Remember My Name

Chapter 2

I craned my neck up at such a weird angle I knew I’d have a crick in it later. Yep, I was getting a standing ovation—not for my majestic performance of ‘Let It Go’, but for falling on my arse in a load of mud. What a knob!

I could hear the kids screeching and cackling and whooping, and the deeper tones of the parents joining in. So much for being the grown-ups. I peeked up again, and saw that even Ruby had tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks. Her slightly too chubby cheeks, I thought, with a spike in my usually low bitchiness levels. Being stuck in a trough of dirt in a fake Disney Princess costume will do that to a girl.

Everyone was so busy laughing it up at my expense that nobody bothered to come and help me. Ruby hadn’t even turned the snow machine off, so the foamy water was still shooting out of it, making my predicament even harder to escape from.

I was pondering whether to just give up—maybe turn face down in the mud and drown myself—when someone reached down and grabbed hold of my flailing hands. I gripped on, not caring who it was, and I was pulled up so hard I slammed right into the body of my rescuer.

A body that was tall and strong and very, very male. I gazed up, and looked into a pair of deep, dark, chocolate-drop eyes. Okay, they were a bit crinkled up from laughing, but at least he’d bothered to help.

The eyes were gorgeous—and the rest of the package wasn’t to be sniffed at either. Even if he did smell so nice I was quite tempted. He was about six foot, broad-shouldered but lean, and had dark hair that was done in one of those really super-expensive cuts that looks super-casual, a bit of fringe flopping over his forehead in the wind and the rain.

He was getting drenched by the snow machine and, I realised, covered in mud from me—the Disney Princess who’d spent the last thirty seconds resting in his arms and looking at him like he was a hot chocolate fudge cake. With squirty cream.

‘Oh God!’ I said, jumping away from him and almost falling over again. ‘I’ve got you all dirty!’

He reached out and took a solid hold of my arm, ignoring the mud and holding me steady. He gave me a huge grin—one of those infectious ones that makes you see the funny side in everything.

‘I don’t mind,’ he said, with a cheeky sideways smile, ‘I like being dirty.’

There were so many responses to that one, I didn’t know where to start. So for once in my life—and anyone who knows me will agree this was a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence—I kept my mouth shut. This guy was handsome and dashing and probably rich. He was giving me the once over in a way that let me know the princess dress was now extremely wet and extremely clingy, and he was still holding on to me.

It was one of those situations that should come with a DANGER! HIGH VOLTAGE! sign, and maybe a little cartoon of a woman with a broken heart. I’d just come through a nasty break-up with my ex, a window cleaner called Evan, who I’d discovered was whipping out more than his chamois leather on his rounds. I’d decided to become a born-again virgin—and this man looked like he ate born-again virgins for breakfast. In a good way.

I kept one hand on his arm to steady myself, leaned down, and pulled my white heels off. It meant I’d have to squelch barefoot in the mud, but at least I wasn’t trapped any more. Ruby had finally recovered enough from her laughing-gas attack to turn off the snow machine, and I could hear the sound of her leading the kids in a rousing rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. I usually did that—in character as Elsa—but all things considered, it was probably best to move on without me.

‘Thank you, so much,’ I said, staggering off to one side, being led by him to the shelter of the gazebo. ‘I honestly thought I was going to pop my clogs then.’

‘If you’d been wearing clogs,’ he said, grabbing up a navy blue gilet from the back of a chair, ‘you might not have had that problem in the first place.’

I tried to shrug him away—the gilet looked as expensive as him—but he draped it around my shoulders and gave my wet, chilly arms a good rub.

‘Yeah,’ I replied, grateful for the warmth. ‘But until they come up with a Dutch Disney Princess, I’m screwed. I’m so sorry, I’ve messed up all your clothes …’

His once-white shirt was now splattered with mud, and his black jeans were smudged all across the waist, crotch, and thighs. He glanced down at himself and his face broke out into that grin again. He must have been quite a bit older than me—early thirties or something, I’d have guessed—but that grin made him look like a naughty schoolboy.

‘Yes. It looks a bit like I’ve been having sex with a pig, doesn’t it? From behind.’

‘I suppose it would have to be,’ I answered, finding myself giving the idea some serious thought, ‘you’d get squashed otherwise.’

‘What a way to go, though, eh?’ he asked, those gorgeous brown eyes crinkling up in amusement. As he spoke, he picked up a full glass of red wine and passed it to me. I looked at it as though it was the Holy Grail—I don’t think I’d ever wanted a drink more in my life.

‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘Ta very much, though. But princesses are like the police—we never drink on duty.’

‘Nobody will ever know,’ he said, gesturing to the back of the gazebo, where Evil Jocelyn was sitting on what looked like a throne, surveying her minions as they finished up their birthday song and started on three cheers. I couldn’t help it—I stuck my tongue out at her. And that was without the wine.

‘Did you just blow a raspberry at the birthday girl?’ he asked, sounding shocked. I thought he was faking it, but I wasn’t sure, and I felt myself blush under the mud on my face. My Elsa plait was now completely covered in dirt, and draped over my chest like a big brown turd.

I grabbed the wine and downed it in one. He was right, nobody would notice.

‘Yes, I did,’ I said. ‘She’s … a bit strong spirited?’ I ventured, trying for diplomatic—which was never my strong suit. He definitely wasn’t Jocelyn’s dad—I’d already met him—but he must be connected to the family somehow to even be here. Though the fact that he was necking wine with me in the naughty corner rather than passing a gift to the Golden Child suggested they weren’t that close.

‘Strong spirited. I like that one. I suspect what you wanted to say, though, was “evil little bitch from hell”, wasn’t it?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, wiping my lips so I didn’t end up with tell-tale red wine stains. ‘But that wouldn’t be professional.’

He glanced back at the present parade behind us. Everyone was handing over a beautifully wrapped parcel or an elegant gift bag, and Jocelyn was throwing them all to one side like Henry VIII with chomped-up chicken legs. Ugggh! She was enough to put you off having kids for life.

‘Jocelyn is my niece,’ he said, calmly. ‘My only niece.’

I froze for a moment, wondering if he was secretly pissed off at me for almost (but not quite) slagging off his flesh and blood. His face stayed serious for a second, but then the grin was back, and I was able to let go of the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

I punched him on the arm—which is a sign of affection where I come from—and smiled back.

‘You had me going then,’ I said. ‘I was a bit worried you might report me to the Princess Police for being a bit of a cow about the birthday girl.’

‘Never. I’ve known Jocelyn her whole life and, believe me, she brings out the cow in every sane person. Anyway … now we’ve been mud-wrestling together, how about you tell me your name? Assuming it’s not Elsa.’

‘Ha ha. No. I’m Jess. Or Jessy to my family. And Jessica when I’ve been naughty.’

He held out his hand to shake, and kept his fingers wrapped around mine for far longer than was decent.

‘And are you naughty often, Jessica?’

His eyes met mine, and I suddenly felt very, very warm, despite the rain and the soaking wet costume and the soggy plait.

‘Er … I’m trying very hard not to be,’ I replied quietly, pulling my fingers away from his.

Everything about this bloke screamed money and success and class. He was one of those men who was clearly used to getting his own way—and unless the mud had infiltrated my brain, at the moment he looked like ‘his own way’ might involve me. In the same position as the pig.

Much as that appealed to the lusty part of me—and the part that had just downed that red wine—the timing just wasn’t right. I’m not ashamed of my roots, of my accent, of my home town. And I’m proud as anything of my family—they’re the best. But me and this guy? We came from different worlds. If he was interested in me it would be as a bit of rough (not that I’m rough, but you know what I mean), and it wouldn’t last. And after Evan, I wasn’t ready for another man whose brain was located next to his dangly bits.

I busied myself over by the snow machine, unplugging the bastard thing, winding up the wires, and stowing the plug in the back. He followed me over, which I somehow knew he would.

‘I’m Jack,’ he said, leaning over the machine and making me look up at him. ‘Jack Duncan. And I was planning on coming to talk to you after the party anyway, Jess. Even if you hadn’t needed pulling out of your early grave.’

‘Oh!’ I said, standing up tall and tilting my head to one side. ‘Why’s that?’ I asked. This, I thought, should be good. He’ll come up with a load of old codswallop about how he thought we’d met before; or how I looked like a Cancer and he was a Taurus; or did I have any cards so he could pass them round to his friends with children …

‘Because of your voice. That performance—before the Unpleasant Incident—completely bowled me over. If you can do that with an overworked Disney song, I’d be interested to know what you can do with original material.’

Well. That one was new. And … maybe he meant it? He certainly looked sincere enough. The naughty schoolboy had gone, and his tone of voice wasn’t at all flirtatious. In fact it was just business-like, and genuine. In all honesty, nobody had shown any interest in my singing for such along time, I’d started to assume I might be a bit crap at it. I did the odd gig at the pubs round town, and won a few karaoke competitions, but it wasn’t like I had a fan club or anything. Talent scouts weren’t exactly camped outside my front door in Dingle, and the only bidding wars I was ever involved with were on eBay.

I might possibly have looked like I was fishing for flies; my mouth was hanging open so wide.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘You look like you might be about to have some kind of seizure …’

I clamped my jaws together and wiped the frown off my brow. That was no way to react to a compliment.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just a bit … surprised. Nobody usually notices. Especially today.’

‘Well, I did,’ he said, ‘and I was really impressed. There’s just a unique quality to your voice that I found so refreshing—and even though I suspect you’ve done that song thousands of times, you still put so much feeling into it. It was … authentic. Do you sing professionally—outside the princess community, I mean?’

I almost laughed out loud, but just about managed to retain my dignity enough to make it all sound a bit better than it actually was.

‘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?

Chapter 3

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 before I continued. It carried on like this for the whole event, but somehow I managed to wash my hair, clean up, and dress myself in some comfy tracky bottoms and one of my old T-shirts.

By the time I got downstairs, everyone was ready, sitting around the old dining table at the back of the through lounge.

‘You little shit,’ I said, whacking Luke on the head as I walked past him to my chair.

‘What do you mean? I just had a floater!’ he said, smirking at me. Like I said, evil.

My sister Becky was there, and I gave her a quick hug before I sat down. I hadn’t seen her for a week, which in our family was practically reason to file a missing person’s report. She looked a bit peaky, and only had a few slices of chicken breast on her plate, which she was pushing around with her fork. Not exactly glowing, but hopefully, it would get better.

‘So,’ said my mum, looking across the table at us all and smiling. ‘The whole clan is here.’

‘Better call the paramedics and put them on standby,’ added my dad Phil, pouring gravy over his mash.

My dad is fifty-two, but looks a lot older—mainly because he lost all his hair when he was in his thirties. It never seemed to bother him, and he calls himself the Bald Eagle to make it all sound a bit more macho. He’s tall—everyone in our family is apart from my mum, who is technically some kind of midget—and carries his beer belly with as much pride as his lack of hair. He calls it his ‘Guinness Six Pack’.

My mum is fifty-one, and tiny. She has dyed-black hair, and looks a bit like an energetic garden gnome. She’s always busy, my mum—with work, with us lot, with her own mum. I swear if she sat still for five minutes we’d all think she was ill. She couldn’t wait for Becky’s baby to arrive, just to give her even more to do.

‘So, how are you, Sis?’ I asked Becky, a bit worried about her.

‘Fat. Knackered. Puking up all day.’

Ah. The joys of motherhood.

Becky shut up after that, but I noticed my mum sneaking glances at her as we ate. She’d been through it all three times, obviously, but she was like Superwoman—she probably just gave birth to us in the middle of doing the laundry and carried right on with a hot wash.

I was so busy stuffing my face that I didn’t hear when my dad asked me about the ‘gig’. He always called them ‘gigs’. I think it made him feel young and hip.

‘Earth to Jessy!’ said Luke, poking me in the side with the prongs of his gravy-covered fork. I yelped and looked at everyone, almost choking on my cabbage.

‘You seem a bit distracted, love,’ said Dad. ‘Anything up?’

‘What he means is, you look like a mental patient with that cabbage hanging out of your gob,’ said Luke.

‘Shut UP, you little fuck!’ I replied, kindly.

‘Language!’ said Mum and Dad at exactly the same time. Tea time with the Malones—it was always X-rated, no matter how much they tried. Served them right for having too many kids.

I debated whether to tell them about Jack Duncan. I needed to talk to someone about it, but I wasn’t sure who. Ruby was distracted with the disgusting Keith. Becky was distracted with her morning sickness. Luke was distracted by being a complete tit.

I had a sudden flash of yearning for Daniel, the boy who used to live next door. He’d moved away with his family not long after our concert, heading ‘down south’ (which could mean anything from Birmingham to Berkshire) with his parents, who’d inherited a small B&B by the seaside. We’d stayed in touch for a while, but that had faded when he went off to uni—studying something techy I never quite understood. I’d tried to find him since, usually when I was a bit pissed and feeling nostalgic, but he was untraceable—possibly the only twenty-two-year-old on the planet to not be on Facebook.

New neighbours had moved in, and every time I saw their front door that they’d painted cream, I felt a bit sad about it. So, I had to work with what I had—my family.

‘I met this man,’ I said quietly, not sure what their reaction would be, putting down my knife and fork when I realised my hands were shaking. ‘Who works in the music business.’

‘Let me guess,’ jumped in Luke straight away, ‘he wanted to take you away from it all? Make you a star? As long as you gave him a blow job first?’

‘Luke!’ said Mum, in her don’t-mess-with-me voice. The voice that could make any one of her kids freeze in the middle of whatever they were doing. Sure enough, Luke looked terrified, and suddenly became very interested in his chicken leg.

Becky was staring at me over the table, frowning. Her skin looked slightly green, as if she was a space alien.

‘He does have a point, though, Mum,’ Becky said. ‘Let’s face it, Jessy is so gullible she’d believe anything.’

I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. There had been a few … incidents. Like the bloke who claimed to be a talent scout for a modelling agency, and asked me to take my top off as soon as I walked through the door of his studio. Like the ‘audition’ I’d gone to where all the star-struck girls were expected to perform while dressed up as Playboy bunnies. And my personal favourite, the guy I’d met at a kids’ party who’d booked me to sing at his wife’s fortieth—except the wife hadn’t been there. In fact, nobody had been there, apart from me, him, and a very brassy lady of the night who’d obviously been brought in to join the performance.

Each time, they’d seemed genuine. Each time, I’d believed them. Mainly because I wanted to—I wanted to be respected, admired, discovered. I wanted to be a star—but unfortunately, the road to stardom was paved with perverts.

I stayed quiet. It was depressing, really. Even my own family didn’t believe that someone could be genuinely interested in my talent. And they were probably right. I’d be a Disney Princess until I was too old, then I’d have to join an Abba tribute band.

‘Well,’ said my mum, realising that an uncomfortable silence had settled over the room, and that I was possibly on the verge of tears. ‘Jessy, you know how much we love you—and nobody knows better than us how hard you’ve worked at this. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and you deserve a break. We all want that for you, hon. We just want you to be … careful, as well. We don’t want anyone to take advantage.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Luke, whipping out his iPhone. I told him, almost scared to find out the truth. It would all just be another fairy tale bust to pieces if Jack hadn’t been what he said he was. I tried to stay positive—but sometimes even princesses get down in the dumps.

We all waited while he Googled him, and looked on as he frowned and swiped over different pages on the screen. Eventually, he looked up and gave us all a big grin.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, ‘looks like she’s hit the jackpot this time, folks. Jack Duncan, Starmaker Records. Thirty-three years old, and one of the rising stars of the music industry. He discovered Vogue—and now he’s interested in our Jessy!’

Everyone was quiet for a moment, weighing up what he’d said. Considering the fact that it might not all be bullshit after all—that something could finally be happening for me.

‘Still,’ added Luke—his confidence back—just to spoil the moment, ‘it doesn’t mean he’s not after a blow job as well …’