Generation Next (21 page)

I'm awake, but my eyes are still closed, and for the first thirty seconds of consciousness I'm not entirely sure where I am. It takes a while for my brain to click into gear, and then I remember. I open my eyes and take in the familiar surroundings of my own room in Mum and Dad's house and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. Thank
God. I'm not in LA anymore. I'm home, and I've slept for fourteen hours. For a second, just a second, everything else—the ruined interview, the blackmail, flying home from LA in disgrace—feels like it might have happened to someone else, but that isn't the case. As I slowly wake up, it all becomes real again.

I'm barely sitting up in bed when Mum taps on the door and comes in with a cup of tea, smiling and setting it down on the bedside table.

“You OK, Jack?”

“I think so,” I say. “What about you, Mum, are you all right?”

She sits down on the end of my bed.

“Oh, you know, I'll get there. I'm still in shock, I suppose, and I don't know what to expect with all this treatment they've got in store for me. Half the time when the doctors talk, you need a bloody interpreter, it's all so complicated.”

I nod sympathetically, taking a sip of tea.

“How are you feeling about the op on Thursday?”

“Oh, all right, I suppose,” she says, and then she pulls this goofy face, putting her hands around her throat and sticking her tongue out, which makes me laugh. I know deep down that she's frightened, but, just like Mum always does, she's trying to make me feel better about it.

“Look, I've got some egg and bacon on the go if you fancy it,” she says. “A good old English breakfast; you could probably do with that, eh?”

“Yeah, I'm sick of pancakes and syrup,” I say, running my hands through my hair. “I'll have a quick wash and come down.”

Mum stands up and heads for the door and I watch for any telltale signs of her illness. There aren't any—she looks as healthy and sturdy as ever. It makes what's happening—the fact that she has to have this major operation—feel even more surreal and awful than it already does.

“I'll put some of that nice coffee on that you like,” she says. “Then we can have a proper chat, OK?”

“OK, Mum.” I try to smile, but my facial muscles don't seem to be doing what I want them to.

Once she's gone, I go to pick up my phone but then think better of it. I can't face the horror of the blackmail situation just yet. And do I really need to plow through another ten pages of vicious tweets and bitchy blogs reminding me how badly I screwed up in LA and that GenNext is probably dead in the water? I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it. I'll have to deal with it all sooner or later, but not five minutes after I've opened my eyes, you know?

In the bathroom, while I'm cleaning my teeth, my mind traitorously flips back to the aftermath of that horrendous non-interview with Harriet Rushworth. I try to blink it away, but it's like my memory is on rewind, and flashes and moments from those final forty-eight hours in LA start speeding through my brain . . .

It wasn't pretty, the fall-out from the Harriet interview. Austin hardly spoke to me the following day, especially after it all went viral. God, there must have been forty different phone-filmed videos of me going wacko on that stage, all from different angles. Even I couldn't believe it was me up there when I watched some of them back. I looked like the biggest idiot of all time. Now I knew what “going viral” truly meant as the videos were shared again and again all over the world. I was so mortified, I just stayed in my room until it was time to catch the flight home. It seemed easier to stay out of everyone's way and stress over the threat from Herald—and my public meltdown—on my own.

When AJ popped up later to see how I was doing, I found that I didn't have much to say for myself.

“Have you spoken to Sai and Ava?” I asked him sheepishly.

He nodded and wrung his hands together nervously. “They're pretty furious with you, Jack. They feel like everything was going so well with GenNext and that you've thrown it away. Even more so after they supported you over the whole Herald Media thing. They feel like all their chances have been blown in just a couple of days and that it's . . . well, they feel like it's down to you.”

“Of course,” I said. What else could I say?

I'd had a couple of texts from Ava already, the last of which left me in no doubt as to how she was feeling.

As terrible as I felt about letting Austin, Sai and Ava down, there was still something far more urgent to deal with. As soon as AJ left my room that afternoon, I steeled myself to phone Hunter. The thought of speaking to him made my stomach turn, but I didn't see what choice I had. Since the disastrous interview, I'd had another threatening message from the blocked number. Reading it made my blood run cold. Herald still wanted us—and they were still prepared to leak the video if we said no—only since the Harriet fiasco had gone down, they'd knocked a couple of zeros off their original offer. In screwing everything up so badly, I'd put us in an even worse position; one where the price of GenNext was devalued massively.

To my surprise, Hunter picked up his mobile on the first ring. He didn't sound like his usual cocky self; more of a nervous wreck than a blackmailer.

“Penman, what took you so long?” he hissed. “Do you know how bloody serious this is?”

“What do you think, Hunter? Of course I know,” I said through gritted teeth. “What I can't get my head around is how you can do this to Ella. I know you hate me, but Ella? So she broke up with you . . . but a bloody
sex tape
? Really?”

“Shut
up
, Penman.”

I could hear the stress in his voice. I pushed him further, desperate to put the brakes on it all.

“Ella's
seventeen
years old, for God's sake. You've known her your whole life. You don't have to do this, Hunter. You can stop this now if you want.”

“I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to,” he spat. “Once I gave Callum the leverage, he was going to use it no matter what. He decided he wanted GenNext right after you did the interview with The Gloves, and he'll do whatever he has to to get what he wants. So far it's always worked for him.” He paused, and then his voice turned bitter. “Look, I know it was stupid of me to give him the video, but I was angry and I wanted revenge. Things got out of hand and now Callum won't listen to anything I say, so just do what he wants and sign the deal and that'll be the end of it for all of us. Do it, Penman.”

I scrambled desperately for a stalling tactic.

“Look, Hunter, I can't do anything while I'm here in LA,” I said, my mind racing. “I need time to talk the others into it because it's not just me, you know that. Tell Callum to give me a couple of days. I need to get home and convince the others face to face. Can you do that?” I hated having to beg, hated him knowing how desperate I was. “Don't let him release the video until I've talked to the others,
please
?”

Hunter sighed, long and loud. “Fine. I'll persuade him to give you another couple of days, but he isn't going to wait much longer, all right? Call Angela Linford and get
it done the minute you've spoken to the others. Otherwise you know what'll happen.”

So that was that. Besides pleading for more time, there was nothing I could do to stop Callum other than falling in line with his demands.

“Jack! Breakfast is on the table!”

Mum's call from downstairs shakes me out of the miserable memories of the past couple of days and brings me back to the here and now. I rinse the last of the toothpaste out of my mouth, pull on a T-shirt and head downstairs to the kitchen. When I get there, Mum is sitting at the breakfast bar opposite the most magnificent fry-up, arms folded and smiling.

“That looks really good,” I grin, pulling out a stool and tucking in.

“Yes, well your dad's out doing the weekly shop on his own this morning, so Lord knows what we'll end up eating next week,” she laughs. “Now you demolish that and then you can tell me everything that's been going on, and I don't mean the edited version or what you think might be suitable for my ears—I mean everything.”

I flick my eyes upward sheepishly, mouth full of bacon, and nod. Her face is kind but firm, so I know she's not messing.

After eating, I stand up and start pacing while Mum's eyes follow me around the kitchen. Where do I even
start? What should I tell her? I know she says she wants to know everything, but I'm thinking even after I tell her she might not believe half of it.

“Jack, you know your dad and I try to follow everything you do, and believe it or not I do know how to work a computer,” she says softly. “I've seen what's out there online but I want to hear your side of things, that's all.”

“Mum, the last thing you need is to be worrying about all this—”

“Look, Jack, my illness doesn't stop me worrying about you,” she interrupts. “You're my son and I need to know that you're OK.”

I sit back down at the table and take a breath, and then it all comes tumbling out: the dodgy offer from Herald Media, the blackmail leading to the disastrous interview, the fact that I seem to have pissed off virtually everyone in my life, and the reason for almost all of it . . . Ella. I talk and talk, hardly stopping for breath, and Mum just sits there listening, nodding and smiling supportively in all the right places. Now that the words are out of my mouth, I feel relieved—like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders—but I'm not done yet.

“The worst thing about it all is that I've been so scared,” I admit. “I've been so worried about what's going to happen to you, with the operation and the chemo, I've not been able to think straight. Now these people have backed me into a corner, and I feel like I've let it happen; like I've let everything get the better of me.”

Seeing how upset I am, Mum comes around to my side of the table and puts her arms around my neck, pressing her cheek into the top of my head while I blink back tears. “At the end of the day, Mum, I'm no better than the kid who was bullied back at my old school. I'm the same. I've learned nothing and now I've probably ruined Ella's life as well as my own.”

Mum stands up straight and puts her hands firmly on my shoulders, spinning me around on the stool to face her.

“OK, this needs to stop,” she says firmly. “Jack, you are one of the smartest, most savvy kids a mum could wish for. You've done such clever, wonderful things for someone your age and your dad and I are chuffed to bits for you. But that's not the only reason I'm proud of you.” She lifts my chin up so I'm looking her directly in the eye. “I'm proud of you because you're a kind, considerate and loving person and at the end of the day that's what's most important. It's all that really matters. You're a good boy, Jack, and I wouldn't swap that for all the other stuff: fame, money, none of it.”