Abbey Clancy - Remember My Name

She’d known him since they were three, and they’d gone all the way through primary school and junior school and high school together, ending up at the same college. He was what her little brother Luke called ‘a bit of a weirdo’, and what her mum Michelle called ‘an intellectual’. To Jess, he was just Daniel—the kid that nobody seemed to quite get except her.

She made her way to the tech booth and found him hiding away there, as she knew she would. They were eighteen now and, whereas Jess had blossomed—losing the cute baby fat that her mum loved showing off in embarrassing photos, gaining curves in all the right places, and blooming from gap-toothed schoolgirl into a young woman—Daniel hadn’t. He was still on the short side, smaller than Jess’s five eight at least, which would have been fine if not for the fact that he also had the body weight of a six footer.

He took up most of the space in the booth, his too-long dark blond hair tucked behind his ears, his blue eyes serious and intent as he flicked switches and stashed discs. He always looked serious, Jess thought, even at moments like this, when he should be walking on the same cloud of happiness as the rest of them.

He looked up as she approached, and gave her a small smile.

‘No,’ he said, straight away.

‘What do you mean, no?’ she replied. ‘I haven’t even asked you anything yet!’

‘No, I’m not coming to the party at Ruby’s.’

‘Oh. So you’re just going to go home and listen to suicide songs and be a miserable get on your own, are you?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that’s exactly the plan, so don’t try and persuade me. Anyway—you were great tonight. I knew you would be, Jessy.’

Warmth spread through her at his words, and she couldn’t help but grin like an idiot.

‘I was, wasn’t I? But it’s all down to you, writing that part for me.’

‘Well, who else would I write it for?’ he asked. ‘A cheerleader who saves the world from alien invasion?’ Daniel was packing cables and sockets into a bag as he spoke. ‘You were the only one who could pull it off.’

‘You just wanted to laugh at me in this costume,’ she said, gesturing to the neon-pink outfit that had been threatening to bring her out in a rash ever since she first wore it.

Daniel looked her up and down, then quickly turned away. It was hard to tell in the dim lights, but Jess could have sworn he was blushing for some reason.

‘I only laugh at you when you’re funny—which is most of the time, whether you mean to be or not. But seriously—your voice was amazing. You’re going to be a big star one day, Jessy.’

She watched him as he bustled around, confused by her emotions. On the one hand she was sad that she couldn’t reach him—drag him out of his shell long enough for everyone else to see what she saw—but on the other hand … a star. Even the word made her go a bit cross-eyed with excitement.

Daniel thought she’d be a star. That she could do this—every night of her life if she wanted to—sing and dance and entertain and drive round in a limo and drink Cristal. Buy her mum and dad a posh house in Formby, have enough money so he could stop driving taxis, and Mum could say farewell to her job in Tesco … a star.

‘You really think so?’ she asked, suddenly not feeling quite so sure of herself. Now she was here, out of the spotlight, away from the crowd, it didn’t seem entirely possible.

Daniel stopped what he was doing and turned to face her, his expression firm and insistent.

‘Yes. You, Jess Malone, have more X factor than there is on every talent show on TV. You sing like an angel, you dance like a pro, and you’re … well, you’re not ugly. Some might even say you’re beautiful. The world’s your stage, Jess—and you’re the star of the show.’

Cheshire—a few years later …

‘And here she is—the star of the show! Give her a big hand, ladies and gents, boys and girls … it’s Elsa from Frozen !’

I stood behind the Princess Mobile, shivering from the cold, cringing at Ruby’s over-the-top announcement. There was static on the microphone as she spoke, and every word came out distorted and fuzzy and painful to the ears. It was yet another thing we had to get fixed.

The Princess Mobile itself was looking as if it needed a day at a spa, the lettering peeling off and one wing mirror held on entirely by tape. Pink tape, though—we had a brand to protect. It was meant to look like a beautiful fairy-tale carriage on wheels—but it looked more like a clapped-out van designed to carry drunk women round Mathew Street on their hen night.

My costume was in need of some TLC as well. It was our most popular range—the kids still couldn’t get enough of Elsa—and I practically lived in this disgusting blue polyester nightmare. One of Ruby’s mates had run up all our costumes for us, and, like the Princess Mobile, they’d been all right to start off with.

Now, after two solid years of bringing Disney-fied joy into the lives of kids all across the north west of England (and occasionally, North Wales, which made us practically global), it was a bit frayed around the edges.

Much like myself, I thought, as I tottered forward to greet the crowds. I’d have preferred not to totter, but the grass was really soggy after three solid days of rain, and my white high heels kept sinking into the mud as I walked. It wasn’t raining right then, but it was probably only a matter of time before it started lashing it down—it was one of those brilliant British summers that make you fantasise about winning the Euromillions and buying a villa in the Bahamas.

I emerged from behind the Princess Mobile as elegantly as I could, bearing in mind the wind was blowing my blonde Elsa wig so hard the plait kept whacking me in the face. It was pretty heavy as well—I could end up with a broken nose at any moment. I kept my smile in place and my mouth firmly shut—it would be bad for business if Elsa suddenly started effing and blinding in front of the munchkins.

There were about thirty kids at this party, which was being held in the garden of a very nice house in what the telly always calls ‘leafy Cheshire’. The posh bit—not Warrington. The bit where footballers and business tycoons lived, in homes with cinema rooms and security gates and stables for their ponies. Which meant that I probably shouldn’t call it a garden—I should call it ‘the grounds’, as you could fit the whole of Bootle into it if you tried.

The kids obviously didn’t realise they were supposed to be posh, and were behaving like absolute little shits. They’d fought during the party games, stolen each other’s pass-the-parcel prizes, and pushed each other off their seats in musical chairs so hard that one of them had already been taken to A&E.

The birthday girl herself was called Jocelyn. She was five years old, and already a total diva nightmare. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe in hitting kids—usually—but I’d make an exception for Jocelyn. She was wearing an Elsa costume herself, though hers looked a lot more classy than mine to be honest—more velvet and satin than polyester and rayon. And her hair was real—a gorgeous, thick, blonde fishtail plait that draped over her tiny shoulders oh so perfectly.

That was where the perfection ended. She’d been glaring at me and Ruby ever since we arrived, following us around as we set up, telling us we were doing everything wrong, demanding she won every party game, and generally being a miniature bitch. Her parents just smiled and laughed, as though she was being especially cute or entertaining. Obviously, money didn’t buy parenting skills—my mum and dad would have killed me if I’d been that rude to anyone.