Remember My Name (20 page)

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.

Instead, on a whim, I picked up the phone and flicked through my contacts. Vogue had given me her new number the week before, and I quickly typed up a message. What did we ever use thumbs for before texting? We all use them so much
now. Maybe some weird evolutionary thing will happen, and we’ll all grow giant sized thumbs over the next thousand years. And maybe, I pondered, I should stop drinking so much wine.

‘Are you around?’ I typed. ‘If so, fancy a drink? No worries if not.’

I added a few kisses, pressed Send, and then almost jumped out of my skin as the phone immediately started to ring.

I steadied myself on the counter, glad I hadn’t actually fallen off my bar stool (it had happened before, and would probably happen again), and looked at the screen. Daniel. Calling back. That was good. That was fine. That was excellent. That was … probably a reason to hit Answer?

‘Hi? Jessy? Did you leave me a message?’ he said, the line a little crackly. Maybe he didn’t have a good reception out in the middle of his cow field.

‘Hi! Yes, that was me—I kind of forgot to say who it was, didn’t I?’

‘You did, but it wasn’t hard to figure out—for a start, it sounded like you, and secondly, my missed calls came up with your name. I’m a genius like that. How are you? Is everything all right?’

‘Of course everything’s all right—do I need a reason to call you?’

‘No, you don’t
need
one. I just wondered if you
had
one. Last time I saw you was … well, you were having issues with your family.’

And we were both having issues with each other, I silently added. If I’d had even one more glass of wine, it probably wouldn’t have been so silent.

‘I think me and my folks are as good as we can be at the moment to be honest. Work in progress, I suppose you’d say. But … well, now I feel bad, ‘cause I actually do have a reason for calling. In fact, I’m calling to talk to Wellsy.’

‘Oh. Right. Hang on a second,’ he said. I heard the phone bumping around, and a few mysterious noises that I couldn’t quite figure out.

‘Okay. I’m ready now,’ he said, back on the line.

‘What were you doing?’ I asked, unable to resist.

‘I was putting my baseball cap on backwards, so I looked more street,’ he replied, making me burst out laughing.

‘You’re a knob, Daniel.’

‘True. But you’re talking to Wellsy now. What can I do for you? No, actually, let me guess—Jack Duncan asked you to call me, didn’t he?’

‘Um … yeah. How did you know?’

‘Educated guess,’ he said. ‘Based on the fact that we’ve been in talks about me joining Starmaker, and he’s been using you as the—’

‘Please don’t say carrot!’

‘As the aubergine,’ he finished, again making me grin. Sometimes I forgot how silly Daniel’s sense of humour was, and how much fun it could be acting as though I was seventeen again.

‘Well, you’re kind of right,’ I said, grimacing a bit at even discussing Jack with him. As far as I knew, Daniel had no idea about me and Jack, which was the way I needed it to be for all kinds of reasons. But I still felt off for keeping secrets from him.

‘Oh, you
are
an aubergine?’

‘No! Look, Jack did ask me to call. But it’s not just about you joining Starmaker. He, well, we, were wondering if you’d be interested in working with me on some songs.’

‘Producing?’ he asked.

‘No. Yes. Maybe. But on songwriting. I’ve spent the last few days listening to crap, and recording tracks I don’t even like, and now they say they want to get something out by late January and we still don’t have a single. I’ve kind of lost my way with it all, to be honest—I’m not even objective any more about what kind of stuff I should be singing.’

‘You should be singing soulful mainstream pop music that can make people feel real emotions, but can also be remixed into dance versions for clubbers.’

‘Oh. Right. See? You make it all sound so simple—you always did know what was best for me.’

‘That’s true,’ replied Daniel, and I could almost see his grin. ‘I don’t know how you’ve coped without me for the last few years.’

‘Mainly by singing Disney songs and having threesomes with Ruby and her ugly boyfriend.’

‘I saw that. I believed it might be an untruth.’

‘Very much so. Neither of them is my type,’ I said.

‘And what
is
your type these days, Jess?’

There was a distinct change in the tone of his voice as he asked that question. Not quite flirtatious, but definitely … interested. Curious. I bit my lip as I tried to figure out how to answer it, not even sure what the answer was. My ‘type’
should
be Jack, end of—but here I was, chatting and laughing
with Daniel, and wondering just how it would go if I simply said, ‘Tall, blond, handsome Daniels are my type at exactly this moment—so come up and see me some time.’

‘Oh, you know,’ I replied, far too much of a chicken to actually say that at all. ‘The usual. Anyone who can cook, and ideally runs their own off-licence.’

‘That’s very practical. Let me know if you meet the bakeoff booze-buster bachelor of your dreams any time soon. And as for the song writing … yes, I still write. Or I help other people with their stuff, anyway. It’s been a while since I came up with something totally new. I suppose I was waiting for the inspiration to strike.’

‘Maybe I could strike you with some inspiration,’ I replied. ‘God knows, I’m desperate enough to strike you with whatever you want, Daniel. You know I’ve always wanted this, and I feel like I’m on the very verge of it all working out. I just need a bit of help. And I’d love to work with you again—our last collaboration was out of this world.’

‘I remember. I think, in fact, my mum still has a video of it somewhere. Look, I’d like to work with you as well Jess—I feel like fate brought us back together for a reason. I’m just not completely sure about what I’ve got going on, and whether Starmaker is the right fit. To be honest, the only thing I like about the deal is the aubergine.’

‘What about Vogue? You’d get to work with her as well.’

‘And I wouldn’t mind that—I love her stuff, and I know she’s treated you well. But I’ve never signed an exclusive deal with any label, and I need to give it some thought. Talk it through with the cows, that kind of thing.’

‘You mean Ruby? How apt!’

‘I know. She gave me a wink the other day. I was quite worried she was about to tell the tabloid press I’d been fiddling with her udders. Anyway—leave it with me. I know you need a decision, and I won’t drag it out. I would like to do more songwriting. You always loved the limelight and I always hated it. We were the perfect team, and maybe we could be again. Give me a few days, all right?’

‘All right,’ I replied. ‘That’s the best I could have hoped for. So, now that’s out of the way, what are you up to tonight? Anything exciting?’

‘I’ve got a date actually,’ he said, then waited a beat. ‘With my mum and dad. They’re coming over for a long weekend—the B&B’s always quiet at the start of the month, and gets busier around Christmas, so they’re taking a break.’

‘Well that’s great,’ I answered, keeping my voice even, ‘give them all my love and we’ll speak soon.’

As we said our goodbyes and hung up, I realised my hands were trembling. Too much wine. Too much adrenalin. Too much of a pause between him saying he had a date, and explaining who with. For those few seconds, my heart felt like it literally plunged down into my stomach, where it bounced around in an alcoholic slush, feeling sad and lonely and devastated.

I had absolutely no right to feel jealous of Daniel having a date, I knew. I was seeing Jack. Daniel and I weren’t involved. And why on earth wouldn’t he have a date? He was a successful music producer, drop-dead gorgeous, and an all-round lovely
bloke. He was a total catch and, as his friend, I should want him to be happy.

I told myself all of this over and over again, and it was about as effective as a chocolate fireguard. I was saying it, but I wasn’t feeling it. Frankly, I had no idea what was going on with me—I was a mess. Normally, I’d talk about it to Ruby or Becky and let it all out. But Ruby wasn’t exactly my bestie right now, and Becky had enough going on, what with creating the next generation of Malones and all. There was still no reply from Neale to the messages I’d sent, which was just plain weird—he was usually so good at getting back to me.

I glanced at my phone again and noticed that there was in fact a message waiting. I saw that it was from Vogue, and swiped it open.

‘I’m bored too. Got a new Jacuzzi. Bring bikini and booze.’

After that there was a link to a street in central London and her address.

Excellent, I thought. I might not be able to pour out all my woes about Daniel, Jack, and my pathetic little love life, but I could at the very least talk to her about music—and get mightily drunk while I did.

‘H
ey, babes!’ said Vogue, opening the door to her townhouse and ushering me into the hallway. ‘Welcome to my humble abode!’

I walked through the door, gave her a hug, and clinked my heavily laden carrier bag at her.

‘That sounds promising,’ she said, grinning. ‘Come on through.’

I followed her down the hall, which was lined with her platinum discs in frames, and photos of her with everyone from Boris Johnson to Mariah Carey. The house was one of those tall, thin four-storey affairs, tucked away in a quiet side street that was lined with parked Jags, Porches, and Audis. Every home was perfectly painted white, every front courtyard displaying perfectly manicured plants and potted bushes, and every door festooned with a perfectly polished brass knocker, and, in some cases, equally perfect Christmas wreaths.

It wasn’t, in short, the kind of street you wandered down at four in the morning eating a kebab and singing ‘I Will Survive’ with your mates. Even as my cab had dropped me off, I noted security guards parked up in a van on the corner,
and knew I was being watched. Luckily, I mustn’t have looked threatening. Unless you counted the carrier bag—that was a weapon of mass sobriety destruction all by itself. All it needed to go off was a couple of bored pop stars.

‘Your home is gorgeous, Vogue,’ I said, following her through to the kitchen and open plan dining area. I think it probably would have been called an ‘entertaining space’ in the estate agent’s brochure—all shining marble and black leather and chrome. To be honest, not a million miles away from the sleek modern interior design of my own flat. I wondered briefly if it was, in fact, one of Starmaker’s corporate holdings.

‘Oh gawd,’ she said, popping open one of the bottles of wine and pouring it into two enormous glasses. Looked like she meant business. ‘Please call me Paulette. Vogue’s my work name, and I don’t want to feel like I’m working right now. I’ve had it with work—with interviews, appearances, the lot. I’m knackered.’

‘I feel your pain,’ I replied, hopping onto a stool and accepting the glass from her. ‘I’m only the office junior compared to you, and I’m knackered as well. Still, looks like we could end up as … you know …’

‘Number one in the hit parade? I know. And don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful. I don’t take anything for granted in this business. But it’s not quite as exciting when you’ve already had over twenty number ones, which again, I know, sounds arrogant. But it’s not, I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that as time goes by, you start to realise how much you’ve given up for those wins. I’m a veteran now, by pop music standards, and I’m … tired. Not so sure I made the right choices. Apart
from these big glasses, which were an excellent choice—nice wine, Jess!’

‘Thanks. I can’t take credit. I just picked the one with the prettiest label. And, well, you don’t look like you’ve lost much. You have this amazing home at least.’

‘This isn’t my home,’ she replied immediately, which I found a bit confusing. I mean, I know I’d already had a couple, but this definitely looked like it was her house. Either that or I was sitting with the world’s best Vogue impersonator, surrounded by stalker photos.

‘What I mean is,’ she continued, ‘it’s my house, but it’s not my home. I bought this because I needed somewhere central for work, and I was told it was a solid investment. It’s good for when I need to have parties, or those “at-home-with-Vogue” photoshoots where I recline on my sofa and look sexy and stuff … but it’s not my home. That’s still in Peckham.’

‘With your mum and dad?’

‘And my little sister Simone. The one who was ten a while ago. This is her.’

She picked up her phone, and did the usual faffing around getting into her photo album, before holding up the screen to show an adorable little girl with elaborate cornrows in her hair. Her huge, dark eyes were sparkling with mischief, and she looked like an absolute bundle of the best kind of trouble.

‘She’s gorgeous,’ I said, smiling at the picture. ‘She looks so happy.’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Vogue—I mean Paulette—putting the phone down but still staring at the screen wistfully. ‘She is. She’s a really happy kid. I wanted them all to move in with me, not
necessarily here—anywhere. As soon as I had the money I said come on, let’s do it. Anywhere you like—London, the countryside, wherever. But my parents didn’t want to move. They’ve lived in that same community in Peckham since I was a teenager, and they like it there. They have friends, and a church, and they both work as volunteers in a youth centre. To be honest, they have a better life than I do. All I could persuade them to do was let me buy them a bigger house, one with a nice garden for Simone to play in. I see them as much as I can but it’s nowhere near enough. I miss them.’

She sounded so sad, so lonely, that I wanted to get off my stool and hug her again. I kind of understood—well, I certainly understood this life causing problems with family. But at this particular point in my journey, I wasn’t really missing my family, to be honest. Not the reality of my relationship with them as it stood now, anyway. I missed the way it used to be—but not the new version of things. In the new version of things, they came tied up with a barrel load of guilt and stress that I could really do without. I loved them, I really did—but I was glad they’d gone home.

I was trying to come up with a suitable reply to Vogue’s confession when she suddenly jumped to her feet and clapped her hands together. She loomed over me even when I was standing up; when I was sitting she was even more statuesque.

‘Come on!’ she said, clearly making a huge effort to put some jollity into her voice. ‘Enough of this crap—nobody likes a maudlin drunk, do they? Let’s take this wine down to the Jacuzzi in the basement and make our lives more bubbly!’

It sounded like a good plan to me and, within minutes,
we were both emerging from separate bathrooms in our bikinis ready to get soaked—in both the bath and the wine. We padded barefoot into the basement, which was kitted out with a massive Jacuzzi—like the communal type you usually see in gyms, not my little one back at the flat—and several weight training machines. They looked like medieval torture devices to me, but I supposed Vogue had to maintain looking like a warrior princess somehow.

There was old soul music playing from speakers I couldn’t see; something by Percy Sledge or Marvin Gaye, I thought—perfectly smoky and sultry and a million miles away from the songs I’d been recording recently, thank God.

We eased ourselves into the bubbles, both making ‘ooh’-ing and ‘aah’-ing noises that made us sound like old ladies. To be fair to both of us, all the dance training we did was tough on the old muscles, and nothing felt quite as good as submerging your entire body in buoyant water. Especially if it was accompanied by alcohol.

‘We’re probably breaking all kinds of health and safety rules doing this, you know,’ I said, leaning my head back against the padded tiles, and sipping another mouthful of wine.

‘I know,’ she replied, giggling, ‘drunk in charge of a Jacuzzi! Guilty, m’lud!’

‘I’m just glad it’s in the basement—at least there’s no chance of getting papped in here, and us waking up to a story about us being secret lesbian lovers!’

‘True,’ she said, kicking her long legs around in the water. ‘I saw you’ve come in for a bit of stick on that front. Don’t worry, nobody in their right minds would have believed that
threesome photo. And you and Neale outside McDonald’s isn’t going to hurt anyone, is it?’

‘I hope not,’ I replied. ‘Although I’ve not seen that one. I remember doing the interview—has it appeared yet?’

‘Yep. It went online this afternoon. Patty will probably be busy negotiating some kind of burger-based publicity appearance as we speak …’

I shuddered involuntarily, and glanced quickly around the room.

‘Don’t say her name,’ I whispered. ‘And definitely don’t say it three times in a row while looking in a mirror—it might conjure her up!’

‘I know, I know, she comes across as evil—but she’s good at her job. She’ll get you out of more scrapes than she’ll land you in, I promise. She might be a lot of things, but she is a professional. In fact, now I think of it, I have no idea what else she is. She could have six kids and live in a camper van, or be married to Batman, or be a pastor at the Church of the Poisoned Mind, for all we know.’

‘You’re right. I know nothing about her as a person. And I think, all things considered, that I’m happy to keep it that way. Gosh, this is nice, isn’t it? Talking like this, having a drink with nobody watching?’ I said.

It really, really was. And not just because of the wine or the Jacuzzi. Because of being in the company of someone I could relax around—someone who knew and understood the world I now lived in; who didn’t judge me, and who didn’t seem to want anything from me other than company.

‘It is,’ she agreed, opening her eyes and smiling at me. She
looked amazing, all curves and glistening dark skin packed into a red and white polka dot bikini. I kind of wished, just for a moment, that I
was
a lesbian—being Vogue’s secret lover probably wouldn’t be so bad.

‘It’s good to be around people you feel you can trust,’ she said. ‘You don’t get a lot of that in this business. And I think it’d be even better with a top up …’

She twisted around to get the now half-empty bottle of wine that was on the tiled floor behind her and, as she did so, the gold chain she was wearing around her neck rode up. It was a long, long chain, and had been draped so far between down her cleavage that it disappeared from sight.

She turned back around, brandishing the bottle, with the necklace now fully pulled free of her boobs.

As she poured herself a glass, and reached out to refill mine, I stared at the pendant, feeling the colour drain from my cheeks. My fingers started to tremble, and I suddenly felt ever so slightly nauseous.

No, I told myself, firmly. It’s just a coincidence. It’s not what your horrible, suspicious mind thinks it is. It’s nothing … nothing at all.

‘Babe,’ said Vogue, frowning at me. ‘What’s wrong? You’re staring at my tits and looking a bit like you’re going to throw up in my new Jacuzzi. You okay?’

I met her gaze, and felt my mouth go dry. I had to talk to her, but my body didn’t seem to want to co-operate with that idea. My body seemed to want to go into some sort of catatonic state while my mind pieced together what it thought it was seeing. Part of it did, anyway—the other part was busy
calling that part names, and chucking the mental equivalent of rotten tomatoes at it.

‘Erm. No. I’m not going to throw up. I don’t think, anyway. Vogue—Paulette—that necklace …’

She glanced down at her breasts, at the gold chain, and at the stone dangling from the bottom of it. The small but perfectly formed stone that looked very much like a ruby, cut into the shape of a heart. It was gorgeous. It was unusual. But it wasn’t unique. In fact, I had one very similar to it back home—but as per Jack’s instructions, I’d not been wearing it in public in case it gave the correct-but-not-ideal sign that I was attached, when I was supposed to be young, free, and single.

As she looked at the pendant, Vogue wrapped her fingers around it, stroking the stone and smiling.

‘Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten I had this on. It’s nice, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ I replied, voice shaky. She didn’t seem upset by me asking about it, or overly sensitive about me noticing it. Maybe I was just having one of those dumb girl panic attacks for no reason.

‘Is that a ruby?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, still stroking the glinting heart. ‘It was a gift. It’s my—’

‘Birthstone?’ I asked, almost whispering the word, and praying that I was wrong. That I was making crazy assumptions. That buying your girl a hand-crafted birthstone necklace was common—that it had been featured on some ‘chick gifts made easy’ style article in
FHM
or something.

‘Yes again!’ she said, still smiling, still looking as though there was nothing at all wrong in the world. I had the terrible
suspicion that I was about to spoil illusion for her. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because I have one like it at home. Except it’s an emerald, because my birthday’s in May. It’s exactly the same pendant—the same heart shape, on the same sideways angle. I was told by the person who gave it to me that it was hand-made, just for me.’

Vogue’s eyes started to widen, and the smile finally began to fade from her face. She gulped the rest of the wine that was left in her glass in one huge mouthful, and put it down on the tiles. After a few moments of silence between us, where the only sounds were the bubbles in the Jacuzzi and Mr Sledge singing very inappropriately about the things a man is willing to do when he loves a woman, she eventually asked the question that neither of us really wanted to hear—but that had to be asked.

‘Jess, who gave you your emerald necklace?’

‘Jack,’ I said simply. ‘Jack Duncan gave me my necklace. I suppose I have to ask—who gave you yours?’