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  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.

  Chapter 27

  ‘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 su
re 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.

  Chapter 28

  I was back at my flat, communing with a large glass of red wine, by the time I plucked up the courage to make that phone call. I don’t know why I was quite so nervous—I kept telling myself I was just calling my old pal Daniel, that it was all normal and fine, but somehow it definitely felt like a Rioja moment.

  Partly it was my own
changing feelings towards him, and not wanting to confront them. Partly it was the fact that calling to ask him a professional favour felt wrong. Somehow, I felt like I was doing Jack’s dirty work for him—which was absolutely bonkers. There was nothing dirty about it at all—in fact, it made perfect sense, and could be a mutually beneficial arrangement for us all. None of which stopped me feeling anxious, as I swirled wine around in my glass so hard it slopped over the edge, and waited for him to answer.

  It went straight to voicemail, which came as something of a relief. I left a garbled message, realising only when I ended the call that I hadn’t even said who was speaking. He’d probably be able to figure it out though—he was used to me sounding insane, after all.

  I put down the phone, drank some more wine, and perched myself on one of the bar stools by the kitchen island. I had a very, very rare night off—and for once, nothing to do with it. Jack was in his meeting—and night time meetings were not at all unusual in our business. Neale wasn’t answering his phone. And, well, that was it, really. I hadn’t exactly vastly extended my social circle since moving to London—at least not with real friends. I’d met possibly thousands of people, especially since becoming Jessika, but nobody I could call casually on a Thursday night and ask if they fancied going to the cinema or going out for a bottle of wine. I didn’t mind that—I rarely had the time anyway, and people who didn’t work in the industry wouldn’t last five minutes as a friend these days. The gap between my life now and my old life—a normal life—was so big, I didn’t think anybody could leap across it without a jet pack strapped to their back. I just didn’t know quite how to behave now I was finally at a loose end.

  I stared at the phone and drank some more wine. Daniel still hadn’t called back—even though it had been literally minutes since I left the message. I did at least manage to laugh at myself as that thought crossed my mind—since when had I started mad-woman-phone-watching about Daniel? I needed to get a grip. He obviously had a life outside precious little me, and I was being a tit by assuming he would just be sitting around, waiting for me to grace him with a phone call.