I'll Be Home For Christmas. Abbey Clancy

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СКАЧАТЬ you first walk into the building, it still feels a bit dark and desperate, but there is a real charm to it, I have to say. It’s mid-way through its refit, and the first area to get the star treatment was the main room in the building, which is now our reception. There is still a stage kitted out with a pole in the middle of it and I have a sneaking suspicion that late at night, when she’s on her own, Vogue lets out a few frustrations by swinging around on it. There’s a lot of dark red velvet and gold paint, and the whole place is always filled with artistically arranged floral bouquets. Lilies, roses, everything incredibly fresh and fragrant – even when it’s just us, we have the flowers. The building is a little weird, and a little edgy, but it works.

      So far, as well as the reception area, we have two recording booths, with plans for two more. The basement isn’t done yet, but, when it is, there’ll be a full dance studio and rehearsal space. Neale has his own empire down there, stocked with cosmetics and beauty equipment and wardrobe, and he’s like a kid in a toy shop with it all. I have occasionally caught him down there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, just looking around in awe, practically clapping his hands in glee.

      The former dressing rooms have been partially converted into offices, for admin, for Patty, and for the extra staff we will eventually be taking on. I say ‘we’, but I actually mean Vogue. She does consult me when she’s in two minds about somebody, but, on the whole, that’s her realm, and I’m happy with that. I’m still taking baby steps in this industry, and concentrating on the music side of things is enough for me at the moment.

      I arrived a little later than usual, as I’d made the journey in from Daniel’s place in Sussex that morning, and made my way into reception. There wasn’t any natural daylight in this area of the building when we first started – which is usual enough for a lap-dancing bar, I suppose – but, since then, the room has been opened up, spring sunlight pouring in and striping the red velvet booths and the exotic blooms.

      Our receptionist, Yvonne, was already at her post, wearing one of those phone headsets that made her look like she was directing a troupe of dancers at a Madonna gig. Yvonne is only young, twenty-one in fact, but already has that ‘Don’t Mess With Me’ face that I associate with my mother. She’s half Chinese, and looks like she could be Lucy Liu’s daughter – utterly gorgeous, in other words.

      She gave me a nod and a wave as I walked in and scribbled my name on the book we use to make sure nobody ever gets left behind in a fire, and I grinned back. The place is always at least partly full of builders at the moment, wearing their steel-toed boots and crack-revealing jeans, the smell of sawdust and work competing with the fragrance of the flowers.

      I gave them a little wave as I passed – they were on a tea break, for a change – and headed back towards the offices.

      Pausing outside the door, I took a deep breath. I knew, from the clattering sound of talons hitting a keyboard and the echoes of Swedish death metal music, that Patty, our head of marketing, who we also stole from Jack’s empire, was already there.

      Weird thing about Patty – I’m still scared of her. She’s no longer my boss in any way, shape or form, but I spent so long being terrorized by her that I still have a Pavlovian response to her presence. She’s scrawny, rude and opinionated, but she’s also brilliant at her job, which is why we brought her with us. She’s amazing at handling the press in its many forms, a strategic mastermind at social media, and a genius at marketing the bejeezus out of anything she’s asked to sell.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ