Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother - Claudia Carroll

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to her. Money was tight and her dad had to slave away all the hours he could to support them. But no matter how busy he was, he’d always rush home and snatch time to read his little princess her favourite fairy story.

      And so this child, whose name was Jessie by the way, grew up dreaming. But never about fairy godmothers or pumpkins magically changing into glass coaches with mice to drive them, which frankly she thought was all a bit daft and OTT. No, what Jessie really loved most about Cinderella’s story was the very last sentence, ‘And they all lived happily ever after.’ Because that’s what she wanted more than anything else. To live happily ever after in a huge big castle, far from where she came, where she could make sure her dad never had to work so hard or fret about money ever again. Somewhere she could feed him more than just spaghetti hoops on toast for dinner night after night, which was pretty much all she knew how to cook. Somewhere miles from the corporation house they lived in, where they’d be able to afford a glittery tree and presents at Christmas and maybe where they could even take a holiday to the seaside, just like all the other girls in her class did. And most of all, somewhere she wouldn’t have to worry about her dad any more. A place where he’d be happy; so happy, that never again would she have to listen through the paper-thin walls to the muffled sound of him softly crying to himself alone in his room at night, when he thought she was sound asleep.

      Then, when she turned ten years old, a life-altering event happened that suddenly turned Jessie’s whole little world upside down. Something which made her feel even more Cinderella-like than ever. If she’d been in a hurry to get out and make her dreams come true before, now she was in a race against the clock. But all the odds in life’s lottery seemed to be stacked against her. Because how could a girl from the wrong side of the tracks ever hope to live a life of wealth and security? She wasn’t brainy enough to be a successful doctor or sharp enough to be a rich lawyer, even if they could have afforded the college fees. And that’s when Jessie realised exactly how she could unlock the low door in the wall that would lead her to this magical wonderland.

      Fame, she decided, would be her key. Her escape.

      Celebrity. Because nobody minded where stars came from or how little they had growing up, did they? She’d work hard, shake off her past, haul herself up and become a real-life rags-to-riches success story, with all the trappings, just like the presenters she loved watching on TV. And their job seemed so, so easy. Talking into a microphone. Asking questions to interviewees, then nodding and listening. Sure any eejit could do that! And if there was anything Jessie was good at, it was asking questions and listening. It would be a doddle. She could do it in her sleep. She’d get paid a fortune, be able to afford beautiful things, be recognised everywhere she went and, most of all, be able to get far away from where she came and take proper care of her dad in a house so big you could nearly sign a peace treaty in it.

      And of course if she just happened to meet Prince Charming along the way, then whoop-di-do…

NINETEEN YEARS LATER

       Chapter One

      ‘Once upon a time, there lived a stunning, modern-day princess whose life was so perfect, it was like a beautiful dream. And here she lives, in her very own fabulous palazzo, with real-life Prince Charming, successful entrepreneur Sam Hughes. I’m speaking, of course, about the nation’s favourite TV girl, who’s kindly invited me into her breathtaking home today, the one and only Jessie Woods!’

      ‘And……CUT!’

      Oh God, I knew this was a bad idea. In fact, there’s so much wrong with that last statement, I don’t even know where to begin. For starters, my house is definitely not a ‘palazzo’, that’s just what pushy estate agents call it, just because there happens to be a lot of pink marble going on. Which looks great in photos but, take it from me, is like living inside an ice rink in winter. Well, either an ice rink or a mausoleum. It isn’t mine either, I’m only renting it from a couple who are away for a few years. If it was properly mine, I’d have to do a major rethink on all the pink; from certain angles, it’s like something Jordan vomited up. Oh, and I don’t live with Sam either, not officially anyway. He still has his own place down in the country because, get this, he thinks here is too small for a couple. His home, by the way, is the approximate size of Versailles.

      ‘Jessie, do you think we could get a shot of you over here at the grand piano?’ Katie, the interviewer, trills across the room at me, to where I’m perched up on a bar stool, still getting make-up slapped on and nowhere near camera-ready. For the record, Katie’s absolutely lovely; young and spray-tanned and skinny, hungry for work and only delighted to be in front of a TV camera. Just like I was at her age. In fact, give her another two years and she could very well end up doing my job. She’s also bouncy and energetic and, when there’s a microphone in her hand, talks in exactly the same sing-song cadences that air hostesses do. Honest to God, she’ll be doing seat-belt demonstrations next. Plus, like most TV presenters, she talks in exclamation marks and uses the word ‘fabulous’ a lot.

      ‘Oooh, Jessie, I’ve just had a fabulous idea. Maybe we could film you actually tinkling away at the piano? Would that be OK, do you think?’

      She beams at me, brightly, expectantly, and I haven’t the heart to tell her that the only thing I could possibly manage to bash out would be ‘Chopsticks’. The piano, like so much in this house, is kind of just for show, really. I mean, no one actually plays these things outside of concerts in Carnegie Hall, do they?

      ‘Oh, no, hold on, wait now…I’ve a far more fabulous idea,’ Katie thankfully changes her mind, but still somehow manages to sound like cabin crew cheerily telling you to clip up the tray in front of you, that there’s only fifteen minutes to landing. ‘Instead, how about a shot of you standing just here by the piano and talking us through all the amazing photos you’ve displayed on it? Yeah? Wouldn’t that just be, emmmmm…what’s the word? Fabulous!’

      ‘Yes, Katie. That would be…fabulous.’

      I am such a moron. When will I learn that it’s a really crappy idea to let a film crew into your house to shoot an ‘at-home-with, day-in-the-life-of’ piece when a) I’m as hung over as a dog, b) on account of point a), I’ve had exactly seventeen minutes’ sleep, c) I only barely managed to haul myself out of bed in time to clean up the living room for this lot arriving, so if they ask to see any other room, I’m finished. In this house, the law of mess transference applies; i.e., no sooner do I tidy one room than an equal and corres-ponding amount of clutter appears somewhere else. Plus, because the downstairs loo has been blocked for about three weeks now, the entire house is beginning to smell like low tide in Calcutta and I can’t afford to get a plumber out. Ahhh, plumbers. God’s way of telling you that you make too little money. Worst of all, though, is point d) in what’s become something of a monthly nightmare in this house: my Visa bill has just arrived in a worryingly thick envelope and is now plonked on the fireplace looking accusingly at me, almost daring me to open it.

      I’ll come back to that last point later. What’s immediately bothering me now is that the poor unfortunate make-up artist is having a right job of it trying to disguise the purpley bits under my saggy, baggy, bloodshot eyes, to make me look even halfway human. Because I’m supposed to be all glowing and healthy and radiant for this shoot, not pasty and washed out, with a tongue that feels like carpet tiles and a cement mixer churning round inside my brain.

      Then another horrible tacked-on worry; my agent would put me up against a wall and shoot me if he could see the minging state of me right now. In fact, it was his idea that I take part in this whole, lunatic A Day in the Life documentary, on the grounds that the TV show that I present is coming up to its season finale, which means my contract is up for renewal, which means, in his sage words, it’s time to ‘Beef up your profile and hope for the best.’

      The show I front, you see, is a light, fluffy, tea-time, family-friendly programme called Jessie Would, where people text in mad, wacky ideas

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