I'll Be Home For Christmas

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.