Page 2

Chapter One

My heart won’t stop beating. I know I want my heart to beat, it can’t not beat.

I’d be dead then – here lies Angelica, she had a rabbit called Jeffrey, could drink a shot out of her cleavage and knew the lyrics to every Spice Girl song, ever.

Not much to leave behind, is it? No, what I mean is, it’s beating really, really fast. Like, too fast. Boom, boom, boom it goes, jack-hammering away in my chest… and I regret everything.

How did I get here, wobbling on my patent platform shoes, in some club that’s all done up like the jungle? One minute, I was just sipping my cocktail, trying to be sensible Angelica, and the next I feel like I’m flying. It’s slowly dawning on me what I’ve done…and what I’ve put at risk.

I should have known Samantha was up to something.

She’s been nagging me for weeks about being a goody two shoes, for never touching the pills she keeps stashed on her.

When we met during the first day filming North Stars , over two months ago, I thought she was so sophisticated.

Samantha Savoy, already a local radio presenter, had been hired as the voice of the show – she was meant to be the professional out of all of us.

But that very first night at the club before we’d even started filming, she pulled a white baggie out of her bra.

I wasn’t naive, I’d seen it from the sidelines, but it was never my scene, and I’d thought no one would be that blatant.

Of course, tomorrow, when the whole country watches the premiere of our new reality show, no one will see that.

I learnt pretty quickly that what’s edited out is almost as important as what’s filmed.

I’m not one to judge how people get their kicks but I steered clear of the hard stuff – that first night, and all through the series.

I’m trouble enough when I have a drink without adding any more mayhem in.

So tonight, the night before North Stars hits TV screens, I was fine with just sticking to the vodka tonics and a promise to be in bed at a (vaguely) decent hour.

After all those weeks of being told ‘not to be boring’ or ‘go on, one won’t hurt’, I could stand firm and refuse for one more night.

It wasn’t like I wasn’t curious though, tempted even, sometimes.

I imagined what Damon would say if he saw me finally give in and try it.

Alright, I know, so sue me. Angelica sometimes thinks about doing stuff to impress lads, who doesn’t?

So when Sam had pulled all us girls together for a selfie then recoiled, saying I had death breath and rattled a tin of mints at me, I’d not thought twice about necking one, washing it down with a bit more vodka and shouting NORTH STARS CREW at the lens.

Then, not long after, the nausea and the racing heart thing happened.

Look, I’m no stranger to getting trashed but I knew right then it wasn’t the booze.

Sam had slipped me something, I was sure of it.

I tried to pull myself together, after all, Sam had been necking all sorts for the entire series, and she still managed to keep going.

It was her typical checklist for a big night: nails on, tan glowing, tits out, pills popped.

Anyway, now I’m standing here looking out at the dancefloor thinking this is meant to be the last night out before our lives change forever, before the world knows our names, our faces, our secrets.

I feel like I’m underwater. My best mate Madison’s dancing on a table, she keeps yelling over “Angelica, get up here.” But I can’t explain what I’m experiencing, I’m in this bubble, and it’s just me, my heart beating and the voice in my head screaming that I’ve made a big mistake.

It doesn’t help that everyone in this place is so busy posing and then there’s me.

I only seem to fit in with Madison, sparkler in hand, newly-whitened teeth almost glowing in the UV light, so tanned she’s practically mahogany.

But that’s Mads for you, she knows real is sometimes overrated and she rocks her look: fake lashes, fake tan, fake hair.

But I don’t think either of us want fake men.

None of the lads have bothered to show up.

They promised us they’d be here. That’s why we’ve got this massive booth, a treasure chest full of booze sitting on the table, which was brought over by all these people waving sparklers, dressed up in Tarzan costumes.

The whole club is draped in plastic ivy that keeps hitting me in the face every time I move anywhere.

There’s some kind of Aztec temple disguising the doors to the loos and I think Madison is now twerking with an inflatable toucan.

What time is it? I’ve no clue. I don’t want to ask Mads, she always says I’m putting a downer on the night whenever I want to check and, mostly, I agree.

I met her on Day One – she’s a runner on the show, which she explained meant she handled whatever the crew needed to keep filming running smoothly.

I should have known we’d end up best mates – she’s been the one keeping me sane throughout, and even though she works so bloody hard, she has the energy of ten men.

She’s always the first to pull, the last to go home, and the first one with the stories the morning after.

But now, I really need to know what time it is, as it’s the launch tomorrow and they’re playing the show first thing in the morning, before it airs on national telly, to a bunch of really important journalists and reviewers.

Then they’re going to interview us, in a line-up.

One by one, being grilled with questions like… well, I don’t know.

Madison always says I’m too honest, but I figure life’s too short to not be straight.

What would I ask if I was them? What’s your favourite cocktail?

How low can you go in a slut drop? But whatever they ask us, I’m now going to have to answer while I’m on a comedown from a dodgy pill that Samantha probably bought off some guy with a moustache.

I’m sweating now. My tan is definitely going to be all streaky come morning.

If I even make it to morning. The pill, the booze, the music – it’s all too much – everything down here is louder, stronger, wronger than what I’m used to back home.

I need to have some water, cool down a bit.

Better to look like streaky bacon than dead I suppose.

“Angelica! Angelica,” Madison has jumped down from the booth and she’s thrusting a phone in my face. “The lads, look, they’re in Jewel, Reed’s just posted a pic. The slimy bastards aren’t even coming.”

My stomach lurches. I feel sick and stupid.

What did I expect? Really? That Damon was going to show up here, see me in this dress that I bought in the Jane Norman sale with my last twenty quid, and decide that yes actually, he does want me.

Why would he do that? When there’s been so many girls, ever since we started filming the show, with supermodel legs, glamour-model tits and perfect bubble butts just waiting to seduce him?

It’ll be even worse when we’re on the telly.

Even the ugliest of famous men marry stunners. And Damon isn’t ugly. Far from it.

“Are you OK?” Madison is asking me, as if she herself wasn’t hanging out here, whooping and dancing on tables, waiting for Marc to walk in and see her, looking fit and having the best time ever.

The lads can be thoughtless sometimes, but we have to put on a front, even with each other, by pretending we don’t care.

“Nah, I don’t give a shit about Damon,” I say.

I may be young, but I know enough about heartbreak already to know when it’s too raw to even speak about.

“It’s alright if you need a little cry, you know,” Madison squeezes my arm. She’s one of the good ones, I know that for sure, even if we did only meet a couple of months ago. Funny how a few weeks can change your life.