Remember My Name. Abbey Clancy
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Название: Remember My Name
Автор: Abbey Clancy
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Контркультура
Серия: MIRA
isbn: 9781474045254
isbn:
‘I have a few regular venues,’ I said, not adding that those venues were usually populated by old men with no teeth, so drunk on happy-hour-lager that they barely noticed I was there—and the ones that did, asked me when I was going to take my clothes off.
He nodded, possibly guessing all of that anyway.
‘And have you done any auditions? Have you got any demos?’
Now I was really puzzled. Why was he asking all of this? What was it to him?
‘You’re a bit of a nosy so-and-so, aren’t you?’ I said, looking him right in the eyes. If he thought praising my singing might help him get in my knickers, well … he might be right, actually. But I tried to look tough anyway. A useless effort, really, as I’m about as tough as blancmange.
‘I am indeed,’ he replied, looking amused. ‘But I’m also serious. I work for a record company down in London, and I’m always looking for fresh talent. And you—even when you’re covered in mud—are as fresh as it gets. I have a partner—let’s just call him Simon—and I know he’d be interested as well. Obviously, we’ve just met, and you don’t know me at all, so I don’t expect an answer right now—but I’d love for you to come down and meet him. Maybe get involved in the label. Get to know the business—find your feet a little. There’s always studio time available, young producers keen to make a name for themselves. It could be a great way for you to take your next steps in the music industry.’
As he spoke, he pulled out a leather wallet from his back jeans pocket, and handed me a card. It was plain black and white, but made of thick card—not the stuff we used for ours, which was like tracing paper—and all the lettering was embossed. I ran my finger over it, reading the words, ‘Jack Duncan—Head of Talent Engagement—Starmaker Records.’
Starmaker Records. I’d actually heard of them—it was the label that Vogue was signed to, among others. Vogue was one of my all-time favourites—a diva in the Whitney Houston vibe, but who could also crack out a really sassy rap section, and mixed dubstep with power ballads in a way that shouldn’t work but kinda did. I’d downloaded all her tracks, and—though this must be something I never, ever told Jack Duncan—sometimes sang them in front of the mirror, using the traditional hairbrush-as-fake-microphone technique.
Wow. I might be the most mud-encrusted Disney Princess of all time—but maybe something good had actually just come out of it all. Maybe I’d just got a break—and not the kind that results in a trip to the Royal and four weeks in a plaster cast.
By this time the kids were all running back towards us, screaming and yelling and heading for the section of the garden that had several fancy bouncy castles planted in it. They’d all be covered in rain, but that probably made it even more fun for them. They streamed past us, so loud I couldn’t have said anything to Jack even if I’d known what to say. I was completely stumped. Gobsmacked, as my dad would have said.
Jack got caught up with the flow as they went—Jocelyn grabbing hold of his hand and hissing. ‘Come on, Uncle Jack!’ as she dragged him with her. He disappeared off into the distance, massively tall among the sea of bobbing young heads, and waved at me as he went.
‘Call me!’ he shouted, before he turned and ran. Maybe he wanted to be the first on the bouncy slide.
I stared at the back of his body as he jogged away. Looked at the card in my now-shaking hands. Shivered as a particularly strong gust of wind reminded me that I was wearing soaking-wet-clothes.
What the Elsa had just happened?
The smell of roast yumminess hit me as soon as I opened the front door. I stood still and sniffed like a Bisto kid, picking up traces of chicken and spuds and gravy. My mouth watered in response—between the party games and the singing and the mud and the potentially life-changing encounter with Jack Duncan, I’d completely forgotten to eat all day.
My empty tummy was rumbling in a very un-ladylike way, and I sighed with happiness. Asking Ruby to drop me off at my mum and dad’s was definitely a very sensible decision.
It hadn’t been just for the food—although my mum was a boss cook and that was a definite bonus—it had been for the company. After such a weird day, I needed comfort. I needed to be with people who I knew loved me, and appreciated me, and cared about me. I needed to be with my family.
The door to the living room opened and my little brother Luke popped his head around the frame.
‘What’s up, fart face?’ he said, before rugby tackling me to the floor.
I kicked him in the head with one bare, muddy foot, and managed to escape from his grip. Luke is eighteen, and already over six-foot tall. He’d inherited some sporty gene that had completely skipped me, and played football, rugby, and took part in swimming contests. He also did mixed martial arts, and had a black belt in being an irritating knob head.
I staggered upright, not exactly feeling the warm glow of family love I was hoping for, and gave him another kick in the ribs. He made pretend ‘oof’ noises and rolled around on the hallway carpet like he was having a heart attack.
‘I’m going for a shower!’ I yelled, loud enough for my mum to hear me. She’d be in the kitchen, elbow deep in potato peel and surrounded by steam. I heard her shout back: ‘Okay, love! Tea will be ready in ten!’
Leaving Luke in a heap of fake pain, I ran up the stairs, and into the familiar bedroom that had been mine and my sister Becky’s until a year ago, when I’d decided—for some reason I can’t quite remember now—to move out.
The house was one of those Tardis homes: it looked small on the outside, but it was big on the inside. There were three bedrooms—the biggest was Mum and Dad’s, Luke had the box room, and me and Becky had the medium-sized one. As I closed the door behind me, I felt swamped with relief. Everything here felt so … safe. The smells—plug-in air fresheners, cooking, Dad’s Old Spice—all meant ‘home’ to me.
Luke had been campaigning to get the bigger room since I’d left and Becky had moved in with her boyfriend Sean. She probably wouldn’t be coming back, as she was three months pregnant with her first baby, but Mum and Dad had kept it just the way it used to be. I climbed up onto the top bunk—that was always hers, and we used to fight like cat and dog over it when we were kids. For some reason I still always felt like I’d scored a win when I managed to lie on it without her attacking me. Childish but true.
I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, listening to the voice of Michael Bublé floating up the stairs. My mum Michelle bloody loved Michael Bublé. We’d bought her tickets to see him in concert for her fiftieth, and she practically passed out with excitement. Still, it could be worse. My nan was obsessed with Daniel O’Donnell (‘such a nice young man!’).
The noises coming from my stomach told me it was time for food, so I dragged myself out of my pit and headed for the bathroom. As I got in the shower, I mentally prepared myself for the torture that was washing in a house that contained both dodgy plumbing and my evil brother Luke. This weird thing happened where if you flushed the downstairs loo, the shower water went freezing cold.
I stepped under the spray and sure enough, straight away, heard the sound of the flush. I jumped back to avoid the chill factor, waiting a few seconds СКАЧАТЬ