Unbreakable: My New Autobiography Read Free Page B

Minogue clearly didn’t hate me enough to give back a designer handbag.
    A little later, we were all standing behind the giant screen that the judges walk through at the start of each live show. Simon was on camera right, with Dannii next to him, then me, then Louis. Me and Louis were in a heightened state of anticipation, sharing jokes. By then, I had virtually forgotten the little contretemps. I had made my position clear – albeit loudly and colourfully – and, as far as I was concerned, we could move on.
    But to my left? Nada . It was like the Berlin Wall had been rebuilt in the six-inch space between us. She wouldn’t even look at me. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. She started whispering something in Simon’s ear, like a bloody kid in the playground, and Louis rolled his eyes at me. We felt like we had herpes.
    Then suddenly The X Factor theme tune came powering out of the speakers, once again sending goosebumps up my arms and back. I could feel the adrenalin pumping around my body, prompting a delicious exhilaration that, just for a few seconds, always made me feel invincible. And, invariably, prompted me to do something mischievous.
    As the screen opened and we walked out to the thundering roar of the audience, I reached across and grabbed Dannii’s hand, yanking it up into the air in a triumphant punch. Much later, in her autobiography, she writes about this moment as if it was something she welcomed, a peace offering that made her feel all warm and gooey inside, as if everything might turn out OK between us. Utter bilge, if you ask me. I could feel she was fighting with all her teensy weensy might to put her arm down and extricate herself from my grip, but as she only weighs about 3lb, I successfully managed to keep her arm up there, grinning maniacally and thinking, Fuck you , missus.
     
    Dannii is stunning to look at, even prettier than Kylie, actually. Her skin is incredible and she has a perfectly proportioned figure, thanks to a little help on the top half. And of course, Simon fancied the pants off her. I get that. He’s single, he’s the boss and he can do what the fuck he wants.
    But during filming it was obvious to me that there was some sort of relationship going on between them and, the more it progressed, the worse it became between her and me. It was unbelievably bad. She had now taken to walking past me in the hallway without even making eye contact. I’d like to say it didn’t bother me, but it did. A lot. After all, who wants to work in such an unpleasant atmosphere? The days were long and hard enough without the extra burden of spending hours sitting next to someone with a face like a smacked arse.
    I had really enjoyed the previous three series, but this one was rapidly turning into an odious chore. I found it hard dealing with a sulker. So after a couple of weeks of this icy nonsense, I decided to instigate a meeting with her and executive producer Richard Holloway. I wanted to bury the hatchet. You can ignore an unpleasant frisson if it’s just for one day, but this was going on and on, doing my head in.
    The meeting was held in an empty dressing room at Wembley, on a Friday when we were doing rehearsals with our acts for the next night’s live show. It was just the three of us and she perched on top of the counter along one wall, her legs dangling, her eyes staring straight ahead as if she was transfixed by something on the opposite side of the room. Anything but look at Richard and me who were sitting adjacent to her on a sofa. I cleared my throat and aimed my words at the side of her head.
    ‘Look, I apologise if I have offended you. This isn’t pleasant for either of us; I just want to clear things up so we can get a more harmonious atmosphere.’
    Nothing. Her gaze didn’t shift from the far wall, so I carried on.
    ‘What is it you want from me so we can get this to a professional level and get it to work? Shall I walk over hot coals? Eat broken