Remember My Name by Abbey Clancy Read Free Book Online

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    I swiped away my own tears—they were going to make my mascara run, and panda eyes was not the look I was going for—and waved until they disappeared from view. As soon as they’d gone, I heard a text land on my phone—from Dad.
    ‘Knock ‘em dead, girl,’ it said.
    They had so much faith in me. So much belief. I couldn’t let them down.
    I settled into my very comfy chair, looking around me.First Class was a bit posh, and so were the people in it. Lots of sun tans and expensive-looking clothes, and fit-looking businessmen who already had their laptops on the go.
    I felt a bit out of place, and a bit knocked for six emotionally by the farewell scene at the platform. I fought an urge to get off at Runcorn and run all the way home, and gave myself a good talking to.
    I was taking a leap of faith. It was time to believe in myself as much as my family did, and make them proud. If this all worked out, I’d be travelling first class everywhere I went—and so would they. Dad would be chauffeured around rather than driving other people. Mum could get a cleaner instead of doing it herself. I could make this work—I could change everything for the better.
    A lady in a smart red uniform came round and offered me one of those little bottles of wine. Obviously, I took it—Dad had paid an extra tenner after all, it’d be rude to say no. I poured my drink, and made myself relax.
    I was going to London. I was finally going to get the break I’d been waiting for. I had to believe that it would work—that my voice would finally be heard by the world, and that I’d manage to fight my way to a first-class life.
    First Class trains. First Class flights. First-class clothes, and food, and a gorgeous place to live where nobody dropped their old kebab wrappers in the street.
    I knew I’d have to work for it, but that was fine. I’d work my arse off if I needed to.
    As I sipped my wine, I visualised my new world. The gigs and the studio time and the fans. The interviews. The TVappearances. The stylists and make-up artistes. The holidays I could afford; the fantasies I could live out. The islands in the Caribbean I could visit. I could almost feel the sun on my skin, it was that vivid.
    I leaned back, starting to feel a bit snoozy. I willed myself into a light sleep, urging my own brain to be positive while I rested—to see those images coming true. To give me the encouragement I needed to overcome the fact that I was practically pooing my pants with fear at leaving home.
    Before I drifted off, I tucked my clutch bag tightly between my thigh and the window, just in case. I was sure nobody in first class was going to rob my purse—and if they did, they’d be very disappointed—but old habits die hard.
    I conjured up a picture of the beautiful house in London that I’d buy. It’d be like something from one of those lovely films
—Notting Hill
or
Bridget Jones
or
Love Actually
—all whitewashed, with steps up to the door, and columns either side of it. There’d be a courtyard garden, and cobblestone streets, and all the cars parked there would be Jags and Bentleys … and I’d have my own PA, and my own stylist, and my own chef … my own songwriting team, my own publicist, my own manager … it was going to work, I thought, as I fell asleep, a big daft grin on my face.
    It was going to work. It had to.

Chapter 6
    ‘I t’s not working!’ Patty screeched at me, throwing a pen at my head. It bounced off my cheek, leaving a faint dent, and landed on the plush cream-coloured carpet.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, rubbing at my face. It had hit me with the pointy end and felt a bit sore. Much like the rest of me.
    ‘Don’t stand there gawping—just get me another one! And get me some coffee while you’re at it!’ said Patty, fixing me with that glare she had. The one she’d stolen from Cruella de Vil. Patty was about the same age as me, but had clearly been taking Bitch Lessons for the whole of her life. She was part