and was merely topless, his sinewy torso pale above his skinny jeans. JB flopped down next to me as Neale prepared to take his turn, his bulky chest glistening with sweat from an earlier dance session dominated by old classics like ‘Ride on Time’, ‘Pump Up the Jam’ and ‘No Limits’. He gave me a sideways grin as we watched Neale nail the double twelve he needed to win. JB stood up, saluted him, and very slowly stripped off his last sock, like he was doing some kind of teasing burlesque routine.
Neale fanned his face in a mock sincerity that I suspected was very much real. It was obviously the sexiest foot he’d ever seen in his entire life.
‘So,’ said JB, taking a big gulp of his Jack Daniel’s and Coke, ‘the thing to remember about Cooper Black is that he’s solid. He’s got this whole all-American jock thing going on, with the perfect hair and the shiny teeth and the wholesome boy-next-door smile, but underneath all that, he’s a solid guy. That’s an act – like my wild boy sex machine was an act.’
I glanced at him – sitting there in his knickers, tendrils of rough black hair curling onto broad shoulders – and suspected that was no act. He was a wild boy sex machine, just not in quite the way most of his fans thought he was.
‘So . . . he’s nice?’ I asked, incapable of forming a more incisive question due to the fact that most of the blood in my veins had been turned into tequila.
‘Yeah, he’s nice, but he’s funny too. Real funny, the guy has a wicked sense of humour. And he’s talented. I can’t sing – I can dance a little and I look good – but Cooper? He’s the whole package. He always wanted to write his own songs, get into better material, but the way the band was marketed held him back. Now he’s going solo, he’ll fly – and his new stuff is awesome. I’ve heard some of it, and you can believe the hype. If he’s asking you to get involved, I’d say go for it. It’s a hell of a chance. Plus, I can tell you two would hit it off.’
Neale sat down on the other side of me, squashing me between the two of them. His legs were vibrating like somebody had wound him up – a clockwork stylist.
‘Plus, you know, think of the nights out!’ Neale said. ‘And the parties! And the outfits!’
If you’d asked me that morning, none of that would have sounded attractive. That morning, I was distressed at the thought of spending even one night away from Daniel and our life together. That morning, the idea of jetting off to the States was a worry, not an opportunity.
Now, though, I was beginning to see things slightly differently. Even setting aside everything that had happened with Jack and Vogue, which had really unsettled me, I’d also had a brilliant night out with these two. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a complete drink-yourself-daft, get-home-with-the-milkman blow out like this.
When I had to, I attended showbiz parties and events – it was part of my job, and I did enjoy it a lot of the time. But it was work – there was pressure to look a certain way, behave a certain way, to not flash my gusset or vomit in a gutter. And behind it all, there was always part of me that just wanted to bin it all off and go home to Daniel, and my other life.
Tonight, though, hadn’t been like that. It had just been fun, pure and simple. Being out with Neale, who I could trust with my life, and JB, who was all kinds of hilarious, was different. It was even, I had to admit to myself, more fun than being with Daniel.
I love my Daniel to bits, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not a party animal. He’s a stay-at-home creature. That’s the way he’s always been, and he isn’t going to change. I wouldn’t want him to change – but maybe, if I’m entirely honest, I did also kind of miss this sort of thing. The daftness of it all. The spontaneity of it. The sheer unadulterated pleasure of a crazy night out with real friends – especially ones who weren’t, at any stage, ever, going to try to stick their hand up my top.
Usually, on my nights away from Daniel, I’m sad. I sit in my flat, after whatever event I’ve been to, and I miss him like crazy. We spend hours talking on the phone or on Skype, and I never feel totally happy until we’re together again. Tonight hadn’t been like that – in fact I’d barely thought about him, or even looked at my phone.
Partly because I was just having so much fun, and partly because when I did think about him, there was a tiny little ‘ick’ feeling making itself present. I wasn’t used to that – we barely even argued, me and Daniel, we were usually so happy and settled together. But no matter how many times I told myself he hadn’t done anything wrong by not mentioning the Jack thing to me, the tiny little ‘ick’ was still there, tinging my thought processes.
The only thing to do in a situation like that, I’ve found, is to get so drunk you don’t have any thought processes at all – and this had been the perfect way of doing that. Plus, you know, I had managed to get the scoop on Cooper Black, and his levels of showbiz twattery – which were, it seemed, superbly low for a man who’d essentially grown up in the spotlight of the music industry, adored and moulded since he was fifteen.
Still, even acknowledging the ‘ick’ had made me feel a bit uncomfortable – and also reminded me that it was almost 5 a.m., and that I hadn’t called Daniel like I’d said I would. That was bad. He didn’t deserve the silent treatment. I needed to get back to my flat and grab a few hours’ sleep before I phoned him and tried to set this right.
I drained the last of my tequila, and turned to Neale. ‘I’m going to get off now,’ I said.
‘Oh Lord, me too! He’s only got his knickers left!’
I followed his gaze to the darts board, and saw JB fail to score yet again as his dart thudded to the ground. He turned towards us, and gave Neale the kind of lazy grin that promised every sin known to man, and then some. I couldn’t help but laugh, and gave my friend a quick cuddle. I had no idea what was going to happen with those two, but I was definitely the spare wheel tonight.
I gathered my belongings – bag, phone, the inflatable hammer we’d somehow acquired during our evening’s adventures – and stood up to leave.
Despite his distracted state, Neale still managed to grab my hand, and issued a strict warning about making sure I got straight into a cab, and didn’t talk to strangers on the way home.
‘Thanks,’ I said, leaning down to kiss the velveteen fuzz of his cropped hair. ‘See you tomorrow.’
By the time I got back to my flat, I was about 50 per cent sober. The cabbie had been chatty, and reminded me so much of my dad I almost had a drunk-girl weep as we bounced over London potholes and braked to avoid hen parties crossing the road in zigzags. I signed his receipt pad for his daughter, and posed for the obligatory selfie, aware that I had now become the star in one of those familiar ‘back of my cab. . .’ stories that I’d grown up hearing. I was just glad I hadn’t puked out of the window, or tripped over the kerb as I got out in front of my building.
When I was signed to Starmaker, I had a big place with views over the city, all paid for by the record label. It was plush and luxurious but completely lacking in soul or anything that made it feel like home. These days, I rented a much smaller but also much nicer place in West London. There was still a doorman – I needed the security, and my dad had insisted – but it’s all a lot less fake and grand.
I fumbled with the key a bit as I let myself in – I was still about 50 per cent drunk after all – and also struggled to get my inflatable hammer through the door. It took a while for the logistical part of my brain, which is never to the forefront to be honest, to realize I had to turn it lengthways rather than widthways, to squash it through.
The first thing that hit me when I closed the door behind me was the smell. It smelled of toast, which immediately made my mouth water. Then I noticed the fact that the lights were off in the living room, and I always leave them on – some kind of hangover from the days when I lived in a much less desirable part of a city, and always wanted to give the impression there was someone home.
I dropped my bag, and hefted my inflatable hammer, taking up a street fighter pose. Or as much of a street fighter pose as you can