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  “You’ve never heard her sing, so how do you know she’s not better than you, Ali?” Beth continues, having a wonderful time teasing them.

  I, however, am NOT having a wonderful time. In fact, I’ve made a mental note to kill Beth as soon as Ali and Charlotte have walked away. Ali stares at me accusingly as though I’m some kind of threat to her talent-show crown.

  “She’s being hypothetical,” I assure her, my voice high and squeaky under her intimidating gaze.

  “All I’m saying is you can’t go round claiming Ali is the best singer in the school because she hogs the stage for the majority of the talent show every year,” Beth points out.

  “I do not hog the stage,” Ali huffs. “Mrs Jennings asked me specially to do three songs. It’s not my problem that no one else is good enough to perform more than one.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You can sign up if you want, Ruth. No one is stopping you.”

  “Oh! Um . . . my name is Ruby . . . and anyway . . . I . . . uh . . . I didn’t—”

  “I’m warning you now, though, Ruth,” she continues, talking over me, “that the audition process for the talent show is VERY thorough and Mrs Jennings only lets the very best through for the final.”

  “No, I’m not . . . I’m not signing up . . . it was—”

  “What did you do to your hair?” Ali asks Beth, wrinkling her nose. “Why is it so . . . pink?”

  Beth shrugs. “I wanted to do something different.”

  “It looks stupid,” Ali states, before her lips curl into a thin smile. “Maybe that could be your talent for the show, Beth. How to look ridiculous.”

  Looking very smug, Ali then marches away from the noticeboard and down the corridor, with Charlotte sniggering and hurrying to catch her up. Beth doesn’t look embarrassed or upset at all; she looks amused.

  “This is why we need you to sign up to the talent show, Ruby,” she says as we watch them saunter off. “Otherwise we’re going to have to sit through the Ali Show, like every year. On behalf of the school, I’m begging you: please sign up and show everyone how talented and amazing you are! I’ve seen you, Ruby. All you need is more confidence and belief in yourself. You are brilliant at singing and dancing.”

  “Good try, but it’s never going to happen. Thanks for saying nice things, though,” I say firmly, right before the bell rings, signalling the start of lessons. “Come on, we have to go.”

  “Double maths first thing in the morning,” Beth groans as I usher her down the corridor. “It’s a form of torture, especially on a Friday. Mr Jones always picks me to answer questions and he never picks you; it’s so unfair.”

  “What can I say?” I cling on to my books as someone coming the other way barges past me, almost knocking them to the ground again. “Sometimes it’s good to be invisible.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You’re late. Again.”

  I sigh dramatically at Mum’s cranky tone.

  “Mum, I JUST walked through the door,” I say, taking off my sunglasses with a flourish. “Any chance you can give me five seconds before beginning the daily lecture? It’s the weekend.”

  “Is this a joke to you?” She gestures around the studio at all the people sitting in clusters around the edges. My choreographer, Martin, is standing next to her looking furious. “All of your dancers have been here, patiently waiting for you, for two hours. You’ve wasted their time! Do you understand how rude that is?”

  “I texted you to say I was going to be a bit late,” I point out. “It wasn’t my fault! I slept through my alarm because I was exhausted from yesterday—”

  “Which I predicted would happen,” Mum interrupts, folding her arms. “That’s why I woke you up and then witnessed you getting out of bed. So no excuse there.”

  “I wasn’t finished!” I huff, handing my bag to Simon, who is standing awkwardly behind me and looking very nervous about this confrontation. He should really be used to it by now. “As I was saying, I was slightly delayed because I was EXHAUSTED from the billion events I attended yesterday, including all the rehearsals here, so it took me a little longer to get ready. Then the car was late—”

  “Nice try, but I saw Kelly arriving to pick you up as I left the house to come here early and make sure everything was ready. She was there at eight a.m. as requested.”

  “Again, let me finish! I was going to say, the car was late to leave the house. Honestly, Mum, no offence but you’re not a very good listener.”

  For a moment I think I may have gone too far as her jaw clenches, her eyes go all wide and that weird vein on her forehead becomes VERY prominent, but then she closes her eyes, takes a long, deep breath and, in a strangled voice that doesn’t even sound like her, says, “Go on.”

  “Thank you,” I say graciously. “So as I was saying, the car was late to leave the house because this cat came and sat in front of it on the driveway and would NOT go away. Isn’t that right, Simon?”

  “Um . . . yeah . . . that did actually happen,” he squeaks.

  “Thank you for confirming, Sam,” Mum says pointedly.

  Whoops. In my defence, he really does look much more like a Simon than a Sam.

  “Sorry, Sam,” I say over my shoulder, before turning back to Mum. “We all tried to move the cat but it kept trying to scratch us! It was really angry. Simon . . . I mean, Sam had to go get salmon from Chef to lure it away. Then once we set off, I asked Kelly to stop for coffee but she forgot I hate that place on the corner near ours and I was dozing so didn’t notice till AFTER she’d got the coffee. BLEUGH, that coffee is disgusting and way too hot. I burnt my tongue last time, do you remember?”

  Mum purses her lips. I take that as a yes and continue.

  “Anyway, I had to get her to throw that sludge away. That’s when I remembered how good the coffee is in the café in Harrods. So I asked Kelly to head there and then we came straight here. It was only a small diversion.”

  “So why are you SO LATE?!”

  “Because I popped upstairs to the shop floor just in case they’d had the new Chanel drop and guess what? It had just arrived! Such perfect timing! Wait until you see the cute jacket I’ve bought.”

  Mum shakes her head while Martin gives me such a disapproving look that I begin to bubble with rage. This is so not my fault. If Mum and my PR team hadn’t forced me to go to that awards ceremony last night, then I might have been a little more with it this morning.

  But no, I HAD to go because I was nominated for Most Popular Performer, or whatever. It was so boring. And I have two of those awards already, so it’s not like it was a big deal.

  I’m sorry, but the least people can do is understand that if I’m going to be forced to make an appearance at all these events, then I need good coffee that is brewed just how I like it.

  “Come on, I’m here now!” I announce grumpily to the studio, fed up of talking to Mum, who has put me in a bad mood. “Shall we get to work?”

  The dancers leap to their feet and hurry to get into formation. I put my bag down and take off my hoodie, ready to begin my stretches.

  “We’ll talk about your attitude later,” Mum seethes, walking past to take her place at the side of the studio.

  I don’t say anything and roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror facing me. I really could use a break from Mum and her constant, boring nagging. What is the big deal? So, I’m a couple of hours late. We have the studio booked for the whole day; it’s not like the dancers have anywhere better to be! They probably had a lovely time sitting around and relaxing while they waited. They’re being paid! This is their JOB.

  As I roll my shoulders and Martin sets up the music, I watch a group of dancers whispering behind me in the mirror. I notice them all glance at me slyly and then snigger.

  I look down at my feet, pretending to focus on my warm-up and trying to ignore the sudden pang in my chest.

  It’s happened before, that pang. I don’t know why I even care, but any time I ever rehearse for a concert or a music video, my backup
dancers are always talking and laughing during breaks but never bother to include me.

  Not that I want to be included. Obviously. I make that very clear.

  I’m way too busy to stand around chatting or whatever. What would I have to talk about with anyone else anyway? My life is SO different from theirs.

  It’s just, sometimes I wonder what it would be like if one of them came over to say hi. Whether it might be fun to have someone to high-five after we nail the routine, like they always do.

  After a rehearsal for a concert I did in London last year, I was being escorted to my car by my bodyguards when I noticed the dancers and the band heading out together.

  “Where are they going?” I had asked Mum, stopping at the car door while she typed into her phone.

  “Who?”

  “The people in the show. The musicians and dancers,” I’d said, pointing them out. “I think I can see Martin with them, too.”

  “They’re going for dinner,” she’d replied.

  “Oh. All of them? Together?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d hesitated. “Was I invited?”

  That’s when Mum looked up, confused. “You’re busy tonight. You have an album launch to get to before—”

  “I know, but was I invited to the dinner? I don’t remember anyone mentioning it and, I don’t know.” I’d shrugged, trying to act casual and swallow the lump in my throat. “We’ve all been working together a couple of weeks and I was there all day today. . . It seems odd that no one said anything or thought to invite me.”

  “Naomi,” Mum had said, sharing a look with my PA at the time, Mel, “if you want to be invited to things, maybe you could try talking to people in rehearsals. . .”

  “What would I talk to them about?”

  “Whatever you like. You could ask them about themselves or whether they enjoy your songs or thank them for all the hard work they put in.”

  “Why don’t they ask me any of those things? Why don’t they put in the effort?” I’d pointed out defensively. “Whatever, I don’t care. I’m too busy for stupid dinners with friends. I have number-one albums to promote.”

  And with that, I’d slid into the car, putting on my sunglasses so no one would notice that I was blinking back tears. It was so stupid of me to care. I’d stared out the window, comforting myself with the fact that they all wanted to be me. I was Naomi Starr and, like I’d said, I didn’t have time for boring dinners with ordinary people who didn’t even have the manners to invite me.

  Despite reminding myself of all that, I got the stupid pang then, too.

  Oh, and to make things worse, that PA, Mel, ended up selling stories about me to the press, including one about how I refused to talk to my dancers because they were so beneath me and then got upset when they didn’t invite me to hang out with them.

  Which is exactly why I don’t make an effort to get to know my dancers or crew.

  I can’t trust anyone.

  “OK, into positions!” Martin instructs across the dance studio, clapping his hands together loudly and jolting me from my memory. “No messing around today; the concert is on Monday! Let’s go from the top of ‘Shining Bright’.”

  I groan without thinking. Martin shoots me a look.

  “Everything OK, Naomi?” he asks in a strained voice.

  “Yeah, I just thought we’d got ‘Shining Bright’ perfect yesterday. We did the routine about a hundred times.”

  “Well, just to be sure, I’d like to start with that one. Especially as it’s your opening song.”

  “Fine. But I thought ‘Attention Please’ needed more practice. And I also wanted to talk to you about the choreography to ‘Am I Wrong?’ because I’m not sure that introduction works. I was thinking about it last night and I think we should change it.”

  Mum clears her throat loudly, but I ignore her.

  “I thought we’d agreed the introduction choreography to ‘Am I Wrong?’ was perfect,” Martin says, looking pained. “It’s quite late in the day to change it now, don’t you agree?”

  Here’s the thing. I really don’t like Martin’s voice.

  I know that’s not a nice thing to say but the truth is, I have to listen to it all the time and it’s very whiny and grating. I asked Mum the other day if maybe it’s time to consider a new choreographer who doesn’t have such an annoying voice, but she narrowed her eyes at me and went, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

  Which is a weird reply to a very reasonable point.

  “I know it’s late to change it,” I say, my hands on my hips. “But I’m the one up on the stage dancing in front of thousands of people, not you, Martin. I want to be happy with MY performance to MY song.”

  He inhales deeply and attempts a smile. “I see. Well, I guess it’s a long day ahead, then. Nothing we can’t handle.”

  “Actually, I can’t stay all day.”

  “Excuse me?” Martin squeaks, his voice so high-pitched it hurts my ears.

  “I have a spa appointment this afternoon so we only have the morning to get this sorted.”

  He swivels to face Mum, who is now marching over to join the conversation.

  “We only have the morning?” he asks Mum, glancing at the clock on the wall. “And we have already lost two hours!”

  “Naomi, I don’t have anything in the schedule about a spa appointment. You’re here all day to rehearse for tomorrow night’s concert.”

  “But, Mum, you said that if I—”

  “I said I would book you something for tonight if you needed to relax after a full day rehearsing!”

  She’s practically yelling now, making everyone in the room stop what they’re talking about to stare at us.

  “Honestly, Naomi,” she continues, the forehead vein taking on a life of its own, “I don’t know what has got into you but I’m tired of it!”

  “Mum, this is my concert! Why can’t I have any say in how I perform my songs? It doesn’t seem fair that—”

  “You know what’s not fair? Turning up two hours late!” she cries. “Why were you late? Because you drove across the city for one cup of coffee! Coffee, Naomi! And the day before a big concert, you want to change the choreography, hours of work that Martin and your dancers have put in! Do you really think that is acceptable behaviour?”

  “I know it’s last minute.”

  “We can’t change the choreography now,” Martin barks. “We just can’t!”

  “I don’t see why not,” I say, a little shocked at Martin’s tone. “I have some cool ideas. If we at least tried—”

  “Naomi, what is WRONG with you?” Mum shouts, throwing her arms up in the air.

  The room falls silent. I stare at her. A couple of the dancers shift uncomfortably. Martin clenches his jaw. Simon, still holding my bag, stares firmly at the floor, a deep shade of crimson creeping up his neck.

  I don’t say anything for a moment, seething that she’s shouted at me in front of everyone like I’m a little child. Then, I make a decision. I take a deep breath and turn to Martin.

  “Sorry. Let’s begin the rehearsal.”

  Mum and Martin share a look as I move into my position, front and centre of the floor. I refuse to make eye contact with Mum or reply to any of Martin’s “well done” or “nice work, Naomi” comments for the whole morning. I do all the dance steps perfectly.

  When we take a five-minute break, I head out of the studio saying I’m popping to the bathroom.

  Then, I walk down the flight of stairs, past reception and through the revolving doors out of the building and into the waiting car parked right outside the exit.

  “Time for my spa appointment, Kelly,” I tell her, slamming the door behind me.

  “Naomi! I thought Riley said you were in rehearsals for the whole day,” Kelly says, putting her book down and swivelling round in the driver’s seat to face me.

  I put on my sunglasses and flash her a wide, innocent grin. “Change of plans.”

  CHAPTER FIVEr />
  NAOMI STARR PREPARES TO TAKE CENTRE STAGE IN LONDON

  The pop star looked happy and calm this afternoon, pictured here heading into the arena where she will be performing in front of thousands of fans tonight. When tickets went on sale a few months ago, they sold out in record time.

  “Naomi is excited to be performing in front of her home crowd and has been rehearsing tirelessly for weeks,” a source close to the star said. “She’s looking forward to putting all the recent drama behind her.”

  Miss Starr has recently been at the centre of some bizarre diva scandals, including last week when she disrupted designer Marina Blair’s exclusive fashion show. Reports came through yesterday that she stormed out of concert rehearsals because a dancer ate her bagel. We have contacted Naomi Starr’s representatives for comment.

  “You know,” Beth says, nudging me in the ribs with her elbow, “you get an embarrassingly dopey smile on your face whenever you read anything to do with Naomi Starr.”

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Yes, you do.” She laughs. “I can always tell when you’re on her Instagram or when you’re reading the latest updates about her. You go all dreamy and wistful.”

  “I do NOT go all dreamy and wistful. I like reading about her life, that’s all.”

  Beth smiles mischievously. “And wistfully dreaming of being her?”

  “Well, wouldn’t it be cool to be someone like Naomi Starr and have no problems?” I point out, putting my phone away before I drop it. “I bet she doesn’t have to get squished into a bus like a sardine. I told you we should have waited for the next one to come along.”

  We’re jolted forward as the bus brakes and I slam into the armpit of the person standing next to me. He glares at me before “accidentally” standing on my toes as the bus accelerates again, sending us jolting back. My eyes water with the pain.

  “You’re saying you’d rather be driven about in a spacious limo with darkened windows and posh heated seats than be squeezed into the standing-room-only crowd of a London bus, rammed with people who have all got soaked in the rain waiting for it to come along?” Beth rolls her eyes, her cheek squashed against a handrail. “You are such a diva.”