Chapter 1 : The Beginning

I can remember the day so clearly. I was fifteen years old and I had dragged my best friend Vicky along to a celebrity football match because the Sam Landers from our favourite TV soap was playing. We knew nothing about football, we didn’t even like it very much, but we we just starting to learn how to seduce, and where better to practice our skills than in a football stadium. There would be bare knees and rippling muscles displayed for our benefit, and it only cost £2.50.

We got there early, as Vicky had to leave before the end and we wanted to get our autographs before it began. Our preparations, however had begun the night before with a mud mask, trying on of all of our best oufits and, most importantly, painting of toenails. The morning was spent styling and re-styling our hair (both of us wanted a trendy cut, but we weren’t allowed - had we only known how gorgeous we both were with our trim little figures and long flowing dark hair !) and preparing our make-up. I had a beige skirt and a little beige jumper, with a sexy off the shoulder look, that I had bought with my savings account money, nan said it was for college, but I was sure she would have approved of this little ‘ensemble’. I had ‘borrowed’ a scarf from my mum to stick over my shoulders until we were out of reach of Vicky’s mum. Even the make-up was subtly applied so that the minute we got on the train to go to the stadium we whipped out the lippy and mascara and finished the j!
ob.

So, there we were, queuing up to meet our idol, who was now only feet away. In fact it went so quickly, that we hardly noticed. He scribbled in our autograph books, didn’t even bother to talk to us, or give us one of his famous cheeky smiles, and waved us on. Arrogant bastard. Still, we would skip that detail when telling our friends about our first rendezvous with the lovely Sam.

The match was entirely boring, as most football matches are when you haven’t got a clue what’s going on, you don’t follow the sport and you don’t really care who wins. We got to see one or two other famous bods, and a couple of local radio stars, only distinguishable by the fact that their names were on the back of their shirts, useful that. Then Vicky left, as her parents had important guests for lunch and it was already 11 O’clock. I always managed to extricate myself from her family meals, as her father, a rather rich and important businessman, could also be the most entirely boring, long-winded host in history.

So. I was alone. The match drew to it’s end, one of the teams had won, I suppose. Kissing and hugging was done, the pitch was invaded and the crowd started to disperse. I myself, not averse to a bit of adventure, also did a bit of pitch invasion. In fact, I’ve always had the urge to do a bit of streaking, let my hair down and let it all hang out (so to speak) but in the last few years the indecency of my exposure would be on account of the bulges and bumps and not the nudity thing. Still, I sauntered down and hung around one or two famous people, you know, like you do.

That was when it happened. Like any really life-shatteringly important moment in your life, I didn’t realise at the time. You see, all the fans were crowding around the really famous people, but I’d done that before the match. So, I walked over to a handsome lad, about the same age as me, who didn’t seem in the slightest bit famous, or popular for that matter, and I asked him who he was.
‘I’m Jamie, I’m part of the boyband onetwothree, we’ve just released our first single and it’s my turn to promote. Do you want a copy ? I’ve got some in my bag.’
He had a lovely northern accent, although being a confirmed southerner I can’t tell my Newcastle from my Manchester (oh, shame on you). He was pretty sexy though, and no averse to a bit of a freebie I readily took him up on his offer.
‘Are you going to be on Top of the Pops ?’
I asked, hoping for free ticket (I could meet Peter Powell).
‘Nah, I think that’s just for when you get to number one, or, like if you’re Michael Jackson or someone like that.’
‘Oh, so you’re not really famous yet then ?’
‘We did a centre spread for Smash Hits last week, and we opened for Kim Wilde in Wolverhampton last month !’
Now, at fifteen, the sheer mention of being slightly associated with Smash Hits magazine was entirely, completely cool, so that was it, I was in love, too late to get rid of this clinging limpet of a fifteen year old adolescent, he had my undying devotion.

And so that was how it started. Both being too young to go into the bar after the match with all the other luvvies, we opted for Pizza Hut, and once again Granny’s savings account came into force as I treated myself to a Pineapple and Ham special with a large diet coke, and we swapped stories of friends and school and stuff like that, and, most importantly we swapped addresses. This was way, way before e-mail. Boys who lived further away than the next town became pen-pals, with the idea that the next school holidays, one of you would visit the other and you could get up to all the naughty stuff that you only read about in Just Seventeen.

So that was 1987. The year I fell love for the very first time. The year I met Jamie. Now, of couse, when I read his first letter it just reeks of being fifteen and not knowing any better, nice to know that the jumper worked though, my grandmother would be proud.

Dear Katy,

Thanks for such a great day last week. I can’t stop thinking about you, silly isn’t it. Me mates were really ribbing me when I came back to our house all starry eyed ! I know I told you all about me and my family up in Liverpool, but I didn’t fill you in on the band. There’s three of us in the group, me, Dave and Lolly. He’s called Lolly because he eats sweets all the time and just lolls about. Bit of a porker, but a damn good singer. Our manager is called Mike and he’s really smart, drives a flash car and wears suits all of the time, like even on Sundays. He says we’re not allowed to have girlfriends because that ruins the image, but seeing as you and I are now officially penpals, and I haven’t kissed you yet (although I really wanted to when we said goodbye on the station, as your jumper was really pretty, with your shoulder, like, showing and your hair as well), I suppose you don’t really count as being me bird.

Write soon,

Love and Hugs,

Jamie

I seem to remember re-reading that letter hundreds and hundreds of times. Sometimes I’d read it out loud to Vicky and she would be really jealous, but happy for me, and we would decipher exactly what he meant when he said he really wanted to kiss me and the fact that he signed the letter ‘love and hugs’. We decided that this was definitely going to be the love of my life. In fact, we even bought a wedding magazine, just in case, you know, he proposed or something.

We sent letters to each other almost every week, and, as I went back to school in the September, he went on a nationwide tour, sponsored by a coca-cola company. As 1988 came around and I was busily studying away for my GCSEs, the letters became less and less frequent, on both sides. In May, on my birthday I received a card, with just a little note, saying sorry for not writing, they were just
re-releasing their second album and he would be in touch soon, and to listen out on the radio and telly, as he was doing squillions of interviews.

That was when it hit. Their song, Your my only, a sickening little ballad, with only them and a couple of acoustic guitars, became the hit of the summer, they exploded onto the music scene and they were everywhere. I could not believe it. I’d turn on the telly and they were being interviewed on some kids programme. Once, Jamie was asked if he had a girlfriend. He was the cheeky chappie of the group and also, if I may say so myself, the dishiest of the lot. He said no. I was mortified. Vicky was over the moon.
‘He could have said « maybe »’
‘Yeah, but you know, he isn’t really allowed to have girlfriends, and anyway you haven’t even kissed him, so you don‘t even count as a fling or anything, so he is totally single and available’

So, when I received the call a few weeks later, I couldn’t believe it. In fact, I didn’t even know who it was, when I picked up the phone, but I soon realised, hadn’t I seen and heard that voice a million times over the last few weeks.
‘We’re gonna be number one’
‘What ?’
‘Ah said we’re gonna be number one, and on Top of the Pops and we’ve even hired this big nightclub for like a huge party next weekend and you are my personal guest, I’ve even booked you into a hotel for the night, separate rooms, of course, as Mike says it’s not good for the image to be sharing rooms, and so I said to him that you were from down south and so you weren’t that type of girl, you’re class’
‘We live in a council house’ I said, trying to be earthy.
‘Are you coming then, or what’
‘Yes, yes, this is like sooo amazing. Do I have to wear anything special ?’

I have to interrupt here to point out that the next phrase is etched on my memory as being the most explosively amazingly cool thing that happened in my teenage years, and something which remained in my heart for, well, my whole life until now. Please excuse the teenagerlike euphamisms.

‘Yeah, but don’t worry’

Sorry to interrupt again, but we weren’t a very rich family and all I had to live on was the occasional fiver pocket money and the aforementioned Granny money. You have to imagine his words in slow motion.

‘Yeah, but don’t worry, I’ve opened an account for you, you know, to get yourself a pretty dress which shows off your shoulder, like your jumper, and you can buy your train ticket and pay your taxi as well, you should get your cashcard in the post this week, but if you’ve not got it, you can draw out the money direct from the bank. You got to look pretty if you’re gonna be in Smash Hits, dancing away at my side. You’re me girlfriend, well, you know, unofficial like.’

This was going to have to be the operation of a lifetime. Lies were going to have to be told. Whilst my parents were cool, in the letting me go to local discos and wearing miniskirts kind of way, a weekend with a popstar, including hotel and nightclub, would be difficult to swing. Vicky would have to be my cover. Delicacy would be called, for. Sneakiness and downright underhandidness were required. All of the things that a sixteen year-old was highly noted for, and I myself was a specialist. I started by doing the washing-up, a question of getting them on my side, then I rang Vicky and told her to ring me back. When she rang back, I loudly replied to her request of staying for the weekend to help with revision, firstly saying no, I couldn’t possibly, as I had exams on Monday, and then giving in when she begged me to help her with her maths. I quickly checked with my parents if it was OK, but they were, at this point, deeply involved in a BBC2 documentary on some dead!
person, so, that was that.

The next day was a revision day, no lessons, so Vicky and I revised the banking system, followed by McDonalds and then the clothes shops. I was stunned to know that there was five thousand pounds in my account. No item of clothing that I had ever bought cost more than twenty pounds, except when I was Auntie Francis’ bridesmaid, but that doesn’t count, as the dress was a big flouncy unwearable again type thing, with a hoop. We drew out one hundred pounds, which seemed an enormous amount and went to the local department store. We had only dreamed of buying something there before. The dresses were so pretty, with glamorous big shoulder pads and sequins all over. I eventually opted for a little black number, like the girls on the Robert Palmer video, that way, I could stick some beads (the height of fashion), big earrings and bright red lipstick, as well as high heeled black patent shoes and a batwing cardy in case it was chilly afterwards. With my long hair slicked back,!
I was going to stun London. I was going to look twice my age as well, which is useful when going to a nightclub at sixteen.

The official invitation arrived a couple of days later, and I managed to sneak it upstairs before mum and dad got their disapproving hands on it. It was white, with gold lettering and invited me to a club in Green Park, starting at eight, with a buffet supplied. Jamie had stuck a note in with the name of the hotel, saying he’d meet me in the lobby at 7.30pm. He signed it Jamie, but like the scrawl that Sam Landers had signed in my autograph book the year before. I don’t know why, but that made a shiver go down my spine. A premonition ? No, Jamie was nothing like that arrogant snob.

The next few days seemed like an eternity. I sat in my room every night, looking at the picture of Jamie that I’d cut out of Smash Hits and listening to their song, or, as I like to consider it, our song. I’d put Jamie’s picture in a frame, so that if you didn’t look closely you’d think that it was a real photo of my boyfriend. I tried on my oufit every night, standing in front of the mirror and trying to look cool, pretending I had a glass of champagne in my hand and laughing gaily at the conversation, as Peter Powell regaled me with stories of famous people who’d appeared on Top of the Pops. I was in heaven.

On the day, Vicky accompanied me to the station. She was sooo jealous, I could see it in her eyes. I really wanted her to come too, but this was my moment of glory and, as I had decided to ‘give my flower’ (as we used to say) to Jamie that night, I had to be alone. I would leave my little home town a girl and return a woman. If only I didn’t have a huge spot burgeoning on my chin, it would have been a kodak moment.

Arriving at Victoria station, I took advantage of my overflowing bank account and took a taxi to the hotel. I was at least six hours too early, but as I had to look super that night, I would need loads of preparation time. Everything in London just seemed so big. The taxi driver waffled on about the weather or something, but I just looked out of the window at this big grown-up world and concentrated on being as grown-up as I could. When we arrived there were barriers everywhere and teenage girls milling around with colored in placards saying ‘I love you onetwothree’ or ‘Marry me Jamie’, if only they knew why I was there. The taxi driver took me up to the door and the footman opened the car door for me. I grabbed my bag, quickly paid the taxi-driver and rushed into the hotel. It was so big. The entrance hall was bigger than my parents house. The floor was made of real marble and there were comfy velvet sofas everywhere. People dripping in gold and diamonds and fur (yuk) wandered around, being followed by porters dragging trolleys full of matching suitcases. I froze. What was I doing here. For the first time in my adventure I felt uneasy. I kind of needed my parents, although I’d have died if they knew that. I didn’t know where to go, or what to do. On the telly people walked up to the reception desk, so I did that. A really snotty looking woman with too much foundation and lipliner that didn’t match her lipstick (a recent no-no in ‘More’s top ten guide to putting on make-up’) stared down her nose at me and coughed.
« Erm…erm..I have a room reserved for me. My name’s Katy » I stuttered, feeling about two feet tall.
« Surname ? » She spat at me.
« Ah, yes, well, Jones. Jones is my surname. Like Howard, except my name is Katy » What was I saying, where was this garbage coming from that spewed from the hole in my head ? Pull yourself together, this freak of make-up is no more important than that snotty hairdresser who looked down on my use of Sainsbury’s shampoo. Imagine her naked. Or better imagine her doing a bit fart. That puts us on the same level. Not that I fart, of course, I just read that in mums Cosmo.

She looked at her list, handed me a key and clicked her fingers for a porter. My porter. He’s with me, the porter, because he’s my porter, because I’m really important. I’m with Jamie, and snotty nose must know. I relaxed and followed the porter, who insisted on carrying my piddling little overnight bag in his trolley. It looked so ridiculous, I was tempted to nip into the hotel shop (yes, indeed there was a boutique in the hotel) and buy a couple of other bags to keep it company, but that would be frivolous. My room was enormous. My nice porter hung around for ages after I had dismissed him. I had to literally throw him out. What was his problem ?

I sat down on the huge sofa, and then I laid down on the four-poster bed and looked around at the decoration, everything was gilt edged, even the little cupboard which I later found out was a fridge full of alcohol. For me. Didn’t they know I was only sixteen. There was an en-suite bathroom with a bath that did bubbles, like a Jacuzzi, if you wanted. I would have a bath later and make the bubbles work so that I could imagine I was the snotty, farting receptionist. I unpacked my bag. That took two minutes. I called the reception and asked if there were any messages for me. Jennifer Hart had done that on Hart to Hart and I’d always wanted to do it. Then I rang reception again and asked for a sandwich, and then again for a diet coke. And then I rang to see if they had received any messages for me during the time that I’d ordered my food. The person said ‘No madame !’ and that they would put any calls through if I received them. They weren’t rude to Jennifer on the tell!
y. I would have to be more forceful now that I was a lady of luxury. I stripped down and tried on my free dressing gown (nice present, I thought) and then got dressed again when I remembered that someone would be arriving with my sandwich soon.

Then the phone rang. I almost jumped out of my luxury skin. I stared at the large white (ivory ?) telephone and slowly picked up the receiver (perhaps it was all a terrible mistake and this wasn’t my room after all)..
« Katy »
« ye-es »
« It’s Jamie, you alright ? I thought I’d see if you’d got settled in ok. »
« Yes. This is like the best. Wow. How can you pay for this, it must cost a least a million pounds a night. I bought a sandwich, with prawns, but I’ll pay you back. There’s a fridge with real alcohol in it, and a bath with bubbles » (burbling idiot strikes again),
He laughed, oh god, I must sound so stupid.
« It’s me manager who sorted out the rooms, all you have to do is relax, get ready and be stunning for tonight - see ya at 7.30, and eat as many sandwiches as you want, my treat ! »
« OK, bye. »
« bye, Katy »

By 6.30 I was ready and sitting on the bed. I’d put on my make-up with help from ‘More’s’ suggestions, and slipped into my slinky little black dress. I’d walked around in my stilettos until I could almost walk in a straight line without fear of toppling either myself or someone next to me. God forbid I fell over Madonna or Michael Jackson and knocked them flying. I’d just die. I’d taken a Jacuzzi bath and giggled at the strange sensation of bubbles up my bum. I’d flicked through every single channel on the telly. I watched a bit of the Chris Evans breakfast show on Super Channel. Me and my brother watched him every day in the afternoon. I didn’t like him that much, I only watched for the video clips. He won’t go far, I thought. It reminded me of being at home. I felt bad for lying to my parents. Not to worry, it would be worth it.

By 7.15 I was in the lobby. I had decided that it was too hot for my batwing cardigan, but after arriving in the lobby, I felt really conscious of my pale arms and short skirt, so I nipped upstairs and got my cardi, just in case. So there I was. Sat on one of those big velvet sofas, my eyes fixed on the elevator doors. I crossed an uncrossed my legs, looked at my reflection in a mirrored pillar and rubbed at my blusher (didn’t want to look like snotty fartface) and generally reacted in a sixteen year-old nervous way. My stomach felt like I had ten million butterflies fighting to get out. My g-string (Vicky’s idea) was, well, where it shouldn’t be. I didn’t want to nip into the loo, how would that look if I kept him waiting. I was sweating under my cardi, and the praying that the gel which was gluing my hair in place would keep it in place, at least until he’d seen me. I had a little handbag, with emergency items, such as my lippy and tissues and polos in case I had stinky breath. Oh and a condom (again, Vicky’s idea - she was much more advanced than me in affairs of the heart).

The elevator doors opened. There he was. Behind me a million voices screamed from behind the glass doors of the entrance. But everything was going in slow motion. He stepped out of the elevator and towards me, looking sexy and so much more grown-up than the footballer with the cute legs that I’d met last year. He was wearing a suit which glistened in the lights, and he’d folded up his sleeves like Don Johnson. I stood up, and I promise he just stopped. Fear coursed through my veins. He didn’t approve. I was too tarty, or perhaps not pretty enough. His eyes looked me up and down and then up and down again his mouth cracked into a huge smile and if I’d heard anything above the sound of my beating heart I’d have heard him whisper ‘class, pure class’.