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To be honest, the joy of pretty much everything was lost on me right then.
I nodded to let Heidi know I was okay with my schedule, and she trotted off, stuffing a Hobnob in her mouth as she went.
My schedule was … knackering. I’d never been so tired in my entire life. Jack had held true to his part of the bargain, but it wasn’t quite the dream lifestyle I’d imagined. More of a living nightmare, in fact. I got into the office at half nine, and spent the whole day being treated like something the PR team would scrape off their shoe after a walk on Hampstead Heath. I made their coffee, fetched their lunch, did their photocopying, collected their press cuttings, made their hair appointments, and provided target practice for their pen-throwing workshops.
I wasn’t allowed to answer their phones, or meet their guests at reception, or deal with the public in any way—because, as Patty had put it, ‘Nobody will understand a word you say—you practically speak a foreign language.’
If I was lucky, I got to shadow them in meetings, which allowed me to at least get to know a few people in the rest of the business, and get an idea of how things worked. And the way things worked was … badly.
I’d never come across so many egos and divas and prima donnas in my life—and that wasn’t even the performers. Everyone here thought they were a star, or at least thought they should be treated like one. Even the cleaners had a habit of singing while they emptied the bins, presumably hoping that someone would hear them warbling Whitney Houston tracks, and say ‘Now, that’s what I call music …’
The only genuine star I’d met was Vogue, and ironically she was adorable—probably the least up-her-own-bum of everyone I worked with. She certainly couldn’t beat Patty for being a rude cow, she always remembered my name, and she never threw anything at my head. She’d even complimented me on my singing when she’d heard me one night.
The singing that I would get to do after a full day’s work in the office. I usually finished at about six—when the others would go off to wine bars and parties and glitzy functions, and I’d stay behind, like Cinderella being banned from the ball. Maybe I was too fat and too Scouse to be allowed on the guest list.
After that, the rest of my work schedule would start—and from six until nine I’d get to do the stuff I’d come all this way for. The stuff I’d left my family for. The stuff that the dreams really were made of.
I’d see Dale in the dance studio and learn steps to the routines he was choreographing for Vogue and the other A-listers on the label. I’d see Frankie, the vocal coach, and spend an hour gasping for air and doing freaky voice exercises and perfecting my runs and pretending I was Mariah Carey. I’d see Neale, the junior make-up guy, who seemed to be as low down the ladder as I was, and ‘we’d gossip as danced around to R.Kelly’s She’s Got That Vibe, Neale showing off the moves he still had from his time as professional dancer. And maybe—when there was time available—I’d get to go into one of the studios and work with a producer. That didn’t happen too often, but when it did, it was absolutely the best bit of all.
Standing there, alone, in that darkened booth, headphones on and singing my heart out, was what made it all worthwhile. It was the same feeling I used to get when I sang the princess routines—I could shut everything else out, and lose myself in the song. Go to my happy place.
So far, I’d only done Vogue songs and a few covers—nobody was writing new tunes for the PR slave, let’s face it. But it still made it all worthwhile—it gave me a delicious taste of what it might all be like, one day. One day that I had to hope—had to believe—would arrive soon.
If it didn’t, I might just shrivel up and die, and they’d find me in the stationery cupboard one morning, like a slug that had been sprinkled with salt.
After all of that, at the end of my typical day at Starmaker, I’d trail my poor, exhausted body back out through the office. Down the plush corridors lined with framed platinum discs. Past the dark studio booths. Through to reception, with its vases full of lilies and spotlessly clean mirrored furniture, to the glamorous chrome spiral staircase, its curving walls decorated with enormous blown-up pictures of the talent on the label’s roster. When that mysterious ‘one day’ arrived, I’d be up there too—I had to believe that. I had to believe that Annie was right, and tomorrow was only a day away.
Most nights, I’d walk as quickly as I could to the Tube station, hunch down, and push my way onto the Northern Line. It had taken me a while to get used to the fact that nobody spoke to each other—in fact people looked at you as if you had a screw loose if you even made eye contact with them. It was a lot different in Liverpool, where you could get someone’s whole life story over a burger on the night bus. Here, I’d learned to hide behind a magazine, or spend the whole journey checking my phone while I listened to music on ear phones—which was about as much fun as it sounds.
It was only a few stops to Kentish Town at least, where I lived in an extremely glamorous studio apartment. Or, if you wanted to be more accurate, a one-room bedsit above a kebab shop, where the most exciting thing to happen was the mouldy pattern on the ceiling slowly changing shape because of the leak in the roof.
Once I was home—and once I’d managed to get past Yusuf, the shop owner and landlord, who talked so much he made up for the rest of London—I’d collapse. I’d watch telly, or read, or stand in front of my fridge, staring into it, wishing there was more food and that I was allowed to eat it if there was.
I’d be in bed by eleven, going over the high points of the day and trying to stuff the low points to the back of my mind, where they belonged. Between seeing Yusuf and getting into work the next morning, I wouldn’t speak to a single living soul—and then it would just be Patty screaming at me because her tights had laddered, and it was all my fault.
Other nights, though, it would be different. Very different.
So different, in fact, that it was a bit like I had a foxier twin sister who’d been stolen at birth, and lived a completely opposite life to mine.
Because on those other nights, Jack Duncan would message me, and arrange to meet me nearby. He’d have his flashy little Audi, and he’d be wearing beautifully crisp white shirts, and his hair would be artfully flopping across his handsome face, and he’d smell completely fantastic, not like a kebab at all.
On those nights, my life would be very different. They’d involve romantic dinners and long chats over expensive wine and lingering kisses that made my toes curl up in excitement.
Because, yes—Jack Duncan did, in fact, seem interested in getting his leg over. And he was starting to make me think it was a really excellent idea.
Chapter 7
I know, I know.
It sounds bad, doesn’t it? Sleeping with the boss? It sounds like a complete stereotype, in fact—the bright-eyed young wannabe shagging her way to stardom. The older, more experienced record exec taking advantage of her desperation to get a roll in the hay.
Except … it wasn’t like that at all. It really wasn’t. For a start, we hadn’t even done it.
And—although I might sound like I’m trying to convince myself here—everything that had happened had felt very natural, and very real. It wasn’t as though I’d arrived in London, been chucked on a casting couch, and ordered to get jiggy with it. If that had happened, I’d have told him where to get off, and caught the next train back to Lime Street. Team Jessy just didn’t roll that way, thank you very much.
In fact, though, it had all started with a cappuccino. On my first day at the office, Jack had taken me for a coffee at this trendy place around the corner where a cuppa cost as much as a crate of ale. He’d explained my schedule, he’d asked about my flat, and he’d told me what I needed to hear—that I’d done the right thing.
‘Life’s all about taking chances,’ he’d said, sipping his drink and gazing at me with those dreamy dark eyes of his. ‘And that’s what you’ve done. Bravo. How do you feel now you’re actually here?’
I still felt on the nervous side around him, so I wasn’t completely truthful. That would have involved words like ‘petrified’, ‘terrified’, and other things that ended in ‘ied’. Instead, I settled for ‘a bit anxious’.
‘That’s understandable,’ he’d said, leaning back in his chair and smiling at me. He was so calm. So charming. So completely comfortable in his own skin, and in this overpriced café full of beautiful people. ‘And I get it. But you need to know that I’m here for you, even if you fall on your backside in a pile of mud. Metaphorically speaking.’
‘Well, you’ve seen me do it before,’ I replied, ‘and it might well happen again. Although so far I’ve not even seen any grass, never mind mud.’
‘I can fix that. One day, when you’ve settled in, I’ll have to take you out and show you the sights. It’s a beautiful city, and there is plenty of mud to roll round in if you know where to look. And if you’re that way inclined. Maybe if the mood takes me I’ll roll round in it with you—get in touch with my inner druid.’
He was so well turned out in his tailored shirt and posh jeans, he looked like he was more likely to have an inner male model than an inner druid. I tried to picture him dressed in a white toga and prancing round Stonehenge chanting, but that just made me giggle.
Giggling is never a good idea when you’ve just chugged your posh coffee, and I choked on my cappuccino—spluttering it up, and spraying the whole table, his face, and the front of my top with frothy foam. Of course.
I blushed bright red, having one of those you-can-take-the-girl-out-of-Liverpool moments as I felt like every hipster in the place turned to stare at me. Even the girl chalking up the specials on the blackboard stopped to have a gander.
Jack just wiped his face and laughed along with me—putting me completely at ease again, just like he had at Jocelyn’s party. This was starting to become a theme: me messing up, everyone else being amused/horrified by me, and Jack just … not caring. Just keeping calm, and carrying on.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, swiping at the table top with the sleeve of my best Karen Millen jacket. ‘Every time I see, you I seem to be doing something stupid. I’m not normally like this, honest to God. Usually, I can go whole days without a cock up.’
He raised one eyebrow at me, and gave me a very direct look in response to what I’d just said. Um. Maybe I could have phrased that one a bit better. As usual. At home, Luke or Becky would have poked me and said: ‘A cock up where?’ or something equally rude. Here, I realised I was treading on foreign soil.
‘Sorry, again,’ I muttered. ‘I’ve got to learn to think before I speak …’
‘It’s all right,’ he replied, grinning. ‘It’s cute. And anyway, I’m here to help. It’ll be like in My Fair Lady—I can be Professor Higgins to your Eliza Doolittle.’
‘Well, I’m definitely common enough, I’m starting to realise,’ I answered, looking around me.
It was funny, but I’d never felt common in Liverpool. I’d felt normal. But here, people already seemed more precise; more driven. More capable of drinking a cup of coffee without spitting it everywhere.
‘You’re not common,’ he said quickly. ‘And don’t ever feel like you’re not good enough. Didn’t I read somewhere that Liverpool was the pop music capital of the world? You come from a place that’s produced a lot of talent, a lot of stars. Must be something you all breathe in from the Mersey. So don’t ever be ashamed of what you are—just be yourself.’
‘That’s not what Professor Higgins says to Eliza,’ I replied. And I should know—it was one of my favourite musicals, and I’d watched it maybe a hundred times.
‘Fair point … okay, be a better version of yourself. One you feel comfortable with, but also one where you don’t feel embarrassed when you realise what you’ve said or what you’ve done. If this thing works out—and I really hope it will—you’ll need to be aware of how you come across in interviews, on stage, on camera. You can still be you—but maybe save the real you for your people who don’t mind getting covered in mud or drenched with cappuccino.’
‘Like you?’ I asked, not quite able to stop myself sounding a tiny bit flirty. He was too old for me, I told myself. He was my boss. And anyway—he was out of my league, and probably just being kind. A man as hot as him, working in the industry he did, probably had seventeen supermodel girlfriends on speed dial. Why would he be interested in a slightly tattered blonde former princess from Liverpool?
‘Exactly like me,’ he answered, his voice slow and drawling and the sheen in his eyes making my tummy do little loop-the-loops. Oooh, I thought. He was interested—which made the whole thing a lot harder to ignore. It was possible I was reading too much into his tone—but I definitely wasn’t reading too much into the way he’d reached out, and covered my hand with his on the table top.
He gave my trembling fingers a little squeeze, stroking my palm with his thumb in a way that promised all kinds of interesting skills, and gave me the super-smile again.
‘Just don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll help you any way I can. You need to put the work in—but you need to play as well.’
‘Play?’ I mumbled, losing my ability to think straight—not that I seemed to have much of that particular ability anyway—and staring at him like a brain-dead muppet.
‘Play,’ he confirmed. ‘Have fun. Relax. Let go. And I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, Jess, but one thing I’m really good at is playing …’
It turned out he wasn’t bragging at all. That first trip out for coffee had been repeated the week after. Then it had turned into a drink after work a few days later. Then it had evolved into dinner. Our hugs at the end of the night had evolved too—into gentle kisses, slow and sensual and oh-so-yummy.
Jack Duncan wasn’t like any other men I’d met. He certainly wasn’t like any of the men I’d been out with. For a start, he didn’t stick his tongue down my throat the minute we started snogging. He didn’t shove his hand up my top and root around for my bra strap. He didn’t point to his hard-on and say, ‘Come and get it, you lucky bitch’—which admittedly had only happened to me once, but still tops my least-romantic-quote-of-all-time list.
He was … slow. Teasing. Tempting. He kissed me as though I was precious, as if I was some wonderful delicacy he wanted to savour and enjoy. Like he wanted to make it last, instead of racing towards the next hurdle. And he didn’t just kiss my lips. He kissed my neck, my earlobes, my collarbone, my wrists, all in such a gentle and tantalising way that I was begging for more. Hoping for more.
But it hadn’t, as yet, gone beyond that. Even though I really, really wanted it to—at least I did at the time it was happening. In the cold light of day, I could recognise that it was a bad idea. In the warm light of night, though, in the shadow of streetlamps and under the gaze of the moon and stars, it always seemed like a very, very good idea indeed.
It wasn’t just the way he touched me—it was the way he treated me. We had fun together. We enjoyed each other’s company. He told great stories about the music business, and he laughed at my not-so-great stories about the Princess business, and he listened to my hopes and dreams and never mocked them. He understood how hard it was getting through my days, but he never let me feel sorry for myself—he was sympathetic, but tough, telling me it was just a stage, just a step. That one day, I’d look back and be grateful for the fact that I had real insider knowledge of how the industry worked …
Somehow, he made it all make sense. Somehow, he made my hellish days with Patty and her cronies feel worthwhile, part of my work ethic. Somehow, he made all my fears and doubts and insecurities disappear—at least for a few hours. A few hours of great conversation that would be followed up with one of those delicious, heart-rate-bumping kisses.
Those nights with Jack were the absolute highlights of my London life—not that they had much competition.
And, I reminded myself as I trekked back to Patty with her miraculously un-spat-in coffee, tonight was going to be one of those nights. We’d already arranged it, and I couldn’t wait.
I just needed to keep my head down, get through the day without killing anyone (including myself), and look forward to spending time with Jack. We were going for dinner at Chico’s, a little Italian place tucked away in the cutest mews street I’d ever seen, and then, if I was lucky, I’d get some of those gourmet kisses for pudding.
At least that was the kind of pudding that didn’t add inches to my apparently ginormous hips.
Chapter 8
I half expected someone to spot the difference in me the next day. I thought Patty would notice the glow, and declare I was looking radiant. Instead, she just narrowed her eyes at me and suggested I should start getting more beauty sleep—’like twenty-four hours a day’.
Huh. So much for my radiant glow, I thought, as I arranged their organic artisanal macadamia nut cookies on a plate. Not that they’d eat them—the whole PR department was on a permanent diet. They just kind of inhaled them, and then spent the rest of the day talking about how guilty it made them feel. If one of them chewed on a chia seed they’d declare themselves full.
I nipped to the loo while I waited for the coffee to perc, and glanced at myself in the mirror. Hmm. Maybe she had a point—I did look a bit rough round the edges. My hair had a tangle in the back of it the size of Dubai, and my liner had done an unintentional zigzag beneath my left eye. I wasn’t wearing the same clothes as the day before—Jack had booked me a cab home at the crack of dawn to avoid any Walk of Shame scenarios—but I could definitely do with some quality time in the shower.
Somehow, though, I just couldn’t find it in me to care. I was happy—I was walking on sunshine, as Katrina and her Waves might have said. I was even happier than I’d have been if I’d scoffed all those organic macadamia nut biscuits.
It had finally happened. After what felt like a month of foreplay, it had finally happened … and boy, had it had been worth the wait.
Dinner was lovely, even if I did skip the tiramisu—something that would normally have had my mum feeling my forehead with the back of her hand in case I was running a temperature. And after that, we’d gone to this little place in a backstreet in Chelsea that was all dark wood panelling and smelled of brandy and whisky and cigars, even though nobody seemed to be smoking one.
We’d spent ages talking; just talking and talking and talking—about music, about life, about family and friends and our hopes for the future. Okay, I will admit that he didn’t reveal too much—but it was a nice change to be with a man who wanted to listen as much as he wanted to bang on about himself. He was genuinely interested in me, which took me a while to get used to—I mean, I’m not that interesting, to be honest. At least I don’t usually think I am.
I’m all right—I’m not so boring someone would fall asleep while they’re having a conversation with me or anything—but I’m not likely to be signed up as a guest on Newsnight any time soon either. And I’m okay looking—I know I’m not a minger, and I scrub up well, but I’m nothing special. Nobody’s going to trip over themselves staring at me on the street.
But with Jack, I felt different. He made me feel like I was a sexy supermodel, not just someone who scrubbed up well. He made me feel like my stories were brilliant, my views were important, that everything about me was fascinating. We laughed and we chatted and we flirted and we drank—and it was all totally dazzling. It was like being exposed to a completely new species of manhood—one I’d never encountered before.
Maybe I was a bit star struck, I don’t know. Maybe I was also a bit grateful, that Jack had seen something in me that so many others had missed. Maybe I was just sex-starved and he was gorgeous. Whatever the reasons, though, the end result was the same—I was hooked.
When we’d emerged from the bar and climbed into his Audi I’d been merry and giggly and high on life. He was nowhere near as merry—he was driving, after all—but he did seem happy.
‘I’ve had a wonderful night, Jess,’ he said, turning towards me and laying one hand on my knee. I don’t know whether he’d planned it that way, but he’d parked right under one of those old-fashioned streetlights that’s made of curved wrought iron and looks all olde worldy, like something from a Dickens film. The glow from it was cast over his face, shining from his dark eyes, glinting on the deep brown waves of his hair. To use an intellectual term, it was pretty hot.
‘Me too,’ I said, then straight away burped like a frog with some serious digestive issues. It was a good, strong burp—deep and croaky. Luke would probably have given it an eight out of ten for comedy effect.
I quickly covered my mouth with my hand, and realised I was too tipsy to be as horrified as I should be. Instead, I started laughing—because, you know, noises that come from your body are naturally funny. At least they are where I come from—we never get fed up of fart jokes in our house.
He joined in, and we both laughed for a few minutes, until I was able to speak again.
‘I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not really,’ I said. ‘It’s your fault for getting me drunk. And at least it was only one burp—my sister Becky can do them on demand. She can even make tunes out of them.’
‘Really?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow and grinning. ‘How fantastic. Has she considered going on Britain’s Got Talent?’
‘Not yet, but I might suggest it to her … Anyway, I really did have a great night, Jack. I suppose I’d better get home and sleep this off.’
He nodded, and looked at me seriously, his eyes never moving from mine. Unlike his hand, which was definitely moving—in little circular motions on my thigh that should have tickled, but instead just made me feel a bit gooey inside.
‘Is that what you want?’ he said simply, all traces of laughter gone from his voice. ‘To go home? Because of course, I’ll take you if you do. But … I was wondering … if you’d like to take this to the next level? Come back to mine for a coffee?’
Something in my expression must have changed—and maybe he interpreted it as something negative—because straight away he continued: ‘And by coffee, I do mean coffee—no strings attached.’
‘Oh,’ I said, leaning back in the plush leather seat in a way I hoped was sexy, but probably just made me look like I needed a wee. ‘Just for a coffee? I can get coffee at my flat.’
‘Mine’s better,’ he replied, instantly, smiling at me in a way that I can only describe as Pure Sexy. ‘It’s hotter and it’s smoother and it’ll definitely keep you up all night. If that’s what you want.’
It was what I wanted. In fact—and I’m so glad I didn’t actually say this out loud—I was gagging for it. I’d always tried to have good intentions about Jack; no matter how good-looking or charming he was, I’d tried to avoid thinking about it becoming anything more. Because he was my boss. Because I didn’t want to behave like an idiot and get the knock back if he wasn’t interested, beyond a few casual kisses. Because I knew I was vulnerable—my glamorous life was taking its toll on me, with the long hours and all the hard work for so little return. I wasn’t at my strongest, and didn’t want to make it all even worse by getting my knickers in a twist about a man.
But, well … I’m only flesh and blood, you know? And it’s not like I jumped into bed with him. We’d taken the time to get to know each other. We’d had coffee dates and dinner dates and drinks dates. We’d had kisses and cuddles and long, lingering moments where things could have moved quicker—but they hadn’t. We’d taken it slow. Or—if I was being really honest with myself—Jack had taken it slow.