Page 12

Chapter Seven

One month. One measly month to pack up our family home, put our memories into boxes and erase all traces of us from the house that I took my first steps in, the house where I used to make a slide out of the stairs, bump, bump, bumping down them in my Simpsons sleeping bag.

There’s marks on the wall, proudly sketched in pencil, a record of my height for each of my twenty-two years.

We’re going to have to paint over that, I think, and even pay for the paint.

I’ve been trying to keep myself together and be strong for my mam, who keeps crying every two seconds, as we fill up boxes.

“Oh but this is where you threw a carrot at your dad, because he was trying to get you to eat it,” she’ll say, pointing out a random patch of carpet, and filling me in on a memory that my childish putty brain definitely didn’t absorb.

But, every now and then, I have to go into the bathroom and have a small cry myself.

I know it’s just a house, and that the most important thing about the house is us, as a family, and no one, not even a sleazy landlord, can take that away from us.

We carry the memories, the walls don’t. But still, I don’t want to leave this place.

It feels silly, but I almost want to whisper to the wallpaper, to the doors, even to the skirting boards, ‘don’t forget us.

’ I can’t imagine a new family in here, making their own memories, both good and bad.

Because there have also been bad moments, these doors have been angrily slammed by me (sorry doors) and Mam and I have had screaming matches over too-short skirts and late-night sneak-outs, facing each other on these carpets, with me stomping my feet that she’s being ‘so unfair.’ Then there’s the mounting pressure that I promised them I’d pay the deposit for a new place.

I’ll find a way to do it, I know, it’s just I’m not quite sure how yet.

But I know who will help. The day after the PA, I had a voicemail on my phone.

“Angelica, this is Felicity Johnston. But you can call me Fliss. All my clients do. Call me back – I think we could do great things together.”

And that was how I met my agent, Fliss. From our first conversation I knew she and I would get along.

So far the North Stars producers had handled all the media requests, but it was always just a list of what to do that week.

What I loved about Fliss was that right away, she had a long-term plan.

And she took me seriously. Perhaps more seriously than I take myself.

Already, she’s offered me so much wisdom and advice as to how to turn my five-minutes of fame into a long-term career, and she promises me that while the lads might be making a mint now, that won’t last. There’s a look in her eyes like she sees me as a human being rather than a quick buck, a person not a payout.

I guess I might not have been in this game long, but as Fliss told me, if I can sniff out a phoney, I’ll survive longer.

So now I’ve got all these long-term plans, like how eventually I’ll host my own show, maybe have my own clothing line and be the face of a make-up brand, and I feel really excited about the future.

The problem is that all feels really far away, and I can’t let my parents down. It’s just not even a possibility.

Life lately has mostly either been packing and panicking when I’m in back home, or living a glam celebrity life on trips down south while pretending everything’s fine.

Take tonight. I’m currently covered in dust from crawling under my childhood bed to clear it out (and getting really distracted by my old diaries, honestly Damon should read these and see he’s really not that special, since the age of twelve I’ve had some obsession or another with a boy).

But I need to hop on a train to London soon (told you it’s practically my new home) as this evening we’ve been invited to the BTA’s!

They’re the biggest telly awards around, and all of the North Stars lot have been invited, even the crew, so it’ll be epic.

We’re being put up in a swanky apartment overlooking the Thames and of course, getting all glammed up before walking the red carpet and watching the awards surrounded by all the other celebrities.

I can’t wait. Me and Mam have been chatting non-stop (in between the crying fits over all the memories we keep packing away) about what celebs I might see tonight.

She’s convinced that all these stars are going to meet me, and either fall instantly, deeply in love or offer me a gig on their shows. I’m not so sure.

When we arrive at the apartment that the North Stars production company have rented out, us girls can’t stop running around screaming.

Even Samantha joins us in excitement, grabbing my hand and pulling me through exclaiming “have you seen the hot tub?” and “oh my god come jump on this bed with me, it’s sooooo soft.

” The flat is on the 14th floor of an all-glass block, and it’s the penthouse suite so the lift opens directly into it.

It’s got floor-to-ceiling windows and a deep, wraparound balcony, so you can walk from each bedroom out onto it and use it as a walkway to the living room.

And the views! The London Eye is so close to us I swear, if I was some sort of stunt woman, I could jump from the balcony and grab onto one of the pods and go for a ride.

The Thames is below our feet and there’s bean bags and sunloungers and heaters out there.

Not that we need to turn them on. As soon as we arrived in London, we could feel it.

Sunshine! It’s been cold and rainy for months and while I always say I don’t mind bad weather, that us northern girls are made of tough stuff and can go out in plummeting temperatures, sleet, hailstones and wind without a coat, feeling those golden rays on my face made me realise how much I’d missed it.

Everyone else clearly has too, as it’s just making everyone so cheerful.

The whole of London has their legs and arms out, and the city swelters with sex in the air.

All four of us girls were making eyes at so many men from the moment we stepped out of the station.

Maybe Prince Charming really is just around the corner.

The lads are on later trains, so they won’t arrive for an hour or so, and even though Samantha let slip that they chose to go later, as they didn’t want to travel with us, I’ve decided not to believe her.

Damon says he can’t wait to get here and I’m excited to show him a different side to me.

The dress I’ve chosen for tonight is nothing like the clothes I wore in the house, where admittedly I was too busy having a good time to spend eons getting ready.

But tonight’s different, I’m different, this dress is different.

It’s cherry red, and it swoops to the floor.

It’s even got a high neck so most of my skin is covered, but the way it clings to my body, you can tell what’s underneath is banging.

Or at least, will be banging once I’ve wrestled myself into the Spanx my mam has leant me.

Then, at some point, I’ll have to figure out how to wrestle myself out of the Spanx and into the tiny thong I’m going to carry in my handbag, without Damon noticing, if I’m going to avoid a Bridget Jones big knicker disaster.

It’s a pity as I wouldn’t mind wandering hands under the table during the awards, but getting through these Spanx is as hard as escaping a high-security prison.

This evening, my fairy is under lock and key.

Which both Mam and Fliss would be happy with, considering they both keep telling me Damon is no good for me.

I guess it’s hard for them after watching me cry so much over him in the house, but they’ve not seen this new side of Damon. He saves that just for me.

I’ve also got Verity coming over to do my make-up.

The production company said they were arranging hair and make-up, so I suggested her.

She was so nice to me on that shoot and gave me such great advice, I’d love it if when I’m proper, proper famous she does my make-up all the time.

Particularly as she’s got a rare mix of common sense and juicy gossip.

As soon as she arrives in the house and starts setting up a station in the apartment’s vast main bathroom, which is basically all marble that I just know I’m going to slip on later, she begins to tell me Hattie from BiB ’s ‘spiritual retreats’ mostly involve white power and shagging each other.

“And then Tarquin’s laid-back personality is secretly hiding a gambling addiction. ”

I’ve never thought about it before but make-up artists hear everything .

They know who’s secretly gay, who’s shagging who and who’s a total bitch.

Verity’s even told me sometimes people fake relationships.

Maybe I’m totally gullible, but before I entered into this industry I just assumed that everything I read about in the papers was basically real.

“No, sweetie,” Verity’s saying while dabbing powder on my cheeks, baking it in.

“What happens is, say someone has a show to promote, or they need publicity for whatever reason, then their agent will find someone else famous for them to start a relationship with.”

“Like matchmaking?”

“Not exactly. Take that singer, Kady James. Her last relationship, her and Cosimo Drake? That was all fake.”

“What?” screeches Madison from the corner. “I loved those two, I was devastated when they broke up.”

“He’s gay,” says Verity. “His actual boyfriend is a really good friend of mine. He works in finance, totally non-showbiz job. Huge dick.”

“Dollar and dick,” sighs Layla. “Isn’t that what we all want?”