Born in Liverpool, ABBEY CLANCY balances her home life with her career as a model and TV presenter. She is an ambassador for many of the UK’s top brands and has designed her own clothing and jewellery lines as well as launching a range of baby products. Abbey is married to Premiership footballer Peter Crouch and has three small children. I’ll Be Home for Christmas is her second novel.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Abbey Clancy 2018

Abbey Clancy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9781474050753

Version: 2020-03-02

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For you, Mum.

Love you loads. Don’t know what

I would do without you.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

There are many aspects to the world of social media that I find confusing. Embarrassing. Overwhelming, even.

Like when someone snaps a picture of me the morning after the night before, and sticks it up on Instagram without even a measly Willow filter. I mean, we’ve all been there, right? Your mouth feels like it’s been vacuum packed with a decomposing ferret, and your hair has gone full-on Walking Dead, and you know you’re just going to die unless you get immediate access to a paper bag full of McDonald’s hash browns?

Yeah. Well, imagine in that precise moment, someone incredibly chipper bounces over, grinning from ear to ear at the sight of you, and wants nothing more than to snap a picture of you together, no matter how grey your skin is or how far down your face your mascara’s slipped. Not good.

But – and I get this, I really do – it’s all part of my job. My job isn’t an ordinary job. It’s being a pop star – Jessika – to the world at large. Not very long ago at all I was the person who would have been bouncing over and asking for the pic, so I can’t complain. Not very long ago, I was scraping a living singing Disney covers at kids’ birthday parties, working as an intern at a record label, and filling in my lonely nights waitressing at glamorous showbiz events I wasn’t good enough to actually get invited to.

So I get it. I understand that it’s all part of my brave, weird new world – and that I have a responsibility to suck it up, smile for the camera, even if I really, really don’t want to.

I also understand that people will comment about me, and to me – posting everything from sweet compliments on my music through to borderline-stalker psycho abuse. I know everything I say and do will be analysed, twisted, churned up, chewed up, and spat back out by the media. I have help with that, in the form of my scary PR manager Patty, and I’m sensible enough not to take the nasty stuff seriously. I’ve worked hard on developing a thick skin, and coping with the demands of being famous.

One thing, though, I don’t think I will ever get used to is this: my mother is currently trending on Twitter.

To put this in context, my mother is a tiny Scouse powerhouse in her fifties, with dyed black hair, strong opinions and endless energy. I’d say she has zero per cent body fat, 200 per cent work ethic, and loves nothing more than her family, which includes my nan, who is officially ancient, my dad Phil, my older sister Becky, me and my little brother Luke (or The Knobhead, as he’s known to everyone who’s ever met him).

She is also totally in love with her first ever grandchild – Becky’s baby Ollie, who is now four months old and rules the world from his bouncy chair like a benign Jabba the Hutt. He’s one of those fat babies with rolls of flesh everywhere, and his eyes completely disappear every time he laughs. Which is a lot.

So, Mum is a family woman. Her life isn’t glamorous, or that interesting. She spends every spare minute looking after us lot, and still works on the tills at the local Tesco, even though she doesn’t really need to any more. She’s extraordinary, but ordinary, if you know what I mean – one of those salt-of-the-earth-women you could build an empire on the back of.

All of which begs the question: why is she trending on Twitter? When did she even join Twitter? Why did she join Twitter?

I scroll down the pages – literally endless pages – and see that every pic on there has the hashtag #jessikasmum. It looks like the whole of Liverpool has popped into the supermarket to pick up a packet of crumpets, a bottle of Prosecco, and a selfie with my mother. There are hundreds of them – all featuring complete strangers, gurning like idiots, and my mum, happily posing alongside them.

My mum has described herself as ‘daughter, wife, mother, grandmother, and lover of all things Michael Bublé’. I suppose I should be grateful that the great crooner himself hasn’t also called in with a selfie stick in his hand.

‘Fab time at Tesco with mummy diva’, says one tweet. ‘Jessika’s mum is awesome’, says another. ‘Forget Jessika – her mum needs her own reality show!’ on one more. ‘Why’s she still working?’ asks a random girl who, according to her profile, loves knitting, cats and visiting S&M clubs. Hopefully not all at the same time.

Mum’s still working, of course, because she wants to. Not because she’s skint, or because I haven’t offered to give her anything she needs – but because she is who she is. She’s my mum, and she’ll probably be going into Tesco when she’s eighty, popping her false teeth back in for photo calls.

I close down the screen, and take a breath. Tell myself there’s no harm done. That it could be worse – my dad could be on Twitter, and then the world as we know it would collapse in on itself.

My life is insane. Nobody warned me being a pop star would be quite this crazy.

#passmetheproseccoplease

*

I used to think my life was complicated when I was younger. I was sharing a scummy flat with my old school friend, Ruby, running our marginally successful Disney princess party business, feeding my body with a steady diet of cheap packet noodles and feeding my soul with a vision of becoming a singer.

I suppose I was a typically star-struck girl from Liverpool who was a chasing a dream – a dream of becoming a pop star, of making it big, of hanging framed platinum discs on my toilet wall and playing to sell-out crowds in stadiums across the globe.

In some ways, all of that has come true. Sort of by accident, if I’m honest. I was singing at a birthday party in Cheshire, soaked to the skin and ‘Letting It Go’, when I was ‘spotted’ by a music mogul called Jack Duncan.

When you read that in newspapers and magazines – ‘spotted’ – it always sounds like stardom happened magically overnight. Like the tall skinny geeky girl was shopping for a new pencil case in Paperchase one minute, and strutting her stuff on the Paris catwalks the next. And maybe, in some cases, that’s what happens, I don’t know.

With me, it was different. After I was ‘spotted’, Jack whisked me away to a new life in London – but it was a new life that didn’t exactly start out brilliantly. I was working long hours as the office intern at Starmaker Records, slaving for the PR team by day and perfecting my craft by night.

Well, that’s not quite accurate. Some of those nights, I’d spend with Jack Duncan – who’d spotted my talent in more ways than one. I still cringe a little inside when I think about Jack. I can’t say he exploited me, but he didn’t exactly behave like a knight in shining armour either – because while I was gullibly falling in love with him, he was part-time shacked up with my friend Vogue as well.

It all came out in the wash, and we got our revenge – revenge that involved handcuffing him to a bed, taking obscene pictures of him in embarrassing positions and, more importantly, walking out on Starmaker to form our own record label – In Vogue.

Still. Cringing inside, even as I speak. I have a trusting soul, and that isn’t always a good thing in show business – because the Jack Duncans of that world are literally swimming through its waters like seductive sharks, guzzling up tiddlers like me for breakfast.

I went from being me to being a new and not-so-improved version of me – featuring on a number one single with Vogue, on the pages of all the bikini-body celeb-style magazines, even on the telly for a live Christmas Day broadcast.

Between the glamour and the parties and Jack and the sheer wondrous hard work of it all, I lost my bearings a bit though. I forgot who I was. I left behind Jessy, the nice girl from Liverpool who loved her family and kept her feet on the ground, and embraced Jessika, who, possibly as a result of some kind of toxic poisoning from all the fake eyelashes and fake tan she used, could be a bit of a bitch.

I’m not proud of some of the things I did back then, but I am proud that I pulled it back. It’s not easy to get any kind of balance when your entire life is a crazy carousel of lunacy, but I did.

I didn’t do it alone, though. I did it with the help of my family, bonkers as they are. I did it with the help of Vogue, who might be a diva but has a heart the size of a planet. I did it with the help of Neale, my stylist and the most fabulous and best of friends.

Mainly, though, I did it with the help of Daniel Wells – the love of my life.

*

Daniel Wells is my real hero. He’s Han Solo and Jack Bauer and Barack Obama all rolled up into one. He doesn’t look or act like any of those people – I’m just trying to convey how brilliant he is. To me at least.

Daniel and I have known each other since we were toddlers. He used to live next door to us on our quiet terraced street in Liverpool, and there are, I believe, photos still in existence of us playing with rubber ducks in the bath together when we were two. We still sometimes take a bath together, but things tend to end differently these days.

Daniel was a geek before it was remotely cool to be one. Overweight, over-haired, over-pimpled and over-shy, he spent his teenage years locked away, writing songs, fiddling with tech, and, it turns out, pining over me.

We lost touch for years when his family moved down South, but he miraculously appeared back in my life just when I needed him most. I had recreated myself as Jessika, and he had recreated himself as Wellsy – the coolest record producer of his generation. But while I embraced the madness of public life – I was always a much bigger show-off than him – he’d become a hermit, setting up his studio in the wilds of the countryside, his anonymity and lack of showbiz neediness somehow making him even more desirable within the industry.

He’d not changed a bit – he still knew me inside out, upside down, and standing on my head. He still understood me, warts and all, and loved me anyway. In fact, the only thing that had changed about Daniel was the way he looked – time had been kind to him, good genetics allowing him to blossom into a taller version of Leonardo DiCaprio. Cute Leo – like Catch Me If You Can Leo, not the Leo covered in blood and drool like in The Revenant.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say he saved me. Or, at the very least, he made room for me on his life raft as the Titanic was sinking – unlike that cow Rose.

And now, we’re together. So together it’s unreal. In public, we might be Wellsy and Jessika, but, in private, we’re just Jessy and Daniel. Loved-up in a way I’ve never known before. He has his career, I have mine, and we both have each other. My time with him is precious and perfect and utterly satisfying in every possible way. He’s the kind of man you can watch a box set of Happy Valley with one minute, and have Olympic-level sex with the next. He doesn’t care if I look like crap, or accidentally leave my hair extensions hanging on the back of the bathroom door like a skinned cat, or fall asleep at 8 p.m. because I’m exhausted. He understands my lifestyle, and he understand me. Frankly, I can’t believe how much I lucked out – in many ways, but mainly with Daniel.

It sounds simple. Idyllic, even. But, of course, it’s not that straightforward – nothing ever is. Because I still spend a lot of my time in London, for work, and he’s still based at his farmhouse in Sussex. Because I’m living in the public eye so much even my mum gets approached for selfies, and he values his privacy.

Mainly, at the moment, because I have a brain tangle about what will happen next. Part of me just wants to run away to the countryside and snuggle up with him for the rest of our lives. We could raise chickens and sheep and maybe even add to my mum’s adorable grandchild collection. I’m sure we’d be happy. Super-happy, in fact.

I could eat more carbs and grow a muffin top and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind, and we could go for long walks and have long baths and turn into one of those couples who don’t even own a telly. Maybe I’d even forget to brush my hair and end up with dreadlocks. We have enough money, and we have enough love, to make that a possibility.

But, of course, it wouldn’t work. I don’t really like being separated from my hair straighteners for too long, and Neale would bitch-slap me with a dead mackerel if I didn’t exfoliate every day. Plus, it’s not all about the money, is it? I wasn’t chasing this dream of mine for so long just for the money. Even if I’d won the EuroMillions on one of those bonkers rollover weeks, I’d still be working.

Because it’s about more than that. It’s about the music. It’s about singing, and performing, and building the only career I’ve ever wanted. It’s about that dream I’ve always had, and about that work ethic I inherited from my parents.

Daniel can get away with building his superstar career from the sound-proofed comfort of the South Downs – but, sadly, Jessika can’t. Jessika needs to be out in the world, posing for those photos even though she feels awful, going to those parties, and putting in the hours perfecting her craft. Jessika needs the spotlight, even though Jessy sometimes wishes she could hide away in a darkened room and scoff a box of Matchmakers instead.

And Jessika – I really must stop talking about myself in the third person – has just received what might be the opportunity of a lifetime.

Chapter 2

It pinged onto my iPhone X last Thursday, and at first I thought it was just something fun from Vogue or Neale or maybe something a bit mushy from Daniel, but when I looked at the email, it came from an unfamiliar email address, but had a very familiar name.

Cooper Black.

Cooper Black, former frontman with hit boy band E-Z Street. Cooper Black, whose denim-clad limbs and perfectly ripped abs have graced the walls of millions of teenaged girls. Cooper Black, who is about to launch his much-anticipated, and apparently much cooler, solo career.

Cooper Black, who is – for some reason – a huge fan of Jessika:

Hey, Jessika,

I’m a huge fan. Love your voice, your style, everything about you. I think we could make beautiful music together – don’t you? I have a ‘featuring’ slot waiting for you on the new single, if you’re interested. Let’s talk.

There’s a lot going on over here in the States, and I’d love for you to be involved.

And now he wants me to leave everything behind and go and work with him in the US.

Part of me is so excited I could kiss a camel, possibly with tongues. It is beyond awesome – not only has someone like Cooper Black even heard of me, but he wants to record with me, perform with me. It’s a chance to take my music across the Atlantic, to open up a whole new world of possibilities. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

But it’s also thousands of miles and several time zones away from the rest of my life. I’d have to move away from Daniel, from Vogue, from my family. I’d have to make a choice that I’m not sure I’m ready to make.

I have no idea what to do, and don’t have a clue who to talk to about it, either. My mum and dad would just want me to do what makes me happy. Daniel would be heartbroken. Vogue would possibly feel betrayed. Neale would be pipping at the thought of going, and planning his wardrobe accordingly. They’d all see only part of the big picture – and it’s up to me to see the whole shebang.

It’s way too complicated for me to figure out – how do I pursue my own ambitions without hurting the people I care about?

At times like this, the thought of dressing up as Elsa and singing to a bunch of screaming kids in a soggy garden seems like an appealing option. The rain never bothered me anyway.

Potentially life-changing emails from all-American pop idols aside, everything is going brilliantly.

*

When Vogue (known as Paulette to her friends – which includes me, but I must admit I struggle with calling her that) – and I stitched up Jack Duncan, we used our position as leverage to get away from the clutches of his record label, Starmaker.

It was still relatively early days, but it was going even better than we could possibly have imagined. Vogue had been wonderful enough – and generous enough – to let me feature on her last single with Starmaker, ‘Midnight’, and that had gone to the top of the charts and was still being played on radio stations around the world.

In addition, my first single since our takeover, which had been written for me by Daniel, was a great success, which was a pretty brilliant way to launch the new label. Vogue, I knew, would also be recording some new material at some point, but, for the time being, she was concentrating on getting everything set up, and on the refurbishment of our new headquarters.

For reasons best known to herself, she’d fallen in love with a former lap-dancing bar in Soho, and that was where I was working today.

When you first walk into the building, it still feels a bit dark and desperate, but there is a real charm to it, I have to say. It’s mid-way through its refit, and the first area to get the star treatment was the main room in the building, which is now our reception. There is still a stage kitted out with a pole in the middle of it and I have a sneaking suspicion that late at night, when she’s on her own, Vogue lets out a few frustrations by swinging around on it. There’s a lot of dark red velvet and gold paint, and the whole place is always filled with artistically arranged floral bouquets. Lilies, roses, everything incredibly fresh and fragrant – even when it’s just us, we have the flowers. The building is a little weird, and a little edgy, but it works.

So far, as well as the reception area, we have two recording booths, with plans for two more. The basement isn’t done yet, but, when it is, there’ll be a full dance studio and rehearsal space. Neale has his own empire down there, stocked with cosmetics and beauty equipment and wardrobe, and he’s like a kid in a toy shop with it all. I have occasionally caught him down there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, just looking around in awe, practically clapping his hands in glee.

The former dressing rooms have been partially converted into offices, for admin, for Patty, and for the extra staff we will eventually be taking on. I say ‘we’, but I actually mean Vogue. She does consult me when she’s in two minds about somebody, but, on the whole, that’s her realm, and I’m happy with that. I’m still taking baby steps in this industry, and concentrating on the music side of things is enough for me at the moment.

I arrived a little later than usual, as I’d made the journey in from Daniel’s place in Sussex that morning, and made my way into reception. There wasn’t any natural daylight in this area of the building when we first started – which is usual enough for a lap-dancing bar, I suppose – but, since then, the room has been opened up, spring sunlight pouring in and striping the red velvet booths and the exotic blooms.

Our receptionist, Yvonne, was already at her post, wearing one of those phone headsets that made her look like she was directing a troupe of dancers at a Madonna gig. Yvonne is only young, twenty-one in fact, but already has that ‘Don’t Mess With Me’ face that I associate with my mother. She’s half Chinese, and looks like she could be Lucy Liu’s daughter – utterly gorgeous, in other words.

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 holding me back, even if they had no clue they’d done it. None of that was fair, was it? I had to sort this out.

I signed out of all my accounts – leaving 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.

She took a deep breath, puffing it out so hard her cheeks expanded, and gazed over towards the window. It was as though she didn’t even want to meet my eyes while she talked. This, I knew, was going to be bad.

‘Babe, look. . .I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while. I know I should have spoken to you earlier, but you know what it’s like – we’re both so busy we barely have time to breathe. Between my crazy schedule and yours, we just haven’t seen each other. . .’

‘We went for sushi last Friday,’ I pointed out. ‘We were together for two hours pretending we liked raw tuna and drinking wine.’

She held her head in her hands, and for a moment I thought she was crying. Obviously, if I’d heard a sniffle, my tough-girl act would have softened, but when she finally emerged, she just looked determined.

‘I know. You’re right. I’m just making excuses, aren’t I? I need to be honest now.’

‘That,’ I replied, crossing my arms across my chest in what I realized was a classic defensive posture, ‘would be nice. Now, what was he doing here?’

‘I’m giving him a job,’ she said simply. I opened my mouth to respond, but found that I had no words. Which was a good thing, as she immediately shushed me anyway.

‘No, let me finish before you go off on one – I’m giving him a job because I need the help, and because he’s good. You know he’s good. He discovered me, he discovered you, as well as loads of the others at Starmaker. Whatever you might think about him – and I know none of it’s good – he is one of the best when it comes to spotting new talent. And we need that. I need that. I’m rushed off my feet here, there’s so much to do – all the stuff I’d never even expected. Did you know I need a HR policy? How much Health and Safety crap there is? That I have to have meetings with insurance companies, and lawyers, and accountants? There’s just too much for one person right now!’

I bit my lip, and made myself think about what she was saying. She had been getting swamped, I knew, with the demands of setting up a new business. I suppose I’d been happily focusing on the creative side of things, and she’d been dealing with everything else. In all honesty, I’d not stopped to consider how stressful, and just plain boring, all of that probably was. But still. . .

‘OK,’ I replied. ‘I get that. But you’ve never really complained. You’ve never asked for help. I could do more.’

‘Honey, I know you mean well, but you’re not really the HR policy type, are you? And I don’t mean that as an insult, before you get your knickers in a twist! I just . . . I’m drowning, all right? And I know your single did well, and I’m sure your album will too, but we need more. If we’re going to be taken seriously in this game, we need more – I need someone out there, scouting for us. I need someone to be my eyes and ears at gigs and events and bloody kids’ parties – and Jack has a way of finding gold dust in the most unlikely of places. You know that! And without new signings, we’re going to shrivel up and die – you’re great, Jess, but you’re not enough. Not long-term. Jack. . .well, Jack can help me with the long term. I know he can.’

I was momentarily silent, staring at her and wondering how she could have kept a secret like this from me. Then I reminded myself that I was keeping a secret of my own – one that suddenly didn’t feel all that shameful.

‘I’m just . . . shocked,’ I said, eventually, watching as she messed with the rings on her fingers, turning them nervously round and round, over and over again. ‘You’ve genuinely never hinted at anything like this. This place – well, it was supposed to be different, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be better. We were supposed to treat people well, and be fair, and . . . not screw people! Either literally or ethically!’

‘It will be better!’ she replied, sounding frustrated. ‘It is better! I’ve talked it all through with Jack, and he knows the score. He knows what we’re trying to achieve, and that we won’t take any bullshit. He’s keen – really keen – to make a change. He’s different now, honest. What happened. . .well, it affected him, it really did. It made him think about the way he was behaving, and the way he was living his life, and he wants to be different . . . he wants to be better as well. And I genuinely believe he deserves a second chance.’

It’s hard to tell, with Vogue, when she’s blushing. She’s such a confident woman, I’ve rarely seen her embarrassed – angry, drunk, amused, euphoric, all of those things. But not often embarrassed. Right then, though, I could tell she was. She was flustered and nervous and obviously feeling desperately uncomfortable, no matter how hard that speech had tried to convince me otherwise. And I suspected I knew why.

‘And what about you, Vogue? Paulette? What will Jack Duncan be doing for you? It’s not just his professional talent that’s getting a second chance with you, is it?’

She looked up at me, finally meeting my eyes, and trying very hard to look defiant. She didn’t quite pull it off but it was a valiant effort.

‘No,’ she eventually said, biting a chunk out of her lip as she tried to continue. ‘No, it’s not. We’re giving it another go. I know that’s not what you expected to hear, and I know it’s a tricky situation. . .’

‘Tricky?’ I said, my voice rising about three octaves. ‘Tricky? You really think that’s the right word? For you getting back together with the man who broke both our hearts? The man who fooled us both? The man who jumped from my bed to yours, entirely possibly on the same day? I think that’s a bit more than tricky! And I think you’re completely mad for even considering it.’

She nodded, because nothing I’d said could possibly have come as a surprise to her. This was why she’d avoided telling me for so long – because she knew exactly how I was going to react.

‘I know you think that. And I don’t blame you. But it’s easy for you to say – you were only with him for a few months, and went straight from him to falling in love with Daniel. And I’m happy for you, I really am. It was different for me, and at the end of the day, babe, even though I know you’ve got my best interests at heart, that you want to protect me, it’s my life. It’s my life, and my decision, and if it’s all a terrible mistake then it’s mine to make. Do you get that?’

She was starting to sound a bit angry now – and Vogue angry is a sight to behold. I hoped that at least part of her was angry at herself, because she knew on some level that what I was saying was right. She just really, really didn’t want to hear it.

I stood up, and brushed down my top as though there were crumbs on it, just to give me something to do with my hands. I was so upset, I could feel the tears starting to build in the back of my eyes. I always cry when I’m angry – it’s a really annoying habit, because it makes me look weak and vulnerable when I’m actually feeling self-righteous and strong.

‘I get that,’ I said quietly, and turned to leave. ‘And you’re right, it’s your life. But it’s also my career – so I’d ask you to keep him away from me, all right?’

I didn’t give her the chance to reply. I just did my best flounce out of the room, and finally gave in to the urge to slam the door.

*

I spent the next ten minutes in the ladies’, crying my eyes out. The loos hadn’t been renovated at all, and still vaguely smelled of sweat and perfume and baby oil from the women who used to use them.

I locked myself into one of the stalls, and just let it all out. By the time I’d finished, my eyes were red and swollen, and my hands were shaking with emotion. I wasn’t sure which was worrying me most – the fact that Jack Duncan, and everything he represented, was slithering like a snake into our new Garden of Eden, or that my friend was making a huge mistake in her love life.

They were both pretty shitty situations, and making it all so much worse was the fact that she’d been hiding it from me. I didn’t know how long this had been going on, but it already felt like Jack was making his mark – as soon as he’d arrived on the scene, the deception had started. Maybe some of that was down to me – Vogue was scared of telling me because she knew I’d blow my top. Maybe if I’d been less of an emotional melting pot and more of a calm listening ear, she’d have felt able to confide in me earlier. Maybe not. Who knows?

Either way, I felt devastated. Like the rug had been pulled from beneath my feet. Like the future was now a very uncertain road, to be crossed late at night after six pints of lager.

I splashed cold water on my face, and stared at myself in the cracked mirror. There were still bright red lipstick kisses all around the edges from its previous customers.

I looked like a pufferfish, but I didn’t suppose that mattered. But I felt like a zombie, which mattered more.

After a few deep breaths, I decided I had to talk to Daniel. He was one of the most calm, steady and sensible people I knew. Maybe that’s why we worked so well together – I could get overexcited at an episode of Coronation Street, but he was always on a level. He’d hear me out, and let me cry, and then say something so utterly sensible and sane and perfect that I’d feel better about the world immediately.

I didn’t see the point in going back to Patty’s lair, where I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think for all the baby-sacrificing, so instead I found myself a quiet corner in the little courtyard garden outside.

It’s not huge – not in this part of London – but big enough for a table and chairs, and a few boxes of flowers. The noise from the street is pretty minimal, and it’s an unexpectedly calm spot.

Usually it’s occupied by at least one builder on a fag break, but it was blessedly empty when I emerged into the sunlight, clutching my phone and sniffling.

Daniel answered on the first ring, which told me two things: that he’d finished his chores around the farm (collecting eggs from the chickens and feeding our Billy goat, who we’d named Gandalf because he looked so wise and intelligent); and that he hadn’t yet started work (finding new and funky samples to use on a track by Vella, one of the new artists he was working with).

‘Good morning, gorgeous,’ he said immediately, and I couldn’t help but smile. Honestly, the fact that he could make me smile even when I felt so awful was enough to warm my insides.

‘I love you,’ I replied. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘I do. Because you bought me that T-shirt that has it printed all over the front: Jessy Hearts Daniel. I’m wearing it today. Gandalf was very taken with it. You OK? You sound a bit . . . damp. Have you been crying?’

‘Erm. . .yeah.’ He knows me too well.

‘Did Patty throw a dart at your face?’

‘No! I confiscated her darts after the last time!’

‘OK. Have you been thinking about that scene in The Lion King where Simba realizes his dad isn’t going to wake up?’

‘No, but now I am, and it’s not helping. It’s Vogue, Daniel. She’s back with Jack. And she’s given him a bloody job – here! I just can’t believe it . . . and I’m so angry . . . and I’m not just angry, I’m worried . . . about her, and about us, and about everything!’

The words rushed out of my mouth so fast they sounded a bit blurry even to me, so I completely understood when Daniel didn’t respond immediately.

After a few seconds, he finally spoke. But all he said was one word: ‘Ah.’

It’s a short word, and possibly not even a word at all, more of a sound or an exclamation, but it told me a lot.

Because while Daniel knows me inside out, I also know him inside out – and an ‘ah’ like the one he’d just murmured isn’t a simple thing. For a start, he didn’t sound shocked. He didn’t freak out, or swear, or drop the phone in surprise. He just said one quiet little ‘ah’. This was not the reaction I would have expected from Daniel, who, while not the kind of bloke who has fights or causes scenes, despises Jack Duncan with a quiet passion. Partly for what he did to me, partly for the way he conducts himself in business.

That one little ‘ah’, and the silence that followed it, told me this: Daniel already knew. That the huge shock I’d just had wasn’t as much of a shock to him. That it wasn’t only Vogue who’d kept this revelation to herself.

‘You already knew,’ I said, feeling somehow betrayed. I didn’t make it a question – I didn’t need to – I made it a statement of fact.

‘I didn’t know she’d decided,’ he replied, using the calm tone of voice he uses when he thinks I’m about to go ballistic. ‘I’d heard she’d been in talks with him, but just gossip. Nothing concrete. They’d been seen together a few times having meetings, and I knew he was looking to leave Starmaker. This was all grapevine stuff – nothing certain – and you know most of the grapevine stuff turns out to be crap.’

‘We both know you made that up to fuel your sick fantasies, but why, Daniel? Why didn’t you tell me? I just bumped into him upstairs! I could have done with some . . . I don’t know, warning?’

‘Well,’ he replied, and I could hear the sounds of the garden around him. He’d walked outside – probably barefoot, probably holding a mug of coffee – and I could hear the animals making animal noises in the background. I could picture him there, and usually that would immediately reassure me – but now . . . well, I felt a bit thrown, to be honest.

‘Well. . .’ he repeated, and again I could picture him – he was sitting down on the sawn-off tree stump and looking out at the hills, ‘first of all, I’m really sorry you’re feeling so awful. If I’d known anything for sure, I’d have told you. But it was just gossip, so I didn’t want to upset you for no reason. I could have got you all freaked out for nothing. And part of me thought – still does – that it was Vogue’s story to tell, you know?’

I felt the tears coming back again, and squished them so hard with my eyelids they just squirted out a tiny bit at the sides. I was now frustrated as well as angry and scared, and it was a pretty toxic combination.

‘Well, she didn’t tell me the story. Not until I literally walked in on them, cuddling up on the couch together. . .’

‘Oh!’ Daniel said, now sounding genuinely shocked. ‘Really? She’s taken him back in that way? After everything that’s happened? You’ve got to be kidding!’

‘No, I’m not kidding. And I felt the same way. Look, I’ve got to go, all right? I can see a bevvy of builders heading in my direction with flasks and packets of Benson & Hedges. . .’

‘OK. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, Jessy. Maybe I should have. Probably I should have. And I’m really sorry you’re so upset. And I love you.’

I stood up, and looked around at the completely empty garden. There were no builders. No flasks. No Benson & Hedges. I just felt shaken up, a bit knocked for six as my dad would say, and needed an excuse to get off the phone.

The fact that I was finding excuses to end a conversation with Daniel – and that I was fibbing to him – wasn’t really helping me feel any more steady or in control. It was like the world had turned upside down.

‘Love you too,’ I said, quickly. ‘I’ll call you later.’

Chapter 3

I made my way back inside the building, just in time to see Patty disappearing out of it. There was, surprisingly, no cloud of sulphur surrounding her, just a faint whiff of Dior Poison. I hung back so I could avoid bumping into her, and then went back to our office. I have no idea how Patty would react to me crying – possibly, she’d be unexpectedly kind; possibly, she’d eat me like a praying mantis on a wildlife documentary. It wasn’t worth the risk so I hid.

It was now blessedly quiet in there, and I was able to sit and think for a moment. To try to stop blubbing. To sort through my thoughts. Vogue had lied to me – or at the very least deliberately kept something huge a secret. And Daniel had known . . . kind of. Being fair, I understood why he hadn’t mentioned it – he didn’t know for sure and didn’t want to upset me. But being unfair, it added to the sense of betrayal I was feeling – like the big kids had been ganging up on me. Not very mature, I know, but that’s feelings for you.

I needed to talk to someone outside this world, and be reminded that there were bigger things in life than me and my petty problems. Well, maybe I actually needed to talk to someone about my petty problems – and, as ever, I made like E.T. and phoned home.

My parents are brilliant people. They’re hard-working and solid and they love the bones of me. I know they’re always 100 per cent on Team Jessy – even if they’re telling me things I don’t want to hear. The fact that we came close to having a serious falling-out at the end of last year has made me even more aware of how much I owe them, and how much I need them. It’s easy to lose your sense of gravity in this business – and they’re like those big clumpy space boots that astronauts use to keep themselves grounded.

I used the landline to call them, and was greeted by a fake Italian accent: ‘Welcome to Luigi’s House of Pancakes and Pain! What may I do you for?’

‘Luke, why aren’t you in college?’ I asked, immediately. He wants to be a sports physio, and is doing his A-levels at the moment. Loosely speaking.

‘Study morning,’ he replied.

‘So you’re sitting in your room playing “Call of Duty”?’

‘Yup! Do you want Dad? Mum’s round at Becky’s, looking after Ollie. And can you get me tickets to the Dua Lipa tour? And can you arrange for me to meet her as well?’

‘Yes, I want to speak to Dad, and no, I can’t get you a date with Dua Lipa. Or maybe I can. I don’t know. Leave it with me.’

‘Cool. I’ll get Dad. He’s watching the Formula 1 highlights and cutting his toenails.’

He left me with that charming and achingly familiar image and, within a few seconds, Dad picked up the phone. He’s a big man, my father, tall and bulky, all of it topped off with a shiny bare head and a face that is usually smiling. He’s known – mainly by himself – as the Bald Eagle, but is actually called Phil. He’s a taxi driver, and has an endless supply of stories, which all start with the same words: ‘I had this bloke/girl/alpaca in the back of my cab the other night. . .’

‘All right, love?’ he said immediately, the roaring sound of cars pointlessly driving round a track floating over the line from the telly in the background. I was struck by an urge to just get on the train and go home. To sit with my dad, and listen to his stories, and feel like everything was right with the world. I’m lucky to have that kind of refuge, that kind of security – and to know that if I wanted to, I could give all of this up, get a job in the local McDonald’s, and go back to being their Jessy. They’d love me just as much.

‘Yeah, all good, Dad. Just wanted to hear your voice.’

‘Oh! Well, that usually means you’re trying to find your way out of a shit storm – what’s wrong? If it’s girl stuff and you want your mum, she’s round at our Becky’s, adoring Prince Ollie.’

‘How’s he doing?’ I asked, smiling at the thought of my chubby nephew.

‘Brilliant. I swear to God he’s put on about a stone in the last week. He’ll be nicking my tins of Guinness before I know it. How’s the world of show business treating you? Saw a picture of you in a copy of Hello! magazine that got left in the back of the cab the other night. Your mother was worried you weren’t wearing enough clothes to keep your circulation going.’

‘Ha! I never wore much more on nights out clubbing in Liverpool either, Dad – it’s just that you never saw a picture of it in Hello! magazine. I’m fine, honest. It’s. . .well, just work stuff. Busy, you know? And. . .well, I’ve had an offer to go and work in the States with someone and I’m not sure what to do about it.’

There was a pause and the sound of the racing cars died down as he used the remote control. I hadn’t intended to talk to him about the America thing – to be honest, I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to talk to him about, but that was the first thing that came out of my mouth. It was better than whingeing on about Jack and Vogue and Daniel. Mum and Dad had a vague idea that something had gone wrong with Jack, but as they’d never known we were a couple – Jack insisted on keeping it a secret, for reasons that later became obvious – they’d also never known the full story.

That was fine by me. The last thing I needed was my dad turning up in his Army & Navy Stores camo trousers and trying to knock Jack’s block off – much as the idea felt appealing right now.

‘How long would you be gone for, then, love? It wouldn’t be permanent, would it?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know at this stage, I’ve only just been asked. Could be a weekend, could be a month. It’s a great opportunity, but, you know. . .’

‘I know. You’d have to leave Daniel, and us, and that’s scary.’

As ever, he’d hit the nail right on the head. He might not have any university degrees to his name, but the Bald Eagle is as sharp as they come.

It was scary – on all kinds of levels. But right then, feeling the way I was about people I’d trusted, it was sounding a bit less scary, and a bit more like an escape hatch.

‘Yeah. Scary. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong, does it?’

‘No,’ he replied, quickly. ‘Sometimes it means it’s right. I was bloody terrified when your mother told me she was pregnant with Becky – and now I’m a doting grandad! I suppose you just have to trust your instincts, love. They’ve never let you down yet.’

He was, of course, wrong on that front. My instincts about Jack had definitely let me down. And, maybe, my instincts about Vogue. I couldn’t quite put Daniel in that category, but I couldn’t deny I was having a bit of a wobble about him either.

‘What does Daniel think about it all?’ he asked, when I didn’t answer him – I was too distracted pondering how crap my instincts were.

‘Well . . . I haven’t told him yet.’

‘That’s where you start, then, isn’t it? He knows you. He knows the business. He’s a sensible lad, and he’ll be honest with you.’

I knew my dad meant well, but it was possibly the worst thing to say right then. Because that was exactly the problem – this whole thing with Jack, with Daniel having his suspicions about it and keeping them to himself, was making me question exactly how honest our relationship was. Plus, on my side, I’d been hiding the Cooper Black thing from him.

I mean, what would our Billy goat Gandalf say about all of that? I think he’d have been disappointed in me for keeping secrets.

‘You’re right, Dad. I’ll speak to him, talk it over.’

‘Good girl. You do that. And whatever you decide, love, you know we’re 100 per cent on your side, don’t you? Always.’

‘Always – I know. Love you, Dad!’

‘Love you too, Jessy. And put more clothes on, all right? You’ll catch your death.’

Obviously, I felt better after that. But not better enough to talk to Daniel, not just yet. Instead, I went down to the basement to find Neale, my stylist and friend. Neale also knows me, and he knows the business, and more to the point, I knew he’d have a secret stash of chocolate, which I desperately needed. Nothing cheers a girl up quite like a KitKat.

I walked into his domain to find him plastered in make-up, listening to R. Kelly being played extremely loud through his speakers.

Now, Neale is gay, but he’s never tried this before – at least not so far as I know. I stared at his multicoloured cheeks and brightly painted eyelids and glitter-coated lips and was lost for words. It all looked very weird – especially as Neale is a short, slender man with close-cropped dark hair and trendy glasses. He looked like he was about to march in the Nerd Pride Parade.

‘Just trying out some new samples!’ he said quickly, turning the music lower and gesturing to all the cosmetics spread out on the dressing table. ‘They all get sent to me for free – honestly, Jess, it’s like a real-life fairy tale!’

OK, I thought, we all have our different versions of happiness, and this was clearly his. I flumped down onto one of the beanbags he had scattered around the still-not-renovated room, and looked at him imploringly.

‘I need chocolate,’ I said.

‘Oh! It’s one of those days, is it? Feeling a little delicate, are we?’

He rooted around in one of the drawers, and handed me a snack-sized Twix.

‘This is rubbish,’ I said, tearing the wrapper off and stuffing half of it into my mouth. ‘There’s only one finger – it goes against all the laws of Twix!’

‘You’d hate me in the morning when you woke up with a zit on your nose. Anyway, wassup? It’s not even lunch-time and you look like someone just decapitated an Andrex puppy in front of you. They didn’t, did they?’

I held my fingers up to tell him to wait for a while – I was too busy eating, drooling, and generally making a chocolatey mess of myself to speak. He started removing some of the slap from his face while he waited for me to finish, and didn’t even look disgusted as I chewed – true friendship.

‘Well,’ I said, eventually, wiping my face with a tissue I swiped out of his hand, ‘no Andrex puppies have been harmed in the making of this morning, as far as I know. But I kind of feel like one myself. There are a few things to mention, so I’ll make a list. First, Vogue has gone and offered Jack Duncan a job here.’

Neale paused, his hand frozen mid-wipe, his face now half rainbow and half clear.

‘No way! Doing what?’

‘Scouting. Managing. Shagging. Whatever it is he does. I know it’s her business, and her call, but still. . .’

‘It makes you feel a bit sick in your mouth?’

‘Yes! Or maybe that’s the Twix, I don’t know. Secondly – and this has to stay between us until I know how she’s playing it – she’s also taken him back.’

‘Back back?’

‘Back back. I practically found them bonking in her office. . .’

This, of course, is a very big overstatement – it’s also distracted Neale, who is now gazing off into the distance, probably imagining Jack Duncan naked. As I’ve said, he’s drop-dead gorgeous – to look at, at least.

‘OK. Well, that’s up to her, I suppose. But I can see why you’re worried. This is all new, and the whole point of In Vogue was to get away from people like Jack, wasn’t it? Even if he is fit enough to win Best in Show at Crufts.’

‘Exactly! And on top of all that, it turns out that Daniel knew about it. Well, kind of knew about it. . .’

Neale pulled another beanbag over and sat by my side. He gave me a quick hug, and then a quick talking-to: ‘What do you mean by “kind of”? You mean he’d heard some gossip?’

‘That’s what he said. He said he didn’t want to repeat it in case it came to nothing, and he didn’t want to upset me.’

‘Well, I can see why you needed chocolate, honey. Daniel loves you to pieces, and there’s no way he’d do anything to hurt you – he was trying to protect you, even if it doesn’t feel like that right now. You know he’s your happy-ever-after, don’t you? I can tell you’re annoyed with him, but you should probably take it down a notch and not do a full-on diva about it. Just because you’re in a couple doesn’t mean you have to tell each other every thought that enters your head, does it?’

He was right, of course. And it wasn’t like I’d been entirely honest either.

‘No, it doesn’t. And while we’re on that subject, what do you know about Cooper Black?’

‘The Cooper Black?’

‘No, the knock-off Cooper Black I got from the market the day I got that Prada handbag for twenty quid. Of course the Cooper Black!’

‘OK, OK, no need to snap your bra hook at me. . .Well, obviously, he’s a mega-babe from another planet. Super-hot right now. And – well, I do know one of his friends, actually, since you asked so nicely.’

‘One of his friends? One of his real friends?’

‘No – one of his knock-off friends I got from the market! Yes, a real friend – JB. He used to be in the band with him. JB’s lovely – can’t sing for shit, mind, but he looks great and he can dance. That’s how I met him.’

‘Out dancing?’

‘Yeah. At that club I took you to once. You remember?’

It was hard to forget – or at least hard to remember, which is the sign of a good night out. It had been the night after my first single launch, when I’d performed with Vogue to a packed crowd of writers, movers, shakers, and my entire family. It had been an incredibly stressful time, not helped by the fact that I had a row with my parents afterwards. I’d needed two things in life that evening: a Big Mac and a carefree night out, and Neale and his pals had kindly provided me with both.

It had been a great night, but it had also left me with one of the worst hangovers in the entire history of hangovers. Tequila, you swine.

It was also, and this I did remember, a gay club – a place Neale told me was discreet, where lots of famous people went when they wanted to be safe from getting papped. JB being there didn’t mean he was gay – I wasn’t – but I could tell from the slightly dreamy expression on Neale’s face that my friend at least hoped he was.

I tried to dredge up an image of JB from his days in the boy band, and finally matched it: he was the bad boy. Cooper Black was all blond handsomeness – the kind of boy you’d take home to meet your parents, sexy but wholesome – and JB was the wild child. Shaggy dark hair, a body to kill for, blue eyes and a wicked grin. In his own way, he’d been just as much of a heart-throb as Cooper.

‘Is he . . . ?’

‘A big flaming queen with sugar and sprinkles on top?’ supplied Neale, laughing at me. ‘Yes, he is – he doesn’t lie about it, but he doesn’t broadcast it either. So be very, very careful to keep your lovely Liverpool mouth shut about it, all right?’

‘Don’t worry, I learned my lesson the hard way!’ I replied, patting him on the thigh to reassure him. I really had, as well – last year, I accidentally ‘outed’ Neale in the press. It had been a masterclass in when to stay silent.

‘Now, I have to ask you why you want to know all this stuff. What’s with you and Cooper Black? Are you crushing on him, you little minx?’

‘No! Yes! Maybe – I mean, I’m only human! But . . . well . . . he’s actually been in touch and asked me to feature on his new single. And maybe do more work with him. And I just don’t know what to do about it – it’s a brilliant idea, but it might mean leaving Daniel. And Vogue. And this place. You know?’

Neale nodded emphatically, making his glasses bobble on the edge of his nose.

‘I can understand that – but, well, wow! If you take all the personal shit out of it, it’s fantastic, isn’t it? The next stop on the Jessika world domination tour! And a huge compliment. . .So, what are you going to do?’

‘Well, this morning, I was thinking no. Then all this crap happened, and I’m thinking maybe yes. But, before I decide, I suppose I’d like to know a bit more about him – what kind of person he is. Whether he’s likely to screw me over. Whether he’s a. . .’

‘Showbiz twat?’

‘Exactly! Because with Jack Duncan back on the scene, I have enough showbiz twattery to handle already. Do you think maybe you could ask JB for me, kind of on the QT?’

‘Darling, I can do better than that – it must be your lucky day! You know I’m your fairy godbrother, right? Funnily enough, JB is in town. Let’s all go out, and you can ask him yourself.’

*

Let’s just say that the night got messy. It started with tequila, Big Macs and dancing. And after a riotous journey around London’s bars and nightspots it was ending, it seemed, with a very competitive game of strip darts.

JB was a larger-than-life character, all hair and piercings and tattoos and muscles. Now the band was history, any constraints he’d previously felt were well and truly gone, and he was living it up in London.

Only ten minutes into the game, he’d already stripped down to just his Calvin Klein boxers and one sock. Neale was doing better, and was merely topless, his sinewy torso pale above his skinny jeans. JB flopped down next to me as Neale prepared to take his turn, his bulky chest glistening with sweat from an earlier dance session dominated by old classics like ‘Ride on Time’, ‘Pump Up the Jam’ and ‘No Limits’. He gave me a sideways grin as we watched Neale nail the double twelve he needed to win. JB stood up, saluted him, and very slowly stripped off his last sock, like he was doing some kind of teasing burlesque routine.

Neale fanned his face in a mock sincerity that I suspected was very much real. It was obviously the sexiest foot he’d ever seen in his entire life.

‘So,’ said JB, taking a big gulp of his Jack Daniel’s and Coke, ‘the thing to remember about Cooper Black is that he’s solid. He’s got this whole all-American jock thing going on, with the perfect hair and the shiny teeth and the wholesome boy-next-door smile, but underneath all that, he’s a solid guy. That’s an act – like my wild boy sex machine was an act.’

I glanced at him – sitting there in his knickers, tendrils of rough black hair curling onto broad shoulders – and suspected that was no act. He was a wild boy sex machine, just not in quite the way most of his fans thought he was.

‘So . . . he’s nice?’ I asked, incapable of forming a more incisive question due to the fact that most of the blood in my veins had been turned into tequila.

‘Yeah, he’s nice, but he’s funny too. Real funny, the guy has a wicked sense of humour. And he’s talented. I can’t sing – I can dance a little and I look good – but Cooper? He’s the whole package. He always wanted to write his own songs, get into better material, but the way the band was marketed held him back. Now he’s going solo, he’ll fly – and his new stuff is awesome. I’ve heard some of it, and you can believe the hype. If he’s asking you to get involved, I’d say go for it. It’s a hell of a chance. Plus, I can tell you two would hit it off.’

Neale sat down on the other side of me, squashing me between the two of them. His legs were vibrating like somebody had wound him up – a clockwork stylist.

‘Plus, you know, think of the nights out!’ Neale said. ‘And the parties! And the outfits!’

If you’d asked me that morning, none of that would have sounded attractive. That morning, I was distressed at the thought of spending even one night away from Daniel and our life together. That morning, the idea of jetting off to the States was a worry, not an opportunity.

Now, though, I was beginning to see things slightly differently. Even setting aside everything that had happened with Jack and Vogue, which had really unsettled me, I’d also had a brilliant night out with these two. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a complete drink-yourself-daft, get-home-with-the-milkman blow out like this.

When I had to, I attended showbiz parties and events – it was part of my job, and I did enjoy it a lot of the time. But it was work – there was pressure to look a certain way, behave a certain way, to not flash my gusset or vomit in a gutter. And behind it all, there was always part of me that just wanted to bin it all off and go home to Daniel, and my other life.

Tonight, though, hadn’t been like that. It had just been fun, pure and simple. Being out with Neale, who I could trust with my life, and JB, who was all kinds of hilarious, was different. It was even, I had to admit to myself, more fun than being with Daniel.

I love my Daniel to bits, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not a party animal. He’s a stay-at-home creature. That’s the way he’s always been, and he isn’t going to change. I wouldn’t want him to change – but maybe, if I’m entirely honest, I did also kind of miss this sort of thing. The daftness of it all. The spontaneity of it. The sheer unadulterated pleasure of a crazy night out with real friends – especially ones who weren’t, at any stage, ever, going to try to stick their hand up my top.

Usually, on my nights away from Daniel, I’m sad. I sit in my flat, after whatever event I’ve been to, and I miss him like crazy. We spend hours talking on the phone or on Skype, and I never feel totally happy until we’re together again. Tonight hadn’t been like that – in fact I’d barely thought about him, or even looked at my phone.

Partly because I was just having so much fun, and partly because when I did think about him, there was a tiny little ‘ick’ feeling making itself present. I wasn’t used to that – we barely even argued, me and Daniel, we were usually so happy and settled together. But no matter how many times I told myself he hadn’t done anything wrong by not mentioning the Jack thing to me, the tiny little ‘ick’ was still there, tinging my thought processes.

The only thing to do in a situation like that, I’ve found, is to get so drunk you don’t have any thought processes at all – and this had been the perfect way of doing that. Plus, you know, I had managed to get the scoop on Cooper Black, and his levels of showbiz twattery – which were, it seemed, superbly low for a man who’d essentially grown up in the spotlight of the music industry, adored and moulded since he was fifteen.

Still, even acknowledging the ‘ick’ had made me feel a bit uncomfortable – and also reminded me that it was almost 5 a.m., and that I hadn’t called Daniel like I’d said I would. That was bad. He didn’t deserve the silent treatment. I needed to get back to my flat and grab a few hours’ sleep before I phoned him and tried to set this right.

I drained the last of my tequila, and turned to Neale. ‘I’m going to get off now,’ I said.

‘Oh Lord, me too! He’s only got his knickers left!’

I followed his gaze to the darts board, and saw JB fail to score yet again as his dart thudded to the ground. He turned towards us, and gave Neale the kind of lazy grin that promised every sin known to man, and then some. I couldn’t help but laugh, and gave my friend a quick cuddle. I had no idea what was going to happen with those two, but I was definitely the spare wheel tonight.

I gathered my belongings – bag, phone, the inflatable hammer we’d somehow acquired during our evening’s adventures – and stood up to leave.

Despite his distracted state, Neale still managed to grab my hand, and issued a strict warning about making sure I got straight into a cab, and didn’t talk to strangers on the way home.

‘Thanks,’ I said, leaning down to kiss the velveteen fuzz of his cropped hair. ‘See you tomorrow.’

By the time I got back to my flat, I was about 50 per cent sober. The cabbie had been chatty, and reminded me so much of my dad I almost had a drunk-girl weep as we bounced over London potholes and braked to avoid hen parties crossing the road in zigzags. I signed his receipt pad for his daughter, and posed for the obligatory selfie, aware that I had now become the star in one of those familiar ‘back of my cab. . .’ stories that I’d grown up hearing. I was just glad I hadn’t puked out of the window, or tripped over the kerb as I got out in front of my building.

When I was signed to Starmaker, I had a big place with views over the city, all paid for by the record label. It was plush and luxurious but completely lacking in soul or anything that made it feel like home. These days, I rented a much smaller but also much nicer place in West London. There was still a doorman – I needed the security, and my dad had insisted – but it’s all a lot less fake and grand.

I fumbled with the key a bit as I let myself in – I was still about 50 per cent drunk after all – and also struggled to get my inflatable hammer through the door. It took a while for the logistical part of my brain, which is never to the forefront to be honest, to realize I had to turn it lengthways rather than widthways, to squash it through.

The first thing that hit me when I closed the door behind me was the smell. It smelled of toast, which immediately made my mouth water. Then I noticed the fact that the lights were off in the living room, and I always leave them on – some kind of hangover from the days when I lived in a much less desirable part of a city, and always wanted to give the impression there was someone home.

I dropped my bag, and hefted my inflatable hammer, taking up a street fighter pose. Or as much of a street fighter pose as you can manage in six-inch heels after eight hours of drinking. I kind of knew the hammer wasn’t actually much help – it wasn’t Thor’s, after all – but it did make me feel a bit better as I tiptoed through the darkened living room, and into the kitchen.

Yep, I was right – someone had been making toast in here. That calmed me down – it seemed very unlikely that a burglar had crept in and popped a couple of slices of wholemeal under the grill while he cased the joint. What calmed me down even more was the fact that the butter was still out – which meant it was probably Daniel.

Much as he is nigh on perfect, he does still suffer from some male traits – like leaving everything scattered over the kitchen counter whenever he’s used it.

I popped the pack back in the fridge – I was my mother’s daughter after all – and crept back through to the living room to check my phone. Sure enough, there were seven missed calls, from both his landline at the farmhouse, and from his mobile.

I was instantly flooded with guilt and regret. I’d been a mean girl, retreating into my shell just because things hadn’t been perfect. It was silly and immature and not the way I wanted to behave. I was suddenly so glad he was here, and slipped off my stupidly high sandals and walked into the bedroom.

He was just a lump under the duvet, but as soon as I entered the room, he shuffled around and sat up. His chest was bare and his blond hair was sticking out at all kinds of strange angles, and he looked totally edible. I froze for a second, feeling ashamed of myself, and also wondering if he was properly awake, because he was looking very confused.

‘Nice hammer,’ he said, squinting at me and wiping his blue eyes clear of sleep.

‘Oh!’ I said, throwing it to the floor. ‘I’d forgotten I had it. . .’

He pulled the covers back, and patted the other side of the bed in invitation. I didn’t need asking more than once, and immediately climbed in and snuggled up against him. We were both quiet for a few moments, settling into the familiar shape of each other’s body, my head laid against his chest, his lips kissing the top of my hair. It felt so good – so natural, and safe, and right, to be back home in more ways than one.

‘Good night?’ he asked, his hands stroking my shoulder reassuringly. I realized that I needed the reassurance – that I had been worried about seeing him again. About whether we’d done any permanent damage, intentionally or not.

‘Great night. I was out with Neale and . . . a friend of his. We played strip darts. Well, they did. I retained my dignity.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ve seen you play darts, I think that pub down the road from our college still has holes in the wall to prove it. You OK? I got worried when I didn’t hear back from you, so I headed here. I needed to tell you in person how sorry I am, about the Jack thing. I know—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, interrupting him, squeezing him tight. ‘None of it matters. I’m just glad you’re here. I didn’t feel right without you.’

‘It does matter, and I need to say it. You know I’d never intend to hurt you, but on top of you seeing Jack like you did, which must have been a shock, you were left feeling like I’d somehow let you down. And I had – even if I did what I thought at the time was the right thing. We shouldn’t have secrets from each other. It’s like keeping secrets from yourself, isn’t it?’

I nodded, and held on to him even harder. He was right – and he hadn’t been the only one keeping secrets, had he? I hadn’t planned on raising the Cooper Black issue tonight – or possibly ever, depending on what I decided to do – but suddenly I felt like I should. I realized that keeping it from him had been eating away at me, and definitely contributing more to the ‘ick’ feeling than I’d given it credit for.

Daniel and I have something special, and hiding things was disrespectful to that. My mum and dad had survived decades, three kids, and a lifetime of hard work – and they’d done it together. If I wanted the same kind of relationship they had, I couldn’t just ignore the difficult stuff and bury my head in the sand. Or even a bottle of tequila.

‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘and there’s something else I need to tell you.’

I felt him tense slightly next to me, and realized how worrying that might sound to a boyfriend whose girl had gone AWOL for the night after an almost-fight.

‘No, nothing like that, I’d never! It’s a work thing, I suppose. I’ve had a proposal from Cooper Black.’

‘Oh. That’s a bit sudden. I can’t blame him for loving you, Jessy, but have you ever even met the guy?’

‘Not that kind of proposal, stupid!’ I replied, poking him in the ribs. He knew that, obviously – he was just trying to lighten the mood. Make things easier for me. One of the many reasons I loved him so very much.

‘He contacted me, and said he wants me to work with him. Do a feature slot on his new single. What do you think?’

Daniel was silent for a few moments – he’s not the kind of person to respond without thinking, unlike me. He’s far more measured and, I suspect, basically intelligent. I sometimes feel like I’m just a set of emotions on legs.

‘Well, I think it’s a great idea,’ he said eventually. I looked up from my nest on his chest, and saw that he was staring off into the distance, chewing his lip, and looking serious. He was thinking through the implications, so I jumped right in – I’d been thinking about them for a lot longer than he had, after all, so I had a head start.

‘I was worried about leaving you. And leaving Vogue. And leaving my family.’

He pondered it for a few more seconds, then said: ‘Well, why would you need to leave us? If it’s just a featuring, then you wouldn’t even need to do it with him, in the States. He could just send over the track and we could record your part at In Vogue, or at home. You’re finishing off your album anyway, so we’ll be practically living in the studio for the next few weeks. It’d be easy. You could do it in your pyjamas.’

‘You really think so?’ I asked, hopefully, propping myself up on one arm so I could see his face properly. Daniel is a terrible liar, which is very much to his credit, and I knew I’d be able to tell if he was bluffing. Happily, he just had his ‘figuring out the solution’ face on, not his ‘covering up bullshit’ face.

‘Yeah, of course. From what I’ve heard, he’s going to be massive. I know the people he’s been working with, and they’re quality. This could be the biggest single of the year, and if you have the chance to be part of it, you should.’

‘But what if it’s more?’ I asked, hearing all the tensions and underlying anxieties pour out in my voice. ‘What if I have to go there to do promo, or launches, or a tour? What if it all grows and grows and turns into a giant octopus that eats all my free time and takes me away from you? It only feels like we’ve been together for five minutes, and we’re just settling into life, and I don’t want to leave you all alone with Gandalf!’

He stared at me, at my frowning expression and hurried words, and did what any sensible person would – burst out laughing.

He sat up, and took my face between his hands, stroking my skin in a way that wasn’t just reassuring, but was starting to be quite distracting. Because, you know, my Daniel is also super-fit – and lying naked in my bed.

‘Jessy,’ he said, firmly, ‘I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I have enough belief in this relationship that I’m not even remotely scared by Cooper Black, or you spending time away, or by a giant octopus. Besides, I have a lot of stuff coming up as well. Vella’s asked me to do her whole album with her. She wants to come and stay at the studio, and get some musicians in, and lay the whole thing down live. That’s another thing I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’

I had, I realized, been acting like a total knob. I’d been worrying myself sick about something that might never even happen, and even if it did happen, not having the faith in me and Daniel to feel OK about it. And I’d been so caught up in my own worries that it never even occurred to me that this was a challenge for him as well – he had his own career to think about, a brilliant career. The whole world didn’t revolve around me.

I’d been tearing myself up about a single I didn’t even have to leave the house to record, and he’d been worried that I’d mind about Vella – one of those funky soul diva types – effectively moving into my territory.

‘Will she stay in the barn with Gandalf?’ I asked, smiling at the thought.

‘I thought about that, but I think she’d be happier in the guest block, don’t you? And she’s cool. You’ll like her. Maybe we can invite Cooper Black over for dinner, and set them up with each other. . .’

I pondered that for a moment. It would possibly be the most showbizzy blind date known to man, assuming they could both cope with a few days in the English countryside. Cooper was from New York, and Vella, as far as I remembered, was from Berlin, so they might be a bit thrown off by the mud and the chickens. Still. It was an amusing idea.

‘Maybe,’ I replied, letting my hand drift from his bare chest to another bare place, beneath the sheets. He responded in an immediate and very flattering manner. ‘And maybe we should just stop thinking about Vella, and Cooper Black, and singles, and albums, and definitely Gandalf, and start thinking about ourselves.’

In one quick move, he had me lying flat on my back, and was undoing the buttons on my top.

‘Or maybe we should just stop thinking altogether. . .’ he whispered, kissing my neck in a way that had exactly that effect.

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