Star Switch

by Alesha Dixon

  I look longingly at the phone on the table and WISH I could phone my family. I wish I could tell Mum and Dad about the show. I wish I could tell my brothers and Isabella. And I really WISH I could tell Beth. I’ve never wanted to jump up and down and scream in happiness more, and yet I have no one to jump up and down and scream with me.

  When I stepped off stage, Riley gave me the biggest hug ever and told me how proud she was and how brilliant I’d been, but then she had to rush off to manage some admin about whatever we have to do next. And I found myself just standing there backstage, looking around for someone to celebrate with. Anyone.

  But the backing dancers were all hugging and high-fiving each other. None of them approached me. Sam was busy fetching me some sparkling elderflower that apparently I always have when I come off stage.

  “Great show, Naomi,” the sound engineer said, as he came to take away my microphone and earpiece. “You’re a real star.”

  “Oh, thanks so much, it’s such an amazing feeling, I don’t think I’ve ever. . .”

  “Yes, Mike, I’m getting it now and then I’ll be right there.”

  My sentence trailed off as he started talking to someone through his headset. So I came here to my dressing room to sit by myself, surrounded by the vases bursting with flowers, sent from fans and famous friends.

  There’s a knock on the door and Sam comes in carrying my sparkling elderflower, accompanied by Naomi’s stylist.

  “Are you ready to get dressed for the after-party?” he asks as the stylist starts riffling through a rail of beautiful dresses.

  “I get to go to an after-party?” I squeal, forgetting that it wouldn’t be a big deal for the real Naomi.

  “It’s being thrown in your honour at your hotel – the most luxurious hotel in Berlin, of course.” He checks something on his iPad. “You have ten minutes until the car will be here to take you. Do you need anything else at all? Can I get you another drink?”

  “No thanks, Sam. I’m just glad that we’re having a party, it will be nice to thank all my dancers and speak to everyone who put the show together,” I enthuse.

  There’s another knock on the door and several more women come in: my hair stylist and a couple of people who seem to be here just to help me get undressed and then dressed again. As we continue talking, one of them starts unlacing my boots for me. It’s kind of weird.

  “Oh, they won’t be coming to your party,” Sam says, still looking at his iPad. “They have their own one as usual.”

  “Wait, what do you mean?” I ask, trying to keep my balance as the woman at my feet attempts to remove one of the boots without any luck. “Um, thanks so much, but I can take off my own shoes.”

  She ignores me and continues to loosen the laces, while I wobble around unsteadily.

  “The crew and dancers have their own after-party organized by the tour manager,” Sam explains. “Theirs is a bit more . . . casual.”

  “But why wouldn’t I go to that after-party? Surely the point is to celebrate the big show we’ve just put on together. Aren’t they invited to this party I’m going to?”

  Sam blinks at me, starting to look nervous again. I’ve noticed in the past couple of days that he’s grown in confidence a bit. When I mentioned it to Riley, she said simply, “I think that’s because you’re calling him by his actual name.”

  “No, they’re not invited,” he says. “But I think they would rather do their own thing anyway.”

  “Oh. OK. So, if they’re not coming, then who will I know at this party?”

  “There are some very big names on the list.” He holds out the tablet so I can see the names on the screen. “Only A-listers invited and almost all of them said yes.”

  “This is going to sound strange, but do I actually know anyone on this list? As in, is anyone there who is my friend?”

  He studies the screen before eventually saying, “Not really, but I think you met this prince once? Oh no, wait, I think that was a different prince.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Starr, we now only have eight minutes until your car arrives,” the stylist points out, holding up two dresses. “Which one do you think?”

  But before I can choose, my left boot is yanked off without warning and I go toppling backwards into the dressing table, sending flowers flying everywhere.

  The door of the sleek black car is opened and I step out on to the red carpet. There are photographers jostling to get to the front of the rope cordoning off the carpet and as soon as my head emerges from the car, the flashes start going off.

  I’m a little more prepared for it this time and even manage a cheery little wave. I realize once I get into the hotel that most stars don’t wave at photographers but do sophisticated, pouty poses.

  I’ll have to work on that.

  “Oh my goodness, Naomi, you were the BEST tonight!” a woman says as soon as I step into the party, giving me two air kisses. I think I recognize her from TV. “I was in Germany filming for my new drama and I just HAD to get tickets when I heard you were performing here! I am such a fan. Are you wearing Marina Blair? She is literally my favourite designer. I can’t believe you ruined her fashion show like you did. So outrageous, I love it. Oh, there’s Adam, I must go say hi. I’ll find you later!”

  “Uh, OK, bye!” I say, not sure what just happened.

  “Naomi, there you are,” Riley says, tottering over to me in the most amazing high heels I’ve ever seen and looking like she’s just stepped out of Vogue magazine. She has to be the coolest mum on the planet. “Has someone got you a drink? What would you like, sparkling elderflower?”

  “I’ll get one right away,” Sam states, lurking nearby at all times.

  He darts off before I can agree to it or not.

  “There’s a few people who want to meet you,” Riley says, beckoning over several stylish and intimidating-looking guests. “They’re big fans and important people in the industry. It will be good for you to chat to them while I go sort some last-minute scheduling problems for tomorrow. Remember, Naomi, networking is key in this business.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow? I thought that I might be able to see some of Berlin,” I say hopefully. “We could go see some sights together.”

  “I wish.” She laughs. “But we don’t have time. Tomorrow we fly back to London first thing and you have a photo shoot, then two interviews, followed by filming for a skincare advert and then you’re on a chat show. And of course, now you performed so amazingly this evening, your record label is begging for a meeting. I guess they’ve forgiven you for skipping out on the London concert. They want to rearrange it for this weekend but we have to see if that’s in any way possible.”

  “Whoa. That all sounds . . . intense.”

  “I know, right? At least you don’t have to worry about the admin side. That’s my job.” She turns to smile at the guests waiting to introduce themselves. “Now, enjoy your party. You deserve it!”

  I’ve never been to a celebrity party before, but I’ve spent plenty of time lost in daydreams about attending one, usually during double maths when Mr Jones is droning on. This is just as glitzy and glamorous as I imagined. Everyone in the room is someone important and they’re all wearing beautiful clothes and sparkly jewellery. They’re all laughing and chatting and having their pictures taken by the official photographer, while cool music plays in the background and waiters weave through the crowd with trays of tiny, posh canapés. It’s absolutely AMAZING. Just how I always dreamed it.

  The thing is, I imagined it would be more fun.

  I don’t want to sound ungrateful because this is the most incredible event I’ve ever been to and there’s no way I’ll ever go to anything like this again. It’s just, I’ve spoken to everyone I’ve been told to speak to and smiled for a hundred photos, but I’m not really around anyone long enough to have a proper chat. It’s like musical chairs, but with party guests. They seem to be talking at me rather than with me before disappearing to talk at someone else.

 
; “Sam?” I say after a while, when my feet are really aching. “Is it time to go home yet?”

  “Actually, according to your schedule, you will be leaving the party in five minutes.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m ready now, if that’s OK.”

  He holds out a room key. “Of course, here’s the key to your suite. And you’ll be receiving your wake-up call at three a.m.”

  “What?” My jaw drops open. “That early?”

  “Your car will be here at three-thirty a.m. to take you to the private jet so we can get back to London on time, before a busy day begins. Your team of stylists will be on the plane so don’t worry, you’ll be ready by the time we land.”

  “But . . . I’m so tired after the concert. . .”

  I trail off, not sure what I’m expecting. I check myself. This is Naomi’s pop star life and I have no right to meddle.

  “Sorry. Yes, three a.m. wake-up call sounds great.”

  I thank him for the room key and then slide out of the room, without anyone noticing that I’ve left. Which is strange considering it’s a party in my honour.

  The concierge notices me heading towards the stairs and insists on having someone show me to my room even though I point out it’s only one floor up and I don’t have any luggage to carry. But still, I’m accompanied by several porters, who all walk along with me in professional silence and even take the key from me to unlock the door, just in case my hand is too tired to lift it to the lock or whatever.

  “Wow!” I gasp when I walk into my suite.

  It’s HUGE. Basically the size of our house. And it’s so beautiful. Sparkling chandeliers, vases of white roses dotted around on the polished tables and the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. My suitcase is already here waiting for me, not that I know what’s in it. Before we got in the car to get to the private jet, I mentioned to Riley that I needed to pack and she laughed, thinking I was telling a hilarious joke.

  It turns out that Naomi Starr never packs her own case.

  I thank the porters and then, after I’ve shut the door, I take a good run-up and hurtle towards the bed, landing sprawled out on all the silk cushions. I giggle into the sheets and then roll over to lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

  I suddenly get an overwhelming feeling of missing Beth.

  She would LOVE this place. We would be screaming, running around it and then jumping up and down on the bed. We’d be ordering a load of room service and then settling in to watch movies all night on the TV, which is the size of a small cinema screen, snug in our personalized dressing gowns.

  Once I was round Beth’s house for a sleepover and she went into the bathroom to shower and came out wearing a fluffy white dressing gown with matching fluffy white slippers and a fluffy white towel in a turban on her head.

  “Do you like my outfit?” she’d asked, striking a pose. “Dad stole this stuff from a posh hotel. It’s so nice, I reckon I could get away with wearing it out and about.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I’d said, laughing.

  She’d raised her eyebrows in that challenge-accepted way she does. “Oh, you don’t think I’d wear this outside?”

  “No, obviously not. It’s a dressing gown.”

  She’d then given me a sly smile before turning on her heel and marching out of the room and down the stairs, and the next thing I knew, she was heading out of the front door. She ended up walking all the way down the road to the bus stop, waving happily at neighbours she passed along the way. The best moment was when our head teacher drove past in his car and slammed on his brakes when he saw her.

  “Good evening to you, headmaster!” she’d said brightly, strolling along the pavement as he looked at her in horror.

  I’d laughed so hard, I’d almost peed myself.

  I check Naomi’s phone to see if anyone has messaged to congratulate me for the concert but there’s no new texts. I wonder if anyone has ever made Naomi laugh so hard that she’s almost peed herself. Judging by what I’ve seen of her world so far, it seems pretty unlikely.

  She’s missing out.

  Too tired to move, I close my eyes for a minute. This bedroom really is the most beautiful room in the world, but I can’t help thinking that a scruffy dog on the bed, chewing someone’s shoe and taking up most of the space, would make it just that much better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  (AS RUBY)

  Beth scrunches up her face and puts on a voice.

  “If you answer me back one more time, Ruby, I’m going to give you detention! Again!”

  I laugh so hard that the coconut water I’m drinking goes right up my nose.

  “AHH!” I yelp, pinching my nose and grabbing a napkin from her lunch tray while Beth giggles. “You made it go up my nose! It feels so weird!”

  “I told you my Mr Jones impression was uncanny,” she says proudly. “And you doubted me.”

  “That was amazing,” I admit, wiping tears from my eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard into a drink before that it actually went up my nose.”

  “What are you talking about? Don’t you remember when you were drinking that cup of tea at my house and I walked into the door?” She chuckles at the memory. “You made me look like the elegant one when you started jumping about going, ‘Hot water up my nose! Hot water up my nose!’”

  I smile, picking up my fork and stabbing at my salad. “You know, the food isn’t too bad today.”

  “OK, that’s it,” Beth says, leaning forward on the table. “What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the first time all week you haven’t complained about your tray being wet. When I passed it to you, you didn’t say one word. You just took it.”

  “Huh.” I look down at the damp tray. “Yeah, I didn’t really notice.”

  “And now you’re saying the food’s not too bad today.” Beth narrows her eyes at me. “Is the diva side of you that you’ve been bringing out this week suddenly disappearing again? If so, then please can you annoy Mr Jones one more time before you go back to saying nothing in class? I need to study his angry features a little more before my impression is absolutely spot on.”

  I consider Beth’s point. Maybe I’m letting things slide today because I’m getting a little more used to waking up in a mad house with Daisy slobbering in my face.

  Or maybe it’s because I FINALLY had a hot shower this morning.

  I came up with a genius solution, and if I hadn’t won Best Music Video at the VMAs earlier this year, it probably would have been my proudest achievement to date. Yesterday when I eventually got my turn in the shower and the boys had used up the hot water AGAIN, I vowed to myself that this would not happen any more.

  There was no point in trying to talk to them about it. Action needed to be taken.

  So last night, I found the toolbox under the sink in the kitchen and set to work. This morning when everyone’s alarms went off and Roman rushed to beat Reggie to the shower, he discovered no lock on the door.

  “HEY!” he shouted, waking up the whole house. “WHO TOOK THE LOCK OFF THE BATHROOM DOOR?”

  “I did,” I announced triumphantly, standing in my doorway, holding up the lock in my hand.

  The rest of the family emerged from their rooms to find out what was going on and I gleefully filled them in.

  “I have removed the bathroom door lock because I am tired of having COLD showers and I will not stand for it one day longer. You boys are having long showers and taking all the hot water which is very SELFISH.” I pointed at each of them in turn with the lock. “So, this is what’s going to happen. Showers will now be timed. Five minutes each. That is sufficient time for everyone to bathe. And when your time is up, if you are not out of the shower, then I will be coming right on in there and dragging you out. Does everyone understand?”

  They all stared at me in stunned silence. Callie had started to slow clap.

  “That’s my girl, Ruby,” she said, beaming at me. “You heard her, boys. In you go, Roman,
your five minutes start now.”

  He scurried into the bathroom, and when the alarm went off on my phone, I kicked open the door and he jumped out of that shower like a shot.

  It was a magnificent start to the day.

  “Did you see your favourite pop star on Instagram?” Beth says, jolting me from my smug thoughts.

  “Who?”

  “Naomi Starr, obviously. Haven’t you seen what she’s done to her hair? Turns out, I’m a trendsetter.”

  “What do you mean? What’s she done to her hair?” I ask, my voice getting higher and higher with the rising panic. “She hasn’t touched it, right?”

  Beth scrolls through her phone and then holds it up so I can see the screen. I shriek, causing everyone in the canteen to turn and stare at us.

  “She’s dyed it PINK?” I yell, looking at the picture. “HOW DARE SHE!”

  “I think it looks cool,” Beth says, laughing at my reaction. “It really suits her.”

  “She is in SO much trouble,” I declare, angrily reaching for my phone and typing a text.

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE

  TO MY HAIR?!

  EXPLAIN YOURSELF AT ONCE.

  “Whoa, calm down.” Beth gives me a strange look and I realize I haven’t hidden my true self all that well. “Does it really bother you that much?”

  “No, obviously not,” I say hurriedly, putting my phone down and clearing my throat. “It’s not like I know her. It’s not like I care what Naomi Starr does to her hair. I mean, it’s her hair. So, nothing to do with me. I might dye my hair bright neon green. See how she likes it.”

  “Firstly, I’m not sure Naomi Starr would ever get the chance to see your green hair, and secondly, you’d be in even more trouble than you are now,” Beth points out. “I’ve been told that if my hair isn’t back to its normal colour after this weekend, I’ll be suspended. Trust me, it’s not worth the hassle.”

  I’m about to tell her that I don’t care about any of that when someone knocks into my back, almost causing me to face plant my salad. I swivel in my seat to find that Ali person smiling too widely down at me.