Remember My Name. Abbey Clancy

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СКАЧАТЬ life that made him feel like an unattainable mega-being from another planet. My reaction varied from ‘this will never work’ to ‘why is a man like that interested in a girl like me?’ to ‘I’m never letting him go, and I want to have his babies’, depending on what mood I was in. Even thinking about him then, with Becky sitting right there, I wondered if he was back yet—wondered if he’d message me, wondered when we’d meet up again.

      I snapped myself back to reality, and met Becky’s probing gaze. She—unlike me, apparently—was looking great. The morning sickness had obviously passed, her fair hair was glossy, her skin was clear, and she’d obviously hit that ‘glowing’ stage that preggers women are supposed to get.

      I gave her a big, bright smile, and said, ‘No, I’m good—honest. I work hard, but I always expected that. And it’s all worth it.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ she replied, with a look on her face that was very similar to our mum’s when she thought you were hiding something—like the fact that you’d secretly drunk her bottle of Baileys with your mates; or snuck out to go to a party when you were grounded, or put your red T-shirt in the whites wash and made it all pink. It was frightening—Becky hadn’t even had her baby yet, and she was already developing scary Mum-like telepathic powers. It must be hereditary.

      I nodded, gesturing for her to get up as I pulled the sofa-bed out into its bed form. I grabbed the pile of sheets and pillows from the chair where I’d dumped them earlier, and started making it up to sleep on. Becky was having the bed—although not the bedroom, as there wasn’t one. We’d be kipping together again, just like when we were kids.

      ‘I’m sure,’ I said, ‘and I’m knackered. Let’s crash out and talk crap before we go to sleep, like we used to.’

      ‘Yeah,’ she answered, pulling on her pyjamas and laughing. ‘All right. As long as we can talk about boys. Because I know there’s a man on the scene, Jessy.’

      I ignored her, and climbed under the covers, pulling the fleecy blanket up to my chin. Obviously, she was right. But I just couldn’t talk about it to her—because I had no idea what to tell her. It was all very hard to describe, especially to someone who didn’t know Jack, and didn’t know the music business, and didn’t know the way this weird London world worked.

      When I stayed quiet, she took that as her cue to carry on. I’d hoped she’d think I was asleep—I should probably have manufactured some fake snoring.

      ‘I know there’s a man because you’ve checked your phone about three hundred times today. And because there are condoms in your bathroom cabinet, and—’

      ‘What?’ I spluttered at her, outraged, and obviously not asleep.

      ‘Of course I looked! Have you ever met me? It’s my sisterly duty to snoop as much as humanly possible. So, tell me all about him.’

      ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I said, reaching out and switching the lamp off. ‘It’s nothing special.’

      I was so scared that that statement was actually true, I felt tears stinging the back of my eyes, and hoped Becky’s new maternal superpowers didn’t extend as far as having non-goggle night vision. Or the same eyes in the back of her head that Mum always claimed to have.

      ‘All right, keep your big secret, Little Miss Superstar. But look after yourself, okay? And please tell me it’s not him.’

      ‘Who?’ I asked, knowing full well who she meant.

      ‘That Jack Duncan one. He’s the one who brought you down here, and he’s the reason you seem to be living in a shitty flat, working with bitches, and starving yourself. I know you’re doing the other stuff as well—the singing and the dancing and the recording—and that’s all brilliant. But the rest isn’t. And I’m worried about you. So tell me it’s not him.’

      ‘It’s not him,’ I said quietly, fingers crossed on both hands as the lie slipped out, along with a few random tears that I’d not managed to completely squish away. I felt them trickle away down my cheeks and disappear, along with my self-respect.

      I told myself the lie was for her sake. That she was pregnant, and her life was changing fast; that she’d just bought a house and was in the process of moving and that her plate was full. That the last thing she needed was to be worried about me.

      I told myself that, but that was a lie, too. Or at least it wasn’t a hundred-per-cent truthful. I was also embarrassed, and ashamed, and miserable. When I was with Jack, it all felt right. But when I was away from him, I started to feel like some dirty little secret, hidden away from the real world he lived in. And now—just when I’d thought it couldn’t get any worse—I’d fibbed to my sister. My pregnant sister—which had to be bad karma.

      ‘Good,’ she said, firmly, rolling around on the bed, trying to get comfy. ‘Now I’ve got that off my chest, I feel relaxed enough to do this …’

      She paused, then let out a giant, rip-roaring fart that seemed to echo around the tiny flat, before it came to settle fragrantly in my nostrils. I tried not to inhale—I’d suffered those sisterly gifts many times over the years and knew they were lethal—but I was laughing so much I couldn’t help it.

      ‘Jesus, Becky! I think I need a gas mask!’

      ‘It’s my hormones. I can’t help it.’

      ‘It’s the kebab, and you are loving it!’ I said, pinching my nose together to try and block out the smell, still laughing.

      ‘That’s good to hear,’ she said, fidgeting around. I suppose it was hard to settle when you had an alien being growing inside your stomach. ‘You laughing again.’

      She finally seemed to find a position that agreed with both her and the baby, and I made out her face in the moonlight seeping through the curtains that never seemed to quite close properly. She was smiling at me, and reached out to hold my hand.

      We touched fingers, and I smiled back. Nothing was perfect in my life—but I still had Becky, and the rest of my family. No matter what.

      ‘You can always come home, you know,’ she said. ‘Nobody would think any the worse of you. Nobody would think you’d failed.’

      Nobody apart from me, I thought, but didn’t say it. When I didn’t respond, she carried on.

      ‘Because home,’ she said, screwing up her eyes in effort, warning me what was coming next, ‘is where the fart is.’

      The sound of that one—along with the sound of us both giggling like the little kids we were not so very long ago—was the last thing I remembered before I fell asleep.

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