might all be like, one day. One day that I had to hope—had to believe—would arrive soon.
If it didn’t, I might just shrivel up and die, and they’d find me in the stationery cupboard one morning, like a slug that had been sprinkled with salt.
After all of that, at the end of my typical day at Starmaker, I’d trail my poor, exhausted body back out through the office. Down the plush corridors lined with framed platinum discs. Past the dark studio booths. Through to reception, with its vases full of lilies and spotlessly clean mirrored furniture, to the glamorous chrome spiral staircase, its curving walls decorated with enormous blown-up pictures of the talent on the label’s roster. When that mysterious ‘one day’ arrived, I’d be up there too—I had to believe that. I had to believe that Annie was right, and tomorrow was only a day away.
Most nights, I’d walk as quickly as I could to the Tube station, hunch down, and push my way onto the Northern Line. It had taken me a while to get used to the fact that nobody spoke to each other—in fact people looked at you as if you had a screw loose if you even made eye contact with them. It was a lot different in Liverpool, where you could get someone’s whole life story over a burger on the night bus. Here, I’d learned to hide behind a magazine, or spend the whole journey checking my phone while I listened to music on ear phones—which was about as much fun as it sounds.
It was only a few stops to Kentish Town at least, where I lived in an extremely glamorous studio apartment. Or, if you wanted to be more accurate, a one-room bedsit above a kebab shop, where the most exciting thing to happen was the mouldy pattern on the ceiling slowly changing shape because of the leak in the roof.
Once I was home—and once I’d managed to get past Yusuf, the shop owner and landlord, who talked so much he made up for the rest of London—I’d collapse. I’d watch telly, or read, or stand in front of my fridge, staring into it, wishing there was more food and that I was allowed to eat it if there was.
I’d be in bed by eleven, going over the high points of the day and trying to stuff the low points to the back of my mind, where they belonged. Between seeing Yusuf and getting into work the next morning, I wouldn’t speak to a single living soul—and then it would just be Patty screaming at me because her tights had laddered, and it was all my fault.
Other nights, though, it would be different. Very different.
So different, in fact, that it was a bit like I had a foxier twin sister who’d been stolen at birth, and lived a completely opposite life to mine.
Because on those other nights, Jack Duncan would message me, and arrange to meet me nearby. He’d have his flashy little Audi, and he’d be wearing beautifully crisp white shirts, and his hair would be artfully flopping across his handsome face, and he’d smell completely fantastic, not like a kebab at all.
On those nights, my life would be very different. They’d involve romantic dinners and long chats over expensive wine and lingering kisses that made my toes curl up in excitement.
Because, yes—Jack Duncan did, in fact, seem interested in getting his leg over. And he was starting to make me think it was a really excellent idea.
Chapter 7
I know, I know.
It sounds bad, doesn’t it? Sleeping with the boss? It sounds like a complete stereotype, in fact—the bright-eyed young wannabe shagging her way to stardom. The older, more experienced record exec taking advantage of her desperation to get a roll in the hay.
Except … it wasn’t like that at all. It really wasn’t. For a start, we hadn’t even done it.
And—although I might sound like I’m trying to convince myself here—everything that
had
happened had felt very natural, and very real. It wasn’t as though I’d arrived in London, been chucked on a casting couch, and ordered to get jiggy with it. If that had happened, I’d have told him
If it didn’t, I might just shrivel up and die, and they’d find me in the stationery cupboard one morning, like a slug that had been sprinkled with salt.
After all of that, at the end of my typical day at Starmaker, I’d trail my poor, exhausted body back out through the office. Down the plush corridors lined with framed platinum discs. Past the dark studio booths. Through to reception, with its vases full of lilies and spotlessly clean mirrored furniture, to the glamorous chrome spiral staircase, its curving walls decorated with enormous blown-up pictures of the talent on the label’s roster. When that mysterious ‘one day’ arrived, I’d be up there too—I had to believe that. I had to believe that Annie was right, and tomorrow was only a day away.
Most nights, I’d walk as quickly as I could to the Tube station, hunch down, and push my way onto the Northern Line. It had taken me a while to get used to the fact that nobody spoke to each other—in fact people looked at you as if you had a screw loose if you even made eye contact with them. It was a lot different in Liverpool, where you could get someone’s whole life story over a burger on the night bus. Here, I’d learned to hide behind a magazine, or spend the whole journey checking my phone while I listened to music on ear phones—which was about as much fun as it sounds.
It was only a few stops to Kentish Town at least, where I lived in an extremely glamorous studio apartment. Or, if you wanted to be more accurate, a one-room bedsit above a kebab shop, where the most exciting thing to happen was the mouldy pattern on the ceiling slowly changing shape because of the leak in the roof.
Once I was home—and once I’d managed to get past Yusuf, the shop owner and landlord, who talked so much he made up for the rest of London—I’d collapse. I’d watch telly, or read, or stand in front of my fridge, staring into it, wishing there was more food and that I was allowed to eat it if there was.
I’d be in bed by eleven, going over the high points of the day and trying to stuff the low points to the back of my mind, where they belonged. Between seeing Yusuf and getting into work the next morning, I wouldn’t speak to a single living soul—and then it would just be Patty screaming at me because her tights had laddered, and it was all my fault.
Other nights, though, it would be different. Very different.
So different, in fact, that it was a bit like I had a foxier twin sister who’d been stolen at birth, and lived a completely opposite life to mine.
Because on those other nights, Jack Duncan would message me, and arrange to meet me nearby. He’d have his flashy little Audi, and he’d be wearing beautifully crisp white shirts, and his hair would be artfully flopping across his handsome face, and he’d smell completely fantastic, not like a kebab at all.
On those nights, my life would be very different. They’d involve romantic dinners and long chats over expensive wine and lingering kisses that made my toes curl up in excitement.
Because, yes—Jack Duncan did, in fact, seem interested in getting his leg over. And he was starting to make me think it was a really excellent idea.
Chapter 7
I know, I know.
It sounds bad, doesn’t it? Sleeping with the boss? It sounds like a complete stereotype, in fact—the bright-eyed young wannabe shagging her way to stardom. The older, more experienced record exec taking advantage of her desperation to get a roll in the hay.
Except … it wasn’t like that at all. It really wasn’t. For a start, we hadn’t even done it.
And—although I might sound like I’m trying to convince myself here—everything that
had
happened had felt very natural, and very real. It wasn’t as though I’d arrived in London, been chucked on a casting couch, and ordered to get jiggy with it. If that had happened, I’d have told him
Similar Books
