‘No idea,’ he says.‘All I know is it was a bugger to carry on my bike. The van is out of action today. Enjoy.’
‘Oh, sorry. And thanks.’
He nods and disappears up the garden path, while I shut the front door and wrestle with the giant cardboard box in the hallway. It says, Fragile, Keep Upright on it, but it doesn’t weigh much. I can’t find any scissors, so I rip it open with the heel of one of Mum’s shoes, so excited that I almost forget to breathe. Inside is an enormous bouquet of slightly crushed red and pink flowers, a box of chocolates (the praline sort, that I don’t really like) and a small, soft, yellow teddy bear, with a tiny envelope attached to it. I pull out the card.
To Rosie,
Thanks for making yesterday so special.
I’ve been to hundreds of Fieldstar gigs, but this was the first
one I’ve really enjoyed.
Can’t wait to see you again,
Love, Max xxxx
Oh wow! This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. Nobody – certainly no boy – has ever sent me flowers, or chocolates or a teddy bear. And even though it’s clichéd and a little bit naff, and the teddy bear is cross-eyed, and I’ll be giving Mum the chocolates, and I will probably kill the flowers before they’re even in the vase, I feel an overwhelming sense of happiness. I feel special. I don’t think I’ve ever felt special before.
I rush upstairs, leaving the gifts and the torn box on the floor in the hall, and, as fast as I can type, send Max a text: Thk u so mch 4 pressies. Ur so swt. xxxxx
It’s only at this point that I remember I was in the middle of a conversation with Sky. The message box is still up, but under Sky’s name it reads, User not online. What a shame. I’d love to tell her about Max’s gifts and see what she thinks, but now I’ve no way of contacting her. And I have no idea when she’ll next be online. It could be days.
I read back over our conversation and realise I didn’t tell her, on pain of death, not to tell anyone about Rufus. I said it was a big secret, but perhaps I should have spelled it out. Still, she’ll get it, won’t she? And, as I said, she’s in Goa, she can’t tell anyone. I’m sure there’s no harm done.
I hear the rattle of a key in the front door. Dad must be home. ‘Rosie?’ he calls up the stairs.‘You up?’
‘Yes, Dad, just,’ I say, walking out of my bedroom, so he can see me at the top of the stairs. ‘Just coming.’
‘What’s all this in the hall?’
‘Hang on …’ I walk back downstairs.‘They’re presents. For me! I was about to come down and sort them out. Sorry about the mess.’
‘Hmm, you’d better do, before your mum gets home. Presents? From whom?’
‘From Max,’ I say, and as I say it, I can’t help thinking I wish the gifts were from someone else.
‘Oh, darling! How wonderful.’
‘I know! Sweet, isn’t it? He’s so generous and thoughtful.’
‘Looks like more than that to me,’ says Dad. He looks at me weirdly, almost as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I would have thought it was obvious,’ says Dad. ‘He’s falling in love with you. A boy wouldn’t make a grand gesture like that unless he was.’
Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!
‘Really? Are you sure?’
I must visibly crumple up because Dad looks concerned.‘What’s wrong love?’
‘But I’m not in love with him, Dad. I don’t think I ever will be. I’ve been trying, for ages now, to make myself do something more than like Max, to want to be more than his best friend, and it’s just not happening.’ I feel I should explain about the kissing, to make it clearer, but that’s really not something I can talk to my dad about.
‘Sometimes it takes time,’ he says.
‘How much time? I don’t have time. Not if you’re right and he’s fallen in love with me already.’
Well, if you’re really sure that you don’t want to be more than friends, there’s only one thing you can do. The kind thing. You need to end it now, before it gets out of hand.’
‘But he’ll be gutted! I don’t want to hurt him. Maybe he won’t even want to be my friend any more.’
‘You’ll hurt him more the longer you leave it. Yes, he’ll be upset, but if he’s as nice a guy as he seems, he’ll be a gentleman about it, I’m sure.’
‘And I’m his “plus one” at Fieldstar gigs. I won’t be able to go if I dump him. Rufus might hate me too. And what about the big album launch gig at KOKO? I’ve been looking forward to that more than anything.’
‘You can’t have it both ways, love,’ says Dad.‘You can’t just go out with Max because he’s Rufus’s brother.’
‘I know that.’ I do know that. I also know what I have to do. So why does something so clear and simple feel so complicated and difficult? Maybe, if I think really hard, I can come up with a plan B.
Chapter 18
A Foolproof Plan
My plan B is simple and it’s genius: rather than dumping Max and breaking his heart, which will probably mean he doesn’t want to see me or speak to me ever again, I’m going to go all out to make him go off me. Then, he’ll dump me instead. And, being such a gentleman, I’m fairly sure that he won’t be spiteful enough to take away my guest list ticket for the gig at KOKO. He’ll see it as my consolation prize.
The idea came to me last night in bed, while I was lying awake wracking my brains for a solution – just like I’ve been doing every night for the past week. It’s a perfect plan: nobody gets hurt. I really can’t fault it. I’m tellingVix all about it now. It feels so good to be (nearly) straight with her at last and to get everything off my chest, to talk to her in a way I haven’t been able to since the whole Max business began. I can almost see the Max-shaped block between us disintegrating before my eyes, chunk by chunk, like Tetris in reverse.
‘I’ve missed you so much, Vix,’ I tell her, hugging her for about the hundredth time. We’re sitting in her bedroom, drinking hot chocolate and eating home-made brownies. ‘Although I really do hate the fact that you’re always right!’
‘I’ve missed you too, Rosie,’ she says, hugging me back. ‘And I’m so pleased you’re finally being honest with me – and yourself – but …’
There’s always a ‘but’ with Vix.
‘… but I’m not sure you’re going about it the right way. It’s kind of a bit … manipulative, isn’t it? I mean, if you’ve decided you definitely don’t want to be with him, then shouldn’t you just be honest with him and call it quits, instead of playing games?’
‘Yeah, but, it’s much less painful this way.’ I don’t mention the wanting to stay on the KOKO guest list bit; she wouldn’t approve. I need her to think I’m being totally unselfish, or she might stop talking to me again. ‘It’s kinder.’
‘Maybe. So what are you going to do to put him off you? Stop shaving your legs? Forget to clean your teeth?’
‘Yeah, they’re two of the options. I’ve started making a list.’
‘Rosie! I was kidding.’
‘Oh, right.’
She laughs. ‘So what else is on this list, then?’
I tell her. My list, entitled Ways To Make Max Go Off Me, contains the following:
1) Stop shaving my legs.
2) Stop wearing make-up.
3) Only clean my teeth at night, and never before I see Max.
4) Chew gum. With my mouth open. All the time. (The fruit-flavoured sort, so it doesn’t cancel out the non teeth-brushing.)
5) Wear baggy clothes.
6) Develop some sort of nervous tic. A twitch, maybe? Or something really annoying, like constantly clicking my fingers or going cross-eyed.
7) Develop an interest in something incredibly boring, like bird-watching, and talk about it non-stop.
8) Yawn whenever Max starts talking about graphic novels, or manga, etc.
9) Check out other guys in front of him. (I might not go through with this one, b
ecause it’s too cruel. I don’t need Vix to point that out for me.)
10) Start being a little bit unreliable: turning up late, not ringing back or texting back straightaway, etc.
There’s also a number eleven, and it’s one I don’t tell Vix about:
11) Talk about how great Vix is all the time, involve her in as many of our plans as possible, and try to make him start fancying her instead. Result: a happy ending for everyone.
‘So,’ says Vix, ‘you’re going to give up on personal hygiene, turn into the wild woman of Camden Town and entirely change your personality. Hmm, have you thought what might happen if it doesn’t work, and he still likes you?’
No, I haven’t thought about that. My plan is foolproof. Isn’t it?
I guess I’ll find out soon enough, because we’re meeting Max in a few minutes. We’re jumping on the tube and going into London to see some of the sights. It only takes about fifteen minutes to get to Leicester Square station from Camden Town and the plan is to do Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus and The Mall, which runs up to Buckingham Palace, like the Queen’s personal, very grand driveway. Max hasn’t been to London properly since he was a kid, so he wants to do the whole tourist bit. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve invited Vix too, although he did say he’d like to spend some ‘alone’ time with me later.
I open the front door to him, dressed in old jeans that don’t really fit and a shapeless sweatshirt. I haven’t done anything with my hair and I’m not wearing a scrap of make-up.
‘You look different,’ he says. ‘I can’t work it out.’ He studies my face. ‘I know what it is – you’re not wearing that black eyeliner you usually wear. You look fresh – natural. I like it.’
Vix catches my eye. Her expression reads: Well, that’s backfired on you, hasn’t it?
This isn’t going to be as easy as I hoped. Next time I see Max, I shall have to dress as a full-blown Emo.
We take the tube to Leicester Square and walk down Charing Cross Road to Trafalgar Square, where we perch on the side of one of the fountains. It’s a glorious day and it’s packed with backpacking tourists admiring the scenery. I act disinterested, like I’ve seen it all before (which I have), check my phone constantly and try not to engage in conversation with Max. He doesn’t look irritated; he looks concerned.
‘You OK?’ he whispers. He’s already asked twice.
‘Course I am. I’m just tired.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes,’ I snap. I’m not annoyed with him; I’m annoyed with myself for being mean.‘Look at all those tourists. Vix has travelled loads, haven’t you Vix?’ I say, changing the subject and my tack. ‘Tell him about when you went to the States. Max has been to America too, haven’t you, Max?’
Max nods and smiles.‘Which bits have you visited, Vix?’ he says.
‘I’ve got family in New York and I’ve been to LA, San Francisco, Washington, all over really.’
‘Yeah, me too. I went to a ranch in Texas last summer – I got to do real Wild West horse riding. No saddles.’
‘Really?’ says Vix, who used to be pony mad when we were kids. ‘Cool. I used to ride a lot when I was younger …’
Anyone can see that Vix has got so much more in common with Max than I have. Maybe he’ll start to realise that soon, and then … Right, now they’re talking, it’s time to leave them to it for a while. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I just need to pop to the loo,’ I say. ‘Won’t be five minutes.’ I start walking away.
‘You sure you don’t want me to come too?’ says Vix.
‘Nah, I’ll be fine, there’s one right over there.’ I point to the café building. ‘See you in a tick.’
I take far longer than five minutes. After I’ve been to the loo, and despaired at my make-up-free reflection in the mirror, I go into the café and queue up to buy a bottle of water. On the way out, I notice a small group of protestors, standing around faded pictures of Chinese people and passing around a petition. It’s something to do with fighting human rights abuses in China. I sign my best squiggle and pause to read about the people who’ve been arrested and tortured or killed. It makes me think how lucky I am to have been born in London. The biggest problem in my life is how to get rid of a lovely guy who really cares about me. How unfair is that?
Max and Vix are still immersed in their conversation when I arrive back. They’re laughing so much that it takes them a minute to realise that I’m standing there. I don’t feel the slightest bit jealous, I feel pleased, and it makes me certain I’m doing the right thing.
‘Hey,’ says Max, reaching for my hand. ‘You OK?’
‘Sure,’ I say, reluctantly allowing him to take it and trying to avoid Vix’s eye. ‘I’m good. Where shall we go next?’
‘Let’s go to see the Queen,’ he says. ‘If she’s in.’
‘Course she is. I told her we were coming.’
We have fun the rest of the afternoon, seeing the sites and eating ice cream in Leicester Square. Keeping the plan going is exhausting and I keep lapsing into being myself and enjoying Max’s company. But then Vix says she needs to head back and Max says he wants to buy me dinner. Before I know it, I’m left alone with him again in a boyfriend-girlfriend situation, and I can’t pretend that he’s just a mate and that everything is normal.
We go to a cheap Italian chain restaurant. I order garlic bread and a pizza, with extra onions. If Max minds, he certainly doesn’t show it. He polishes off his own meal and half of mine, making his breath equally stinky. He even says something about how great it is that I have a healthy appetite and I’m not one of those girls who’s constantly on a diet and only eats salad. Arghh!
Afterwards, we wander into Piccadilly Circus and look for somewhere to sit down. We’ve just found a spot when I look up and realise we’re sitting right by the famous statue of Eros. Eros is only the Greek god of love. Max is bound to know that. We have got to get out of here before he spots it and goes all romantic on me!
‘Let’s go to the Trocadero,’ I suggest. ‘I’ve suddenly got loads of energy again. It’s fun. You’ll love it.’
I’m lying. The Trocadero is not that much fun. It’s, frankly, a bit rubbish. It’s a grand building that Mum told me used to be a restaurant, but now it’s run-down and full of touristy-shops, selling models of London buses, posters and pick and mixes. There’s also an entertainment centre, where you can play video games, go bowling or ride on the dodgems. After my stodgy meal, I’m too stuffed for pick and mix or bumper cars, so we play a couple of arcade games and then browse in the shops. One of them has a whole section devoted to Adam Grigson, with out-of-date calendars (it’s August), souvenir books and postcards.
‘Oh wow, I love Adam Grigson. He is so my type,’ I say, dropping Max’s hand and picking up a postcard showing Adam Grigson without his shirt. The words have just popped out of my mouth. It’s not as cruel as checking out a real, flesh-and-blood guy in front of him, but I know it’s still a mean thing to do. It must be obvious to Max that Adam Grigson is physically his polar opposite. I know I wouldn’t like it if I was out on a date and the boy said, ‘Oh, I love tall, skinny blondes with big boobs.’
Max looks confused, then slightly wounded. ‘Let me buy it for you,’ he says.
Why does he always have to be so nice? ‘No, you really shouldn’t. I can get it myself. And I don’t really need it.’
‘I want to. I insist. I like buying you presents.’ Before I can argue again, he heads off to the till, the photo in his hand. It’s as if he’s paying for me to slap him in the face. I feel like the biggest bitch in the world.
He comes back, not only with the picture, but with a stupid keyring with a photo of Adam Grigson in full vampire get-up on it. ‘Thought you’d like this too,’ he says. ‘To add to your collection.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and I know I don’t sound very grateful.
‘Don’t you mean fangs?’
I smile, in spite of myself. ‘Very funny. But you really shouldn
’t have bought that for me. Why do you always have to be so generous? It’s too much.’ I know I sound cold and he looks hurt again.
‘What’s with you today? You’ve been really weird with me, blowing hot and cold. Have I done something?’
‘No,’ I say. And then I deliver the most pathetic, clichéd line in the book. ‘It’s not you, OK? It’s me.’
‘OK,’ he says, softly. ‘Why don’t we go home? I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I mutter, under my breath.
‘I just want to get a drink for the journey,’ he says, trying to sound bright. ‘Want one? Let’s go and find a shop that’s still open.’
We walk back through Trafalgar Square and up Charing Cross Road in silence. Just before the tube station, we find one of those newsagent/grocery stores that sells everything at inflated prices. I follow Max inside and loiter by the checkout, while he goes to find some cans of Coke in the fridge.
He’s on his way towards me with the drinks when I spot something that makes my stomach helter-skelter into my feet. There on the counter, where it can’t be missed, is a pile of copies of Sizzling, the biggest-selling gossip magazine in the country. And, unmistakably, taking up almost the whole of the front cover, is a huge and rather unflattering picture of Rufus Justice. The headline reads: Fieldstar Drummer in Nude Garden Shocker!
Chapter 19
What Have I Done?
There’s a whooshing sound in my ears and all at once it feels like everything is happening in slow motion. Max is coming towards me, smiling, with two cans of Coke in his hands, and I know that when he reaches me – in four seconds, three seconds, two seconds ... my life will be over. He hasn’t seen the magazine yet but he’s going to. It’s a one hundred per cent certainty. Even if I had the time, I couldn’t possibly buy every copy in the shop. And there will be more copies in other shops – copies in every newsagent in London and in every newsagent in the country. Sizzling sells millions. Worse, it won’t be long before other magazines and newspapers start picking up the story and spinning it into whatever they want. I know how this works: I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.
The Celeb Next Door Page 11
