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It’s also about halfway through zoning her out that I realise that Madison and Layla have completely disappeared and that this girl has absolutely no clue who I am.

“Did you watch the show?” she’s saying. “Sure, the lads came across as dickheads sometimes, but they’re actually so sweet.

Don’t tell anyone, as he told me not to, but I think I might be in there with one of them… ”

Don’t say Damon. Don’t say Damon. Don’t say Damon.

“Damon! Can you believe it?”

She’s waiting for me to say something, and I’m wondering what the hell I should do.

Tell her who I am? That would be so humiliating.

Not just because I’m clutching the flyer she gave me that has my own show typed across it, but also because anyone’s who watched the show has seen me snot-cry about Damon multiple times, before totally and utterly denying that he means anything to me.

On the other hand, I do need someone who works here to know who I am as there’s no way I’m joining an hour-long queue to meet people I’ve shared a toilet with, especially as I don’t know if I have enough money in my bank account to pay the entry fee.

Thankfully, Madison begins yelling my name, saving me (kind of) from humiliation. “Oh my god,” the girl says, even shriller this time. “Angelica’s here, no way, where?” Before it slowly dawns on her, just as Layla’s grabbed me by the arm, that I am, indeed, Angelica.

“Oh fuck,” I can hear her shout after me. “It’s just you look…so much nicer than you did in the house?”

Madison and Layla have spoken to the club promoter, explaining we thought it would be fun to have a family reunion with the lads.

We’re all ushered through the queue, some of whom exclaim in anger at our skipping, others who begin to scream when they realise who we are.

Once inside, we dash up the spiral staircase and onto a balcony overlooking the whole club, where an ice-bucket of drinks is waiting for us in our VIP section.

The club was obviously once a grand ballroom, or perhaps a theatre, in its glory days, when ladies would get dressed up for gentlemen to take them dancing.

Which, I guess, nowadays it kind-of still is, all the girls I can see are definitely dressed up, and they’re dancing but not in a way I can imagine would gain much approval from any fancy Lords or Ladies.

We can see the stage, and below us, there’s hordes of girls in bandage-dresses and skin-tight tiny tops, their hair teased high, waiting for the lads, our lads, to come out.

When they do it’s complete mayhem, the crowd rushing to get closer to the front as they begin pulling girls up onto the stage, twirling them around, picking them up, so the girls are wrapping their legs around their waist, and Damon has even taken his top off and is just in the midst of squirting whipped cream on his chest for some girl to lick off when…

“Actually, you’re in for a treat tonight, as, there’s some surprise guests in the house,” the speakers blast out. “The most famous – wait, did I say famous? Of course, I meant infamous girls from the whole of the North… The North Stars girls are in the house!”

It’s at that moment that a huge spotlight swings round and bathes us girls in bright light, and the lads look up from the stage – Damon with his whipped cream can in hand, fangirl already on her knees – in shock.

It’s not the look I’d have wanted from him, but very quickly he regains his composure and a grin spreads across his face.

He grabs the mic out of the host’s hands and says, “Belting! If it isn’t our favourite girls, cough, sorry Samantha…

” and the audience all begin to laugh and cheer, waving up at us.

They continue their act, including the girl licking the cream off.

But I don’t mind as what else was he meant to do, see me and ask for a towel?

Damon is the kind of lad who gets his pecs out without any encouragement, let alone when he’s got a girl ready to treat him like dessert.

But also, there was that smile on his face when he saw me.

It really did seem so genuine. Something I’m slurring at Reed, after all the lads head on up to our VIP area.

Marc’s nowhere to be found, despite Madison checking every single toilet cubicle for him.

I had followed her around, trying to stop her, or so at least I could be there when she eventually discovered what she inevitably would.

We witnessed two lads furiously jerking each other off, one girl passed out on the toilet with what looked like Apple Sourz sprayed all up the walls, and at one point we even thought we’d found Marc shagging someone else.

But after a raging Madison pried the pair apart, it just turned out to be another Chad Schmidt lookalike.

Turns out you only really need a man-bun to be the dead ringer for a Hollywood hearthrob these days.

Damon is chatting to, but I swear not chatting up , the barmaid (she’s definitely not his type…

I think, despite her having a pulse, a tiny skirt and a massive rack – all Damon’s usual requirements) while Layla and Madison are twirling each other round.

“Yeah, it was genuine,” Reed’s saying back. “But just be careful will you, I don’t think he’s exactly ready to settle down yet.”

Reed’s a good friend as he’s genuinely mates with Damon, but he will also call him out when he’s behaving like a knob-head, as well as, gently (and probably far too many times) telling me when I’m taking it a little too far.

“Anyway, Angelica, come out with me to the cash machine, I’ve got to, well, you know… ”

I don’t actually know. With Reed you’re never quite sure what he’s scheming, he could be getting cash out for magnums of champagne, or he could show up, after meeting a man in a local garage, with two homing pigeons he’s decided he’ll raise.

“Yeah sure,” I wave at the girls to tell them where we’re off to, and we head out into the night.

It’s one of those inky blue nights, where the stars are almost twinkling at you and encouraging you to misbehave.

It could be Damon’s grin, or it could be the shoot today, but I suddenly feel content, as I link Reed’s arm as we stumble down the street together, having one of our typical silly Reed and Angelica conversations all about what aliens might think of us if they were to land here tonight.

It’s as we’re debating whether aliens would love or hate kebabs that we pull up by the cash machine and I notice it: five missed calls from my mam.

I ring her back straight away, it’s late but I know she’ll be up.

“Mam, is everything OK? Are you OK? Is Dad OK?”

“Oh, we’re fine,” she says, but her voice is shaky. It’s obvious things aren’t fine.

“Then why did you call?”

Reed looks over with concern, but I gesture at him to carry on withdrawing his cash.

“Oh it’s just, I wanted to know if you were going to be home for Sunday dinner this week?”

I can hear the wobble in her voice, and yes, my mam’s roasties are the best. But she wouldn’t normally be calling at nearly midnight to check if I wanted extra Yorkshires. “What is it, Mam?”

“I don’t want to worry you but it’s…well…you know how Mr Marner is always threatening us with how he could get so much for the house if he sold it?”

“Yes…” The man that we rent our family home from, have done for years, fancies himself as the Alan Sugar of the north.

He seems to owns half of Manchester – even the North Stars house is leased from him, so of course he thinks he’s Mr Bigshot.

But he’s actually called Callum Marner, and he’s got a ton of businesses as well as being a dodgy landlord, including a chain of basement tanning shops that, I swear, must use actual vegetable oil or something in their fake tan mix as I always come out absolutely stinking of chippie (and am incredibly attractive to seagulls) whenever I leave one.

Come to think of it, I don’t know why I keep going back.

He doesn’t need our rent, or the money he’d get from selling the house, but that doesn’t stop him from calling round every now and then to remind us just how ‘lucky’ we are that he’s letting us rent what he calls a ‘premium executive home’.

When really he’s the lucky one, my mam’s kept the garden in perfect condition and even put in the most amazing rose bushes, while my dad’s the one fixing any problems that come up.

“He’s done it,” Mam’s saying. “He says if we can’t increase the rent to the silly money he’s asking, then he wants us out in a month. And I don’t know what to do, I just don’t think we can afford the deposit on a new place on top of all the cost of moving, and what about my roses…”

All the while she’s talking I’m craning over Reed’s shoulder for a look at his bank balance.

At first I find it comforting, thinking that, like me, he’s got about tenner in his account.

Then, I realise that the extra 0s are not a result of my drunken eyesight.

He’s actually got ￡10,000 in his account!

Ten-thousand-effing-actual-pounds? How is it that Reed’s got so rich?

He’s a scaffolder from Barrow, not a banker. Surely that can’t all be PA money?

“I hate to ask, love,” my mam continues. “You know we’d always pay you back but—”

“Mam, you and Dad raised me, made sure I never wanted for anything, you’d never have to pay me back a penny,” I promise her, knowing exactly what she’s going to ask.

“Are you sure, petal? What with your show and all those lovely shoots and things, and you know we’re so proud of you for that, would you be able to lend us the money for the move?”

Without hesitation, I tell her that of course I will, that she doesn’t need to worry and I’ll sort it ASAP. I say all of that knowing I’ve got less than a tenner in my own account. But I don’t care. I will sort it. They’re my parents. I just need to figure out how…

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