Читать книгу Remember My Name: A glamorous story about chasing your dreams - Abbey Clancy, Abbey Clancy - Страница 12

‘It’s not working!’ Patty screeched at me, throwing a pen at my head. It bounced off my cheek, leaving a faint dent, and landed on the plush cream-coloured carpet.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, rubbing at my face. It had hit me with the pointy end and felt a bit sore. Much like the rest of me.

‘Don’t stand there gawping—just get me another one! And get me some coffee while you’re at it!’ said Patty, fixing me with that glare she had. The one she’d stolen from Cruella de Vil. Patty was about the same age as me, but had clearly been taking Bitch Lessons for the whole of her life. She was part of the Starmaker PR department, but the way she behaved, you’d think she was the Mayoress of London. Possibly the universe.

As far as I could see, she spent the whole day tweeting on behalf of the company, drafting crap press releases, and schmoozing with tabloid journalists. Her idea of a scoop was getting a picture of Vogue on the celeb gossip pages as she bought sexy underwear, or did her weekly shop in Tesco, to show she was ‘just like the rest of us’. Half the time the pictures were a complete set up as well—something I’d not realised before I started my dream job.

Patty called the paparazzi and told them what the day’s activities were for Starmaker’s biggest acts, and they did the rest, turning up ‘unexpectedly’ with their cameras. I suppose it was a deal that worked for everyone—the celebs had warning, so they could make sure they had their slap on and were wearing knickers (or not) as they climbed out of their limos, and the photographers got their ‘exclusive’ shots. And Patty? She just got more annoying every time she pulled it off.

It was a whole new world—which, even as I thought it, I realised I was still singing in my head as the Disney song from Aladdin. This whole new world, though, was a lot less princess and a lot more pain in the arse.

I’d been here for a month. A whole month of effort and hope and hard work—and I was still getting pens lobbed at my head and I was still making coffee for the PR team.

I ambled off to the stationery cupboard to get Patty a new biro, then made my way to the break room to get her coffee. I fought the urge to spit in it, and looked around at my alleged work colleagues.

There were a few of the other ladies from the PR team, all having high level meetings that seemed to involved sharing the crumbs of one chocolate croissant between three of them as they slagged off everyone else they worked with. There was Dale, the Starmaker dance teacher and choreographer—who did at least give me a smile and a cheery thumbs up as he pranced past in his tights, swigging a blue Powerade. There were a couple of suits from what was always mysteriously known as Legal. And there was Heidi, Jack Duncan’s assistant.

She was the best of a bad bunch, and walked over to chat to me as I waited for the coffee to brew. Patty was very particular about her coffee. No instant. Nothing from the coffee pot. It had to be made with her very own cafétière, using her own poncy blend she paid a fortune for and tasted exactly the same as Nescafé.

‘Hey,’ said Heidi, staring at me from behind her trendy red-framed glasses. ‘You’ve got a bit of a smudge …’

She pointed at my face, and I licked my thumb and rubbed at it. Ha. The pen had been working, after all.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘She threw a pen at me. Apparently, it was my fault it ran out.’

Heidi pulled a sympathetic face and leaned back against the counter, her larger-than-average bottom spreading out over the cupboard doors.

‘Chin up, chuck,’ she said, in the fake Scouse voice she always threw into our conversations. I got that a lot—people telling me to ‘calm down, calm down’, making jokes about me stealing their hub caps, and generally behaving as though people from Liverpool were some exotic foreign animal they’d never encountered before. I’d never even been aware of how strong my accent was until I lived in London. Now, it seemed to be the only thing about me that people remembered. That and the fact that I made the coffee.

Heidi, at least, didn’t mean any harm by it, so I just smiled. I was having to do that a lot lately. Just take a deep breath, and smile, and try not to swear or punch anyone. It didn’t come naturally.

‘Jack says are you okay with your schedule this week, by the way,’ she added, getting a packet of chocolate Hobnobs out of the cupboard. One of the few perks of working at Starmaker was the free snacks and drinks. Unfortunately, I’d already been told I had to make sure I didn’t put any weight on, so even that was off limits for me. I’m a size ten, but that was considered a bit on the plus side, so the joys of living above the best kebab shop in North London, and the cupboard choc-full of biscuits, were lost on me.

To be honest, the joy of pretty much everything was lost on me right then.

I nodded to let Heidi know I was okay with my schedule, and she trotted off, stuffing a Hobnob in her mouth as she went.

My schedule was … knackering. I’d never been so tired in my entire life. Jack had held true to his part of the bargain, but it wasn’t quite the dream lifestyle I’d imagined. More of a living nightmare, in fact. I got into the office at half nine, and spent the whole day being treated like something the PR team would scrape off their shoe after a walk on Hampstead Heath. I made their coffee, fetched their lunch, did their photocopying, collected their press cuttings, made their hair appointments, and provided target practice for their pen-throwing workshops.

I wasn’t allowed to answer their phones, or meet their guests at reception, or deal with the public in any way—because, as Patty had put it, ‘Nobody will understand a word you say—you practically speak a foreign language.’

If I was lucky, I got to shadow them in meetings, which allowed me to at least get to know a few people in the rest of the business, and get an idea of how things worked. And the way things worked was … badly.

I’d never come across so many egos and divas and prima donnas in my life—and that wasn’t even the performers. Everyone here thought they were a star, or at least thought they should be treated like one. Even the cleaners had a habit of singing while they emptied the bins, presumably hoping that someone would hear them warbling Whitney Houston tracks, and say ‘Now, that’s what I call music …’

The only genuine star I’d met was Vogue, and ironically she was adorable—probably the least up-her-own-bum of everyone I worked with. She certainly couldn’t beat Patty for being a rude cow, she always remembered my name, and she never threw anything at my head. She’d even complimented me on my singing when she’d heard me one night.

The singing that I would get to do after a full day’s work in the office. I usually finished at about six—when the others would go off to wine bars and parties and glitzy functions, and I’d stay behind, like Cinderella being banned from the ball. Maybe I was too fat and too Scouse to be allowed on the guest list.

After that, the rest of my work schedule would start—and from six until nine I’d get to do the stuff I’d come all this way for. The stuff I’d left my family for. The stuff that the dreams really were made of.

I’d see Dale in the dance studio and learn steps to the routines he was choreographing for Vogue and the other A-listers on the label. I’d see Frankie, the vocal coach, and spend an hour gasping for air and doing freaky voice exercises and perfecting my runs and pretending I was Mariah Carey. I’d see Neale, the junior make-up guy, who seemed to be as low down the ladder as I was, and ‘we’d gossip as danced around to R.Kelly’s She’s Got That Vibe, Neale showing off the moves he still had from his time as professional dancer. And maybe—when there was time available—I’d get to go into one of the studios and work with a producer. That didn’t happen too often, but when it did, it was absolutely the best bit of all.

Standing there, alone, in that darkened booth, headphones on and singing my heart out, was what made it all worthwhile. It was the same feeling I used to get when I sang the princess routines—I could shut everything else out, and lose myself in the song. Go to my happy place.

So far, I’d only done Vogue songs and a few covers—nobody was writing new tunes for the PR slave, let’s face it. But it still made it all worthwhile—it gave me a delicious taste of what it might all be like, one day. One day that I had to hope—had to believe—would arrive soon.

If it didn’t, I might just shrivel up and die, and they’d find me in the stationery cupboard one morning, like a slug that had been sprinkled with salt.

After all of that, at the end of my typical day at Starmaker, I’d trail my poor, exhausted body back out through the office. Down the plush corridors lined with framed platinum discs. Past the dark studio booths. Through to reception, with its vases full of lilies and spotlessly clean mirrored furniture, to the glamorous chrome spiral staircase, its curving walls decorated with enormous blown-up pictures of the talent on the label’s roster. When that mysterious ‘one day’ arrived, I’d be up there too—I had to believe that. I had to believe that Annie was right, and tomorrow was only a day away.

Most nights, I’d walk as quickly as I could to the Tube station, hunch down, and push my way onto the Northern Line. It had taken me a while to get used to the fact that nobody spoke to each other—in fact people looked at you as if you had a screw loose if you even made eye contact with them. It was a lot different in Liverpool, where you could get someone’s whole life story over a burger on the night bus. Here, I’d learned to hide behind a magazine, or spend the whole journey checking my phone while I listened to music on ear phones—which was about as much fun as it sounds.

It was only a few stops to Kentish Town at least, where I lived in an extremely glamorous studio apartment. Or, if you wanted to be more accurate, a one-room bedsit above a kebab shop, where the most exciting thing to happen was the mouldy pattern on the ceiling slowly changing shape because of the leak in the roof.

Once I was home—and once I’d managed to get past Yusuf, the shop owner and landlord, who talked so much he made up for the rest of London—I’d collapse. I’d watch telly, or read, or stand in front of my fridge, staring into it, wishing there was more food and that I was allowed to eat it if there was.

I’d be in bed by eleven, going over the high points of the day and trying to stuff the low points to the back of my mind, where they belonged. Between seeing Yusuf and getting into work the next morning, I wouldn’t speak to a single living soul—and then it would just be Patty screaming at me because her tights had laddered, and it was all my fault.

Other nights, though, it would be different. Very different.

So different, in fact, that it was a bit like I had a foxier twin sister who’d been stolen at birth, and lived a completely opposite life to mine.

Because on those other nights, Jack Duncan would message me, and arrange to meet me nearby. He’d have his flashy little Audi, and he’d be wearing beautifully crisp white shirts, and his hair would be artfully flopping across his handsome face, and he’d smell completely fantastic, not like a kebab at all.

On those nights, my life would be very different. They’d involve romantic dinners and long chats over expensive wine and lingering kisses that made my toes curl up in excitement.

Because, yes—Jack Duncan did, in fact, seem interested in getting his leg over. And he was starting to make me think it was a really excellent idea.