Authors: Abbey Clancy
Hmm. That was something of an anti-climax. I knew I should call him—make sure he’d got home okay, make sure we were still cool, make sure there wouldn’t be anything awkward in the air between us—but I couldn’t do it then. I was too tired, and too mentally and physically drained. Instead, I texted him a thumbs-up picture with a couple of kisses after it.
It was the best I could do—and even that was enough to make me wonder what kind of signals I was sending out.
Everything felt too confusing, so I did the grown-up thing—stuck my tongue out at the phone, and got into the bath.
‘W
ow,’ said Jack, lounging around on silk sheets and looking highly amused at the online newspaper article he was reading on his phone. ‘I never had you down as the threesome type, Jess—it opens up all kinds of interesting possibilities!’
As he was stark bollock naked and vulnerable in all types of places, I thought he was taking a bit of a risk winding me up even further, and lobbed a peanut at his crotch in retaliation. It was only a peanut, but he over-reacted in the time-honoured way of men and their crotches, and folded in on himself as though someone had just whacked his crown jewels with a mallet. I’d have felt some sense of satisfaction if it wasn’t for the fact that he was still laughing.
I suppose, to him, it was funny. Seeing a picture of me, clearly asleep, with Ruby and Keith apparently naked in bed next to me—one on either side, and giant grins on their faces.
I had no recollection of it being taken, but it had to have been in the last few months I was in Liverpool, as it involved Keith, and presumably his bloody ever-present selfie stick. I might have found it funny as well, apart from the fact that
the two of them were claiming it was taken after a ‘sizzling threesome’ in our ‘love nest in Liverpool’.
There were other lovely phrases in there as well; the kind of tabloid-eze you read about other people all the time, but which feels ever so slightly different when it’s about you. I was, according to Keith, ‘Obsessed with sex—any time, any place, anywhere.’ I’d apparently talked the two of them into a dirty ménage à trois after a booze-fuelled night out in town, and exhausted them both with my rampant sexual appetite.
I wasn’t entirely sure the photo fitted with that story—as I was fast asleep in my now-famous reindeer onesie, oblivious to the fact that my alleged ‘friend’ and her perverted partner had jumped under the duvet with me.
Jack had, true to his word, arrived at the flat at three p.m., to ‘take me away’. He took me away to a blissful manor house in Surrey, where we were treated like royalty, and were spending a whole ecstatic night in their biggest, poshest suite. It was the kind of place aristocrats and millionaires went for a naughty weekend away, with views over the grounds and roaring log fires and champagne on tap and in-room his and hers massages available. It was the sort of night I’d normally have loved—but this latest little revelation had somehow spoiled it for me.
Patty had sent the link through with a little note saying, ‘Don’t worry—obv crap—warn family but no damage done.’
I wasn’t quite sure what her definition of ‘no damage’ was, but it was very different from mine. I felt embarrassed, humiliated, and angry. Angry that the two of them had ever taken a photo like that in the first place—and angry that they’d
presumably sold it to the paper, and made up such a crock of lies about me.
I was also—underneath all those layers—really, really hurt. I’d known Ruby for so long—almost as long as I’d known Daniel—and I’d trusted her. I’d thought of her as a friend, but she’d obviously moved on and now saw me as a way to make a quick buck, no matter what fibs she told or how much it could affect me. I’d have believed it of Keith in a flash—he was always a sleazy so-and-so—but I was so disappointed in her.
‘Stop fretting,’ said Jack, emerging from his foetal ball once he was sure nothing else was going to get aimed at his manhood. ‘And give me a peanut. I’m starving—you’ve completely worn me out with your rampant sexual appetite, you naughty nympho you.’
I glared at him, but passed the peanuts anyway. I supposed the fact that Jack—who had a lot of vested interest in my reputation and the way it could affect my career—was finding it all so amusing should be reassuring. If he wasn’t worried, maybe I shouldn’t be either.
Except it wasn’t him who’d just had the world’s most excruciating conversation with his father, was it? They’d just landed back at home when I called to warn him what was likely to show up on Luke’s Google alert. It was awful, for both of us. I mean, no dad on the face of the planet wants to hear the word ‘threesome’ coming out of his daughter’s mouth, does he? Especially in relation to a childhood friend he’d known since she was in nursery school.
He’d been shocked when I explained what had happened—or more accurately what hadn’t happened,
ever
—but seemed
to totally, one hundred per cent believe that there was no truth in it, which was a bit of a relief after the last few days. A tiny part of me had been worried he’d add ‘sex maniac’ to the list of fictional faults he seemed to be compiling about me. Trust had taken a bit of a battering on both sides recently, so I was relieved when he accepted my version of events without too much probing—or maybe he was just too embarrassed to pursue it further, who knew? I did know, though, that he’d be in for a lot of ribbing from his cab driver mates, and apologised for the fact that this was now part of our new reality—not that it was my fault, I thought. But it definitely wasn’t his.
After we’d got the issue of group sex out of the way—sighs of relief all round—he went a bit quiet on me.
‘So, have you been in touch with Ruby?’ he asked, after a few seconds of awkward silence. Awkward silence—or in fact, any kind of silence—was not something I’d ever associated with my dad before. ‘Since you’ve been in London, I mean?’
‘Erm … yeah. A bit,’ I said, even though what I actually meant was, ‘No, but I really intended to be—does that count?’ I’d been feeling twinges of guilt about ignoring Ruby myself, but I didn’t want my dad getting in on the act too. I know my family had been a bit peeved at me not being in contact with them often enough—but surely I didn’t have to check in with everyone I’d ever met at any stage in my life every day, did I, just to ensure they didn’t lie about me in the press? If something came with that many strings attached, it wasn’t friendship, surely? Wouldn’t someone who cared about you give you the benefit of the doubt if you forgot to call them for, well, a few months or so?
Part of me had wanted to get straight off the phone to Dad and straight on the phone to Ruby. I’m pretty easy going and don’t have much of a temper, but the diva in me was starting to emerge—and I really felt like tearing a strip off her. It all felt so unfair—not just the story, but the criticism I felt I was getting from my family. They had no idea what pressures I was under, and it felt like they were constantly questioning everything I was doing, as though I was some out of control idiot instead of their now pretty successful daughter.
Jack had talked me out of it, saying, with some justification, that Ruby already knew it was a lie—and she already knew I’d be upset. If she’d not cared enough about me being upset when she sold the story, she still wouldn’t care now, and it could only make matters worse. He’d also held my hand, and said something about dignity, but as I was sitting cross-legged and naked with tears of frustrations running down my face at the time, I didn’t feel I had much of that left.
‘I know, I know,’ I replied, swiping my eyes dry. ‘You’re right. It just … sucks! She even plugged the bloody Princess business in the piece—I dread to think what kind of parties she’ll get asked to appear at now!’
‘That, my sweet little Scouse sex bomb,’ he said, grinning and squeezing my fingers, ‘is part of the price of fame. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. People you think you can trust turn out not to be trustworthy. People you think care about you only care about themselves. Being famous doesn’t automatically make everything right—sometimes quite the opposite, in fact. Things like this, though? Don’t worry about them. Anyone with half a brain can see that picture is a set up,
and Patty’s right to tell you to ignore it. She’ll set you up with some positive interviews tomorrow that will offset it, so don’t worry. It’s all under control—might even be good for you.’
He’d climbed out of bed by that stage, which was helping me not worry a little bit—no matter how many times I saw it, I still found the sight of Jack’s bare backside parading around in front of me very distracting. I’m deep like that.
‘Anyway,’ he said, reaching into his leather overnight bag, ‘forget about it for a while. I’ve got a present for you. Surely that’ll make everything in Jess-world all better?’
‘I’m not seven, Jack!’ I bleated, defensively, but reached out and grabbed for the box anyway. He laughed as he held it out of reach for a few seconds, then gave in and let me take it. As I was naked as well, and I think he was enjoying all the jiggling.
When he finally gave in and let me win, I came away with a beautifully gift-wrapped box, diplomatically too big to inspire any embarrassing ‘OMG-is-it-an-engagement-ring!’ moments. It was criss-crossed with shiny silver ribbon, and was almost too pretty to open. Almost.
Within seconds, I’d torn it to pieces, and was holding in my hand an absolutely gorgeous pendant and necklace. The chain was long and fine and gold, and draping from it was a small but perfectly formed heart-shaped stone that looked like emerald. It glowed and shone as I spun it around, admiring the way it had been carved and cut, and it was just about the most gorgeous and unusual thing I’d ever seen.
‘Well,’ said Jack, smiling down at me. ‘Do you like it? I had it made specially for you. It’s an emerald.’
‘That’s my—’
‘Birthstone,’ he finished for me, reaching out and sweeping the hair off my shoulders before fastening the chain around my neck. ‘I know.’ He dropped a couple of slow, sensual kisses on my bare skin, making me shiver as he let my hair fall back into place.
For once in my life, I was pretty much lost for words. Not only had he bought me such a stunning present, he’d been thoughtful enough to make it something that was deeply personal to me. I’d not had a birthday since we’d met, but he’d gone to the trouble of finding out, and arranging this amazing gift for me. It was utterly, completely sweet, and I didn’t know what to say.
In the end, I went with a timeless classic ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome, Jess,’ he said, holding the emerald in the palm of his hand as it dangled between my breasts. ‘I wanted to show you how much you mean to me. Just don’t wear it out in public—you’re supposed to be single and looking for love, remember?’
I nodded. I remembered. And now I felt guilty for even having a moment’s doubt about us; and even more guilty for having a moment’s doubt about Daniel, and whether he could ever be more than a friend.
I leaned forward and kissed Jack with more conviction than I’d ever felt. I might have to pretend I was looking for love in public—but right at that moment, there was no one else around, and I felt like I’d already found it.
‘I
’m just … not sure. What do you think?’ I said.
‘I think it could work, but I also think I want you to love it,’ replied Jack, pressing the play button again.
Vogue’s single—featuring little old me—was on target for hitting number one in the download charts, and as a result, I’d had shedloads of publicity. Quite literally, if you printed it all out, it could probably fill a shed. Albeit a small one, like my dad’s in the back yard, which he only actually used to sneak the occasional ciggie.
I’d been doing non-stop interviews for days now, starting in the car when we were driving back from Surrey. One of them in particular had been entertaining—a journalist who’d seen some pictures of me and Neale (I guessed it was Neale once she described him, and added the immortally classy line, ‘You look as though you’re standing outside McDonald’s unwrapping a burger’), and asked if it was my new boyfriend!
I’d explained that no, he was my stylist and very much not interested in me (or any girls) in that kind of way, although he was one of my best friends, and reiterated the company line: Pop Sensation Jessika is Still Looking for Love.
As I uttered the words—well, not those ones precisely, I hadn’t been so far sucked into the crazy that I actually talked in headlines—Jack had one hand on the steering wheel, and one hand on my inner thigh, which he was stroking in a very distracting fashion. He knew exactly what he was doing, and had a big, daft, arrogant grin plastered over his face as his fingers played against my skin. Somehow I got through the interview without choking with laughter, and we ended up pulling over into a picnic area for a shag. We’d be back in London, and back pretending, before long, so we had to make the most of it.
That was four days ago, and it had been hard to find time to be together since. I was on an action-packed schedule of TV interviews, recording for podcasts, making video clips for online pop sites, radio pre-records, and photoshoots. Patty had every minute of every day tied up, and paraded me at parties and functions every night as well. It was exhausting, as usual, but at least I didn’t also have to deal with a single launch, a gig, and my family as well.
What I did have to deal with was finding my own single. And my own album. And my own sound. Starmaker had decided that I needed to get something recorded, and get something out there, as soon as possible—ideally in the New Year. It made sense: they needed to capitalise on the fact that I was riding the crest of a fame-wave, and start to establish me in my own right, instead of constantly recycling my association with Vogue.
That, much as I was grateful for the opportunity, had served its purpose—and I didn’t want to be ‘Vogue featuring
Jessika’ any longer than I needed to be. I wanted to be Just Jessika—master of my own fate, captain of my own ship, dominatrix of my own destiny … all of which sounded great. The only problem was, I was fairly sure a dominatrix of her own destiny didn’t keep muttering weedy lines like, ‘I’m not sure, what do you think?’
Darren and James, the in-house Starmaker songwriting team, had come up with several songs for me. One of them I rejected straight away, as it was way too steamy. I mean, I don’t mind a bit of raunch, and I can bump and grind in a dance routine with the best of them—but fresh from my Ruby and Keith inspired humiliation, I didn’t think anything too saucy was going to quite work for me.
‘I can’t sing that!’ I’d said immediately, blushing.
‘What? Why?’ Darren had asked, looking genuinely confused.
‘I can’t sing “I want to go down, go down, go down to your love basement”! I just can’t—I’m not 50 Cent! I’d never be able to look my mum and dad in the eye again, or even talk about it in interviews without going red!’
He’d taken one look at my flame-red cheeks and obviously decided I had a point.
‘All right, fair enough … I’m sure we can find someone it suits. And I can almost imagine the video, can’t you?’
I could—and it involved an awful lot of dry ice and low lighting and a huge, massive orgy. Not my scene.
The other two songs weren’t X-rated, thank goodness, but they didn’t have the X factor either. They were nice, with good choruses and big hooks and mainly nonsensical lyrics
that vaguely referred to heartbreak and pain, but neither of them made me whoop with joy, and scream, ‘This is the one!’
I’d recorded demo tracks of them both in the studio, though, and had spent the last hour listening to them and discussing them with Jack, while we pecked away at a Chinese takeaway and surreptitiously played footsie under the table. Jack had told me there were security cameras in most of the Starmaker studios and rehearsal rooms, so we couldn’t risk anything more obvious—not unless we wanted to look like the video to that song I’d rejected, anyway.
After listening to both songs more times than either of us wanted to, they still didn’t feel quite right—but I was conscious that time was running out and that, eventually, the pressure would build to the point where I’d just have to choose one and get on with it, or let the moment pass and potentially regret it for the rest of my life.
‘I don’t love it,’ I said, pushing my food around with chopsticks, and wishing I was allowed to eat white rice. I’d had a couple of days off my eating regime, with no noticeable weight gain—it wasn’t like I’d turned into the incredible twenty-five-stone woman overnight or anything. But I’d also stopped the incessant dance training and rehearsals that I’d had before the single launch, so I needed to be careful. ‘I don’t love it, no. But how important is that? Can’t I just pretend to love it?’
‘Of course you can,’ replied Jack; one side of his mouth quirked up in an amused grin. ‘Acting is part of the job. But with your first single, with the first songs we get together for your album, it would be better to find something you genuinely feel good about. This is important—it sets the tone for the
rest of your career, Jess. I know everything’s felt rushed and impromptu so far—mainly because it
has
been rushed and impromptu—and that we’re now pushing you to record, and that must feel rushed as well.
‘But there is a long term future for you in this industry, I have every faith in that. You’re already famous—but I believe you can truly be a star.’
I leaned back in my seat and smiled at him. That sounded familiar—and I must have done something right in a past life to find two men who believed in my talents to such an extent.
‘Daniel always used to say that,’ I said, and wondered why he looked a bit confused. ‘I mean Wellsy,’ I added.
Jack just nodded, and looked momentarily distracted—as though he was now thinking about something else entirely. For a split second I thought I’d made him jealous—that something in the tone of my voice had given away the fact that my new feelings about Daniel were, to put it simply, weirding me out.
‘Right. Wellsy. We’ve been in talks, you know,’ he said. ‘About him joining Starmaker. We wanted him before, but since you arrived on the scene, we want him even more. I have to be honest—I think the only reason he’s even considering it is because of you, Jess. You’re very much the carrot.’
‘Wow. Comparing me to a vegetable—how sexy.’
I paused, pretended to be looking at my food, while I gathered my thoughts. I wasn’t sure how I felt about all of this. About Daniel, and about him potentially being tempted to join Starmaker because of me. Daniel had always been independent, always avoided crowds or gangs or much social
engagement at all. From what I’d seen of him, that hadn’t changed—he might work in the music industry, extremely productively it seemed, but he did it on his own terms. He lived in the countryside, he had a non-existent online profile, and he worked only with clients he hand-picked. He was a silent industry megastar—succeeding by stealth.
He also seemed happy with that. Did I want to be involved in some kind of plan to persuade him out of a lifestyle that clearly suited him? Was I being arrogant to assume I even could, despite what Jack had just said? And was part of me a tiny bit concerned that being holed up in small studio spaces with my magically transformed childhood friend and now megahunk might result in me embarrassing myself by throwing him up against a wall and snogging his face off?
‘Carrots,’ replied Jack, obviously unaware of my internal monologue, ‘are the most erotic of all the vegetables. Fabulously phallic. Anyway—it’s true. I think he has almost as much faith in you as I do.’
I met his eyes, and nodded.
‘Yes. He always has had. We’ve known each other a long time, and he wrote this school show when we were teenagers. He did everything, the story, the tunes, the lyrics, the lighting.’
‘Hmmm. I’d heard on the grapevine that he also writes. None of the people he’s worked with have ever publicly credited him on their songs, but there have been rumours. Rumours that he doesn’t just produce—he gets stuck in on the songwriting as well. I was actually wondering if that might work for you. Clearly, this material isn’t right—perhaps some time with Wellsy, I mean Daniel, might help? You have history,
as you say. Perhaps we could persuade him to come up with something for you to record?’
I stared at him blankly for a moment. Of course Daniel wrote songs. At least, I assumed he still did—although to be fair, the last song he’d written for me involved a cheerleader outfit and space aliens. He’d always had a real knack for melody and words, even as a teenager. And he knew me so much better than Darren and James and, in reality, even Jack. I trusted him to come up with something I
would
love—but all of my doubts were still there, lurking in the background, no matter how perfect a solution it sounded to Jack.
‘Has he said he would?’ I asked, frowning.
‘Well, no … not yet. In fact, I was wondering about that. I think it would really help with our negotiations if you could talk to him, personally. I could give you his number, and you could give him a call?’
I realised as he said it that he still assumed I didn’t have Daniel’s contact details. Because he hadn’t passed them on, had he, despite saying he would? Either he’d forgotten about it, or he’d been waiting to use it strategically. Much as I was smitten with Jack, I was under no illusions that when it came to his work, he could be as devious and ruthless as he needed to be. It was hard to make it in the music business by purely being Mr Nice Guy—which is what made Daniel’s rise and rise even more amazing.
‘Erm … maybe?’ I said, eloquently. In truth, I felt odd about all of it. I kept in contact with Daniel, but it was usually texts or emails. We hadn’t actually spoken since the night of the single launch, when he’d seen me in major-league meltdown
with my family, and, I suspected, looking at him like he was chocolate. I didn’t think it was one sided—I think he’d felt that way too—but it was still a bit embarrassing. It still felt uncomfortable—it was a bit like suddenly fancying your stepbrother or something. Not illegal, but pretty weird.
Obviously, Jack had absolutely no idea about any of that. He assumed, correctly, that there had never been anything between Daniel and I other than friendship. And he probably also assumed, not quite so correctly, that I only had eyes for him.
‘Brilliant! Look, I’ve got to go—I’ve got a meeting. But will you let me know how it goes? What he says?’
I agreed, and stayed all smiles as he prepared to leave, walking with him as far as the lobby. No kisses, obviously, other than the ubiquitous showbiz peck on both cheeks, which was perfectly acceptable for a music exec and his client. For once, I didn’t mind—I had a lot to think about, and a phone call to prepare for.