I'll Be Home For Christmas. Abbey Clancy

how much I lucked out – in many ways, but mainly with Daniel.

      It sounds simple. Idyllic, even. But, of course, it’s not that straightforward – nothing ever is. Because I still spend a lot of my time in London, for work, and he’s still based at his farmhouse in Sussex. Because I’m living in the public eye so much even my mum gets approached for selfies, and he values his privacy.

      Mainly, at the moment, because I have a brain tangle about what will happen next. Part of me just wants to run away to the countryside and snuggle up with him for the rest of our lives. We could raise chickens and sheep and maybe even add to my mum’s adorable grandchild collection. I’m sure we’d be happy. Super-happy, in fact.

      I could eat more carbs and grow a muffin top and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind, and we could go for long walks and have long baths and turn into one of those couples who don’t even own a telly. Maybe I’d even forget to brush my hair and end up with dreadlocks. We have enough money, and we have enough love, to make that a possibility.

      But, of course, it wouldn’t work. I don’t really like being separated from my hair straighteners for too long, and Neale would bitch-slap me with a dead mackerel if I didn’t exfoliate every day. Plus, it’s not all about the money, is it? I wasn’t chasing this dream of mine for so long just for the money. Even if I’d won the EuroMillions on one of those bonkers rollover weeks, I’d still be working.

      Because it’s about more than that. It’s about the music. It’s about singing, and performing, and building the only career I’ve ever wanted. It’s about that dream I’ve always had, and about that work ethic I inherited from my parents.

      Daniel can get away with building his superstar career from the sound-proofed comfort of the South Downs – but, sadly, Jessika can’t. Jessika needs to be out in the world, posing for those photos even though she feels awful, going to those parties, and putting in the hours perfecting her craft. Jessika needs the spotlight, even though Jessy sometimes wishes she could hide away in a darkened room and scoff a box of Matchmakers instead.

      And Jessika – I really must stop talking about myself in the third person – has just received what might be the opportunity of a lifetime.

Chapter 2

      It pinged onto my iPhone X last Thursday, and at first I thought it was just something fun from Vogue or Neale or maybe something a bit mushy from Daniel, but when I looked at the email, it came from an unfamiliar email address, but had a very familiar name.

      Cooper Black.

      Cooper Black, former frontman with hit boy band E-Z Street. Cooper Black, whose denim-clad limbs and perfectly ripped abs have graced the walls of millions of teenaged girls. Cooper Black, who is about to launch his much-anticipated, and apparently much cooler, solo career.

      Cooper Black, who is – for some reason – a huge fan of Jessika:

      Hey, Jessika,

      I’m a huge fan. Love your voice, your style, everything about you. I think we could make beautiful music together – don’t you? I have a ‘featuring’ slot waiting for you on the new single, if you’re interested. Let’s talk.

      There’s a lot going on over here in the States, and I’d love for you to be involved.

      And now he wants me to leave everything behind and go and work with him in the US.

      Part of me is so excited I could kiss a camel, possibly with tongues. It is beyond awesome – not only has someone like Cooper Black even heard of me, but he wants to record with me, perform with me. It’s a chance to take my music across the Atlantic, to open up a whole new world of possibilities. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

      But it’s also thousands of miles and several time zones away from the rest of my life. I’d have to move away from Daniel, from Vogue, from my family. I’d have to make a choice that I’m not sure I’m ready to make.

      I have no idea what to do, and don’t have a clue who to talk to about it, either. My mum and dad would just want me to do what makes me happy. Daniel would be heartbroken. Vogue would possibly feel betrayed. Neale would be pipping at the thought of going, and planning his wardrobe accordingly. They’d all see only part of the big picture – and it’s up to me to see the whole shebang.

      It’s way too complicated for me to figure out – how do I pursue my own ambitions without hurting the people I care about?

      At times like this, the thought of dressing up as Elsa and singing to a bunch of screaming kids in a soggy garden seems like an appealing option. The rain never bothered me anyway.

      Potentially life-changing emails from all-American pop idols aside, everything is going brilliantly.

      *

      When Vogue (known as Paulette to her friends – which includes me, but I must admit I struggle with calling her that) – and I stitched up Jack Duncan, we used our position as leverage to get away from the clutches of his record label, Starmaker.

      It was still relatively early days, but it was going even better than we could possibly have imagined. Vogue had been wonderful enough – and generous enough – to let me feature on her last single with Starmaker, ‘Midnight’, and that had gone to the top of the charts and was still being played on radio stations around the world.

      In addition, my first single since our takeover, which had been written for me by Daniel, was a great success, which was a pretty brilliant way to launch the new label. Vogue, I knew, would also be recording some new material at some point, but, for the time being, she was concentrating on getting everything set up, and on the refurbishment of our new headquarters.

      For reasons best known to herself, she’d fallen in love with a former lap-dancing bar in Soho, and that was where I was working today.

      When you first walk into the building, it still feels a bit dark and desperate, but there is a real charm to it, I have to say. It’s mid-way through its refit, and the first area to get the star treatment was the main room in the building, which is now our reception. There is still a stage kitted out with a pole in the middle of it and I have a sneaking suspicion that late at night, when she’s on her own, Vogue lets out a few frustrations by swinging around on it. There’s a lot of dark red velvet and gold paint, and the whole place is always filled with artistically arranged floral bouquets. Lilies, roses, everything incredibly fresh and fragrant – even when it’s just us, we have the flowers. The building is a little weird, and a little edgy, but it works.

      So far, as well as the reception area, we have two recording booths, with plans for two more. The basement isn’t done yet, but, when it is, there’ll be a full dance studio and rehearsal space. Neale has his own empire down there, stocked with cosmetics and beauty equipment and wardrobe, and he’s like a kid in a toy shop with it all. I have occasionally caught him down there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, just looking around in awe, practically clapping his hands in glee.

      The former dressing rooms have been partially converted into offices, for admin, for Patty, and for the extra staff we will eventually be taking on. I say ‘we’, but I actually mean Vogue. She does consult me when she’s in two minds about somebody, but, on the whole, that’s her realm, and I’m happy with that. I’m still taking baby steps in this industry, and concentrating on the music side of things is enough for me at the moment.

      I arrived a little later than usual, as I’d made the journey in from Daniel’s place in Sussex that morning, and made my way into reception. There wasn’t any natural daylight in this area of the building when we first started – which is usual enough for a lap-dancing bar, I suppose – but, since then, the room has been opened up, spring sunlight pouring in and striping the red velvet booths and the exotic blooms.

      Our receptionist, Yvonne, was already at her post, wearing one of those phone headsets that made her look like she was directing a troupe of dancers at a Madonna gig. Yvonne is only young, twenty-one in fact, but already