little wave as I passed – they were on a tea break, for a change – and headed back towards the offices.
Pausing outside the door, I took a deep breath. I knew, from the clattering sound of talons hitting a keyboard and the echoes of Swedish death metal music, that Patty, our head of marketing, who we also stole from Jack’s empire, was already there.
Weird thing about Patty – I’m still scared of her. She’s no longer my boss in any way, shape or form, but I spent so long being terrorized by her that I still have a Pavlovian response to her presence. She’s scrawny, rude and opinionated, but she’s also brilliant at her job, which is why we brought her with us. She’s amazing at handling the press in its many forms, a strategic mastermind at social media, and a genius at marketing the bejeezus out of anything she’s asked to sell.
For months at Starmaker, she treated me like crap – but, as ever with these things, I definitely emerged from the experience feeling a lot stronger. She also used to mock me for my Liverpool accent, claiming she could never understand a word I said, which turned out to be ironic as she was a born-and-bred Geordie who’d simply learned how to speak posh.
When we offered her the position as head of marketing, we told her she had to start speaking like Cheryl Cole, but so far she’d refused. We also told her she had to start being more herself, rather than the shrill, cold battleaxe she’d turned herself into at Starmaker.
The only changes I’d noticed were her clothes, and her listening tastes. She’d abandoned the streamlined suits, designer frocks and skyscraper shoes in favour of skinny jeans and Doc Marten boots, and left to her own devices played very loud music made by bands with names like Bloodbath and Necrophobic. Neither of which made her any less scary.
I raised my hand to knock, but realized that a) she wouldn’t hear me, and b) I didn’t need to knock. This was my office too.
I walked in, a smile plastered over my face, and sat at my desk. It’s weird, having a desk. At the end of the day I’m just a singer, but Vogue insisted I have my own space – or a bit of Patty’s space, anyway. At least for the time being, until the other offices are finished.
The desk is decorated with framed pictures of my family and Daniel, and there’s an Elsa from Frozen bobblehead that Ruby sent me for old times’ sake.
Patty ignored me completely, but did at least turn the volume down on a charming song where someone was screaming lyrics about sacrificing a baby to the dark lord of the underworld. This, in Patty Land, is a major concession to societal norms.
‘Your mother,’ she said, finally acknowledging my existence, pointing a pen at me like it was a fully-charged lightsaber, ‘is getting more coverage than you at the moment.’
‘Um . . . yeah. I saw that. There’s no harm, is there?’
I hated myself for it, but there was a slightly pleading note in my voice. I really didn’t want to have to call my mum and tell her to close down her Twitter account. I’d be in her bad books for weeks, and I’d only just got back in her good ones.
‘Not so far. But I’ll be monitoring it closely. What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be getting a spray tan or gorging on a celery stick?’
I clamped my lips shut, and started the now-familiar ‘Count to Ten’ routine I’ve had to adopt when dealing with Patty. She’s skinnier than Olive Oyl and has no right to comment on my appearance, but that’s never stopped her.
I ignored her and booted up my laptop. I noticed an email from Daniel, and couldn’t help grinning when I opened it to see a whole message filled with love heart emojis. That boy!
I closed it down, and opened up the other email. The bizarrely scary email. The one from Cooper Black, that’s been sitting in my inbox for almost a week.
He’d also left his phone number at the bottom, and signed off with several kisses. Not quite Daniel heart emoji level, but enough to make me think. I mean, Cooper Black is not only a megastar, he’s an absolute babe. Floppy blond hair, film-star handsome face, a stomach so tight you could bounce coins off it. And I may be happily loved-up, but I’m not dead yet – no straight woman alive could fail to be impressed by him.
‘What’s the buzz on Cooper Black?’ I said to Patty, suddenly curious. I knew he was making his solo debut, that he’d been working on his own material with some incredibly cool songwriters and producers, and that everyone was expecting him to completely break out of his slightly old-school boyband vibe into something more mature and hip.
‘World domination,’ snapped Patty, glaring at me. ‘And also, no selfies of his mother selling condoms to the unwashed masses of Liverpool.’
‘There was never a selfie of her selling condoms! And people in Liverpool are not unwashed, you Geordie cow!’ I snapped back. I regretted it almost as soon as I saw the smug look on her face – she knows exactly which buttons to press with me, and enjoys few things in life more than a spot of Jessika-baiting.
She made a mooing noise in response, and turned the volume on her music right back up to ear-splitting levels.
A quick browse of the crazy world of the internet showed me that while she was wrong about my mother and the condoms (I did check, just to be sure), she was definitely right about Cooper Black. Literally every social media platform on the planet was talking about him, there were interviews all over the mainstream media websites, and he practically had his own shrines on TMZ and E! Online. World domination indeed – the man who thought we could make beautiful music together was the hottest name in showbiz.
It was flattering. So incredibly flattering. And exciting – I mean, which singer hasn’t dreamed of conquering America? The stadium tours and the big cities and the millions of new potential fans? I know I have. Cooper Black could be my passport to a whole new level of success, and part of me was desperate to say yes. Or at least hear him out.
But the rest of me? I was terrified. I didn’t want to leave Daniel. I told myself it would only be for a little while, and that nothing would change, but my heart broke at the thought of being separated from him. I was staying in London that night, and even the idea of one night away from his arms was hard to deal with, never mind weeks or possibly months.
We’re very much in love, but we’re also very much at the beginning – and things still feel fragile. I’m probably wrong to feel like that, and perhaps it’s the aftershock of Jack’s betrayal that’s left me insecure, but I can’t help it. Daniel’s never given me any reason to be worried about our future together, but I still am. I’m also worried about leaving In Vogue at such a delicate point. How would it look to the world at large if the label’s first and therefore most successful signing suddenly upped sticks and buggered off to the States? Would it make us look weak? Would it make Vogue vulnerable to gossip and speculation about what was going wrong?
How would Vogue feel about it all, as well as Daniel? She was my mentor. She was my colleague. More than that, she was my friend – she was loyal and strong and honest. All of which were personality traits I really valued, and probably wasn’t displaying myself right now, by hiding the whole Cooper Black thing from her.
If I did the WWVD test and asked myself What Would Vogue Do, the answer was obvious: she’d talk it through. She’d bring it out in the open. She wouldn’t pretend it had never happened, while secretly really wanting it to.
Maybe it was time for me to do the same. And also for me to be honest with myself – because while all my concerns about Daniel and my family and Vogue and my life back here were genuine, I also had to admit that if I said no to Cooper Black – to this amazing opportunity – then perhaps I’d find myself silently resenting them for