I'll Be Home For Christmas. Abbey Clancy
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Patty in a room with access to anything personal was like tying myself to a railway track and waiting for a train – and stood up.
‘Where’s Vogue?’ I said.
She glanced up at me, frowning, and made a confused ‘I can’t hear you’ gesture with her hands.
‘I said, where’s Vogue?’ I yelled, as loud as I could. Obviously, she chose that exact moment to turn off the music, and my very un-ladylike screeching filled the office, and possibly the whole of Soho.
‘No need to shout!’ she said, giving me her velociraptor smile. ‘You’re not at Anfield now! And I don’t know where Vogue is. I’m not her keeper.’
She immediately switched the death metal back on, and I grimaced as I left the room. Served me right for engaging with her in the first place. Honestly, she’s a nightmare – at least to me. The transformation when she’s with people who matter – in other words, the media – is incredible. She literally oozes charm, instead of bile.
I walked back out to reception, determined to at least talk about the whole Cooper Black thing with Vogue. If I kept hiding it, I’d possibly explode, and make a terrible mess all over our shiny new headquarters.
I approached Yvonne – who always knows where everybody is, at any given moment – and was about to ask her, when I saw that she was talking into her headset, and making apologetic ‘I’m on the phone’ motions with her fingers. It was obviously my day for communicating through the power of mime.
I waved to show her I understood, and then flicked through the guest book. The one I’d signed myself into only a few minutes earlier. Yvonne was strict about that – so if Vogue was in the building, she’d be signed in, and I’d go up to her office in the attic and track her down. It would also show if she had a visitor, so I’d know not to bother her.
I traced my finger down the list, amazed at how many people had already signed in. All the builders. Yvonne. Neale. Patty. Vogue.
And – I saw as I stared at it in horror – one more person. A person whose name I’d never expect to see there in a million years.
He’d arrived at 10 a.m. The purpose of his visit was ‘meeting’. And his name was Jack Duncan.
I was so shocked I simply froze for a moment. I hadn’t even realized I’d done it, until one of the builders shouted out to me: ‘You all right, love? Look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
One of his mates replied: ‘A ghost wearing nipple tassels, if this place is anything to go by!’ and they all dissolved into howls of laughter.
I tried to join in, but that part of my brain wasn’t working. I mean, I’d seen Jack since it all kicked off. It was a relatively small world that we all shared, and it was inevitable that I’d bump into him at parties and events. We always politely avoided each other – personally, I’d rather skin myself alive than spend any quality time with the man, and I suspected the feeling was mutual.
But to see that he was here, in what I regarded as my own safe territory, was messing with my head. A head that had been pretty messed up already, to be honest.
After the shock wore off, the anger started in. I much preferred that – it gave me the energy I needed to run up the three flights of stairs to Vogue’s office.
Her space is located in the old eaves of the building, away from the hustle and bustle downstairs, and has a brilliant view of the busy London streets below. She’d not had it completely done yet, but the walls were stripped back to bare brick, and it was huge – three cramped old rooms converted into one big open-plan affair.
I paused outside her door, slightly out of puff from the speed with which I’d dashed up there, and tried to gather my thoughts. I could be massively overreacting, I told myself. Vogue was not only a singer, she was a businesswoman, trying to make a success of a label in a highly competitive industry. If she was meeting with Jack Duncan, she must be thinking that he could be useful. That she could use him in some way. It didn’t necessarily mean anything at all – music people had meetings all the time; their whole days were filled with pointless cups of coffee and empty schmoozing.
All of these very reasonable thoughts were chased out of my mind by one sound: the sound of laughter. Vogue and Jack, giggling away with each other behind that frosted-glass door, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
I knocked once, sharply, and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. They were sitting together on Vogue’s faux zebra-print couch, and they were sitting way closer than the average business meeting usually required.
Vogue’s eyes opened so wide they were the size of UFOs, and Jack jumped to his feet, spilling coffee on his jeans as he did. It probably scalded his thighs – or at least I hoped so.
He looked good, I had to admit. Still the same stylish dark brown hair; the same chocolate-drop eyes. The same stylishly casual clothes that screamed money. Still the same gym-buff body, and, most importantly, still the same slightly arrogant expression on his face.
‘Jessy!’ he said, at least having the good grace to look a bit flustered.
‘That’s Jessika to you,’ I said coldly, standing with my hands on my hips and staring him down. ‘I’m only Jessy to my friends.’
There was an incredibly awkward pause then, and Jack scurried around gathering up papers and his phone and stuffing them into his leather manbag. Vogue was looking at me with pleading eyes, but stayed silent as he prepared to leave. I stayed stubbornly in the door frame for a moment, half tempted to wrestle him to the floor, until he shimmied past me and escaped.
‘Erm . . . nice to see you again. I look forward to working with you,’ he said, as he disappeared off down the staircase.
Working with me? I thought. What the hell did that mean? The only way I’d want to work with Jack Duncan again was if he had a sudden fall from grace and had a new career as a toilet cleaner. Even then, I’d need to wear rubber gloves every time I flushed the loo.
I was furious. And confused. And pissed off – I thought that Vogue had always been honest with me. Now I was starting to suspect the exact opposite.
I closed the door quietly behind him – refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing an angry slam – and turned to face Vogue.
Vogue is black, gorgeous and generously proportioned. She’s almost six feet tall and rocking Naomi Campbell meets Marilyn Monroe vibe. Usually, in the office, she’s make-up free and dressed down – and still looks stunning. Today, I noticed, she was in full slap, wearing her green contacts, and dressed to kill in leather trousers and high-heeled boots. I was guessing that she hadn’t chosen that outfit to impress the builders. Frankly, they were impressed by anybody with boobs.
Now, I can be – how do I phrase this politely? – a bit on the slow side occasionally. My family have told me that I’m too gullible. Too trusting. That I always see the good side of people, even when they don’t have one. My brother Luke has a theory that I’d invite Jack the Ripper into the house for a cup of tea if he looked like he needed cheering up.
But even I had to face facts: there was something going on here, and it wasn’t going to be something I liked.
‘Come in, please,’ said Vogue, gesturing to me to sit next to her. I could tell from her body language that she was tense and upset, which is unusual – she’s mostly astonishingly laid-back.
I couldn’t bring myself to sit on the couch where he’d been sitting, so instead pulled a chair round from behind her desk.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, tapping my toes on the wooden floor. I was obviously pretty tense and upset as well. It was like a virus – and Jack Duncan was Patient Zero. ‘Why was he here? And why were you drooling over him?’
‘I wasn’t drooling!’ she replied, although the slightly sheepish look on her face told me she knew she had been. I just raised an eyebrow, and waited for her to carry on.