Jocelyn was throwing them all to one side like Henry VIII with chomped-up chicken legs. Ugggh! She was enough to put you off having kids for life.
‘Jocelyn is my niece,’ he said, calmly. ‘My only niece.’
I froze for a moment, wondering if he was secretly pissed off at me for almost (but not quite) slagging off his flesh and blood. His face stayed serious for a second, but then the grin was back, and I was able to let go of the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
I punched him on the arm—which is a sign of affection where I come from—and smiled back.
‘You had me going then,’ I said. ‘I was a bit worried you might report me to the Princess Police for being a bit of a cow about the birthday girl.’
‘Never. I’ve known Jocelyn her whole life and, believe me, she brings out the cow in every sane person. Anyway … now we’ve been mud-wrestling together, how about you tell me your name? Assuming it’s not Elsa.’
‘Ha ha. No. I’m Jess. Or Jessy to my family. And Jessica when I’ve been naughty.’
He held out his hand to shake, and kept his fingers wrapped around mine for far longer than was decent.
‘And are you naughty often, Jessica?’
His eyes met mine, and I suddenly felt very, very warm, despite the rain and the soaking wet costume and the soggy plait.
‘Er … I’m trying very hard not to be,’ I replied quietly, pulling my fingers away from his.
Everything about this bloke screamed money and success and class. He was one of those men who was clearly used to getting his own way—and unless the mud had infiltrated my brain, at the moment he looked like ‘his own way’ might involve me. In the same position as the pig.
Much as that appealed to the lusty part of me—and the part that had just downed that red wine—the timing just wasn’t right. I’m not ashamed of my roots, of my accent, of my home town. And I’m proud as anything of my family—they’re the best. But me and this guy? We came from different worlds. If he was interested in me it would be as a bit of rough (not that I’m rough, but you know what I mean), and it wouldn’t last. And after Evan, I wasn’t ready for another man whose brain was located next to his dangly bits.
I busied myself over by the snow machine, unplugging the bastard thing, winding up the wires, and stowing the plug in the back. He followed me over, which I somehow knew he would.
‘I’m Jack,’ he said, leaning over the machine and making me look up at him. ‘Jack Duncan. And I was planning on coming to talk to you after the party anyway, Jess. Even if you hadn’t needed pulling out of your early grave.’
‘Oh!’ I said, standing up tall and tilting my head to one side. ‘Why’s that?’ I asked. This, I thought, should be good. He’ll come up with a load of old codswallop about how he thought we’d met before; or how I looked like a Cancer and he was a Taurus; or did I have any cards so he could pass them round to his friends with children …
‘Because of your voice. That performance—before the Unpleasant Incident—completely bowled me over. If you can do that with an overworked Disney song, I’d be interested to know what you can do with original material.’
Well. That one was new. And … maybe he meant it? He certainly looked sincere enough. The naughty schoolboy had gone, and his tone of voice wasn’t at all flirtatious. In fact it was just business-like, and genuine. In all honesty, nobody had shown any interest in my singing for such along time, I’d started to assume I might be a bit crap at it. I did the odd gig at the pubs round town, and won a few karaoke competitions, but it wasn’t like I had a fan club or anything. Talent scouts weren’t exactly camped outside my front door in Dingle, and the only bidding wars I was ever involved with were on eBay.
I might possibly have looked like I was fishing for flies; my mouth was hanging open so wide.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘You look like you might be about to have some kind of seizure …’
I clamped my jaws together and wiped the frown off my brow. That was no way to react to a compliment.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just a bit … surprised. Nobody usually notices. Especially today.’
‘Well, I did,’ he said, ‘and I was really impressed. There’s just a unique quality to your voice that I found so refreshing—and even though I suspect you’ve done that song thousands of times, you still put so much feeling into it. It was … authentic. Do you sing professionally—outside the princess community, I mean?’
I almost laughed out loud, but just about managed to retain my dignity enough to make it all sound a bit better than it actually was.
‘I have a few regular venues,’ I said, not adding that those venues were usually populated by old men with no teeth, so drunk on happy-hour-lager that they barely noticed I was there—and the ones that did, asked me when I was going to take my clothes off.
He nodded, possibly guessing all of that anyway.
‘And have you done any auditions? Have you got any demos?’
Now I was really puzzled. Why was he asking all of this? What was it to him?
‘You’re a bit of a nosy so-and-so, aren’t you?’ I said, looking him right in the eyes. If he thought praising my singing might help him get in my knickers, well … he might be right, actually. But I tried to look tough anyway. A useless effort, really, as I’m about as tough as blancmange.
‘I am indeed,’ he replied, looking amused. ‘But I’m also serious. I work for a record company down in London, and I’m always looking for fresh talent. And you—even when you’re covered in mud—are as fresh as it gets. I have a partner—let’s just call him Simon—and I know he’d be interested as well. Obviously, we’ve just met, and you don’t know me at all, so I don’t expect an answer right now—but I’d love for you to come down and meet him. Maybe get involved in the label. Get to know the business—find your feet a little. There’s always studio time available, young producers keen to make a name for themselves. It could be a great way for you to take your next steps in the music industry.’
As he spoke, he pulled out a leather wallet from his back jeans pocket, and handed me a card. It was plain black and white, but made of thick card—not the stuff we used for ours, which was like tracing paper—and all the lettering was embossed. I ran my finger over it, reading the words, ‘Jack Duncan—Head of Talent Engagement—Starmaker Records.’
Starmaker Records. I’d actually heard of them—it was the label that Vogue was signed to, among others. Vogue was one of my all-time favourites—a diva in the Whitney Houston vibe, but who could also crack out a really sassy rap section, and mixed dubstep with power ballads in a way that shouldn’t work but kinda did. I’d downloaded all her tracks, and—though this must be something I never, ever told Jack Duncan—sometimes sang them in front of the mirror, using the traditional hairbrush-as-fake-microphone technique.
Wow. I might be the most mud-encrusted Disney Princess of all time—but maybe something good had actually just come out of it all. Maybe I’d just got a break—and not the kind that results in a trip to the Royal and four weeks in a plaster cast.
By this time the kids were all running back towards us, screaming and yelling and heading for the section of the garden that had several fancy bouncy castles planted in it. They’d all be covered in rain, but that probably made it even more fun for them. They streamed past us, so loud I couldn’t have said anything to Jack even if I’d known what to say. I was completely stumped. Gobsmacked, as my dad would have said.
Jack got caught up with the flow as they went—Jocelyn grabbing hold of his hand and hissing. ‘Come on, Uncle Jack!’ as she dragged him with her. He disappeared off into the distance, massively tall among the sea of bobbing young heads, and waved at me as he went.
‘Call me!’ he