My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (10 page)

‘I’m so happy you came,’ he says slowly, not taking his eyes off me. ‘What’s your favourite kind of cake? We’ve got carrot, chocolate, banana, something I
don’t know what it is, or something called lemon drizzle. Isn’t “drizzle” what you guys call the weather over here? Sounds kinda fun, anyway. Let’s get you a cup of
tea. You English girls are crazy for tea, right?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ I grin back at him. ‘And we all sing “God Save the Queen” every day at three o’clock. Actually,’ I concede, ‘I’d
love a cup of tea, please.’

He calls over the waitress, who is clearly – understandably – charmed.

‘So you’re the cake girl,’ she says to me, with a sideways look at Jackson. ‘Lucky you.’

‘It’s just an interview,’ I blurt out, coming over all prim and proper, not wanting to embarrass myself by getting carried away and thinking I could possibly be on a date with
this person who is so clearly out of my league. ‘I’m a music blogger, you see,’ I add lamely.

Is it just my imagination, or does Jackson’s smile drop, just slightly, just for a second? Yep, I’m definitely getting carried away and being stupid.

‘Well, I think the music blogger would like a cup of tea, and I’ll have another coffee, please.’

‘I brought some questions with me,’ I tell him when the waitress leaves.

‘Um, OK. If that’s what you wanna do. I’m glad I’ve got coffee. Although you should really know that I don’t usually buy journalists this many types of cake. Hit
me.’

I fish my battered notebook out of my bag and, as I turn to my page of questions, feel suddenly self-conscious. I take a giant forkful of the chocolate cake, and then wipe my mouth with a napkin
before I remember that I had red lipstick on.

‘What do you think is the worst song you have ever written?’

This sounded really cool and funny when I wrote it down in my bedroom – and when I practised it in my head on the train here. Not too fawning, a bit off the wall. Now I think I just sound
silly and a bit rude. Not quite the vintage
Popworld
vibe I had hoped for.

Jackson bursts out laughing. ‘All of them? Which one do
you
think is the worst? It’s pretty much all that keeps me going – the hope that one day I’ll write a
decent song.’

‘But you’ve written so many
great
ones!’ I wail, totally overcompensating. ‘I basically love them all. Well, nearly all of them. I even prefer your second album,
even though people said it wasn’t as good as
Come On Over (Please Leave Quietly)
!’

‘Wow. You really tell it how it is, don’t you?’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, I kinda like it. Makes a change, I can tell you. Hey, leave some of that carrot cake for me! OK, next question?’

‘What’s your favourite word in the dictionary?’

‘“Superlative”. I also enjoy “ululate”. Next.’

‘What’s your favourite flavour of crisp?’

‘My favourite flavour of
what
?’

‘Um, crisps. Like . . . chips?’

‘I still don’t understand the question. Like, salt? Barbecue?’

‘Never mind. Who would you invite to your dream dinner party?’

He looks me in the eyes seriously. ‘Joan of Arc, Gloria Steinem and Sylvia Plath. And you. We’ll have a riot. Have we had enough questions now? Hey, how about I interview
you
?’

‘Um . . .’ It feels awkward to have the tables turned, although mainly I’m wondering why he would even want to – but I don’t have much of a chance to argue.

‘What’s your favourite book? Whatever it is, I want to read it.’

I’m glad he started with an easy one; I don’t even have to think. ‘
I Capture the Castle
by Dodie Smith. Have you read it?’

‘Nope, but I’m definitely going to. I’m trying to become more well read.’

‘Well, I really think you’ll like it,’ I find myself enthusing, forgetting where I am and who I’m with. ‘It’s really lovely. It’s all about this girl
called Cassandra, and she has this mad family, and she keeps a diary –’

‘Kind of like you then.’ He grins. ‘Right. It’s on my reading list. This is supposed to be an interview, remember? I know it’s an obvious one, but what would your
superpower be?’

‘Actually I’ve thought about this quite a lot. It would definitely be the ability to read minds. It would be useful in so many ways, although obviously I might not want to know what
people are thinking about me sometimes . . .’

‘Wanna know what I’m thinking right now?’

I find myself blushing and concentrate on my teacup. ‘That you’d choose the power of invisibility?’

‘Hey, I probably would. No, I’m thinking that you’re much prettier than your photos even.’

‘I . . . I, um, thought this was supposed to be an interview?’ I stammer like an idiot.

‘Tuesday, I don’t want to speak out of turn here, but who are you trying to kid? You said yourself that your boyfriend doesn’t know you’re here – so you can’t
even put an interview with me up on your website. Can you?’

He’s right. Somehow I really hadn’t thought this through. He’s looking straight at me, direct and clear-eyed; I start to realize that, despite his slightly shambolic persona,
he’s actually got a sharp brain. He’s easy-going but nothing gets past him. My respect for him actually goes up a small level – if I’d suspected he wasn’t just a
pretty face, now I know it for sure.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been an idiot. It’s just . . .’ I can’t even explain it.

‘It’s OK. This is a weird situation. I understand.’

He reaches over the cake plates and takes my hand, and I swear a bolt of lightning goes through me. His hand feels cool and dry and perfect. It’s calloused from playing guitar and it
belongs to Jackson Griffith. I can’t even speak.

‘Look, Tuesday . . . Let’s be real, OK?’

I nod mutely, still staring at his hand.

‘How about we just finish our cake and have another cup of tea?’ he continues. ‘And quit pretending this is an interview or whatever? Just hang out together, have a nice time.
What do you say?’

I get home feeling like I have just had the strangest dream. I honestly can’t believe that any of today really happened. It’s a good thing that the house is in
darkness and my mum is still out at work, or she would probably think I am on drugs, or that I have actually gone insane.

In the end we just talked. Me and Jackson. All afternoon and into the evening. About everything. And nothing. About music and books and favourite films and childhood pets; about Irish poetry and
roller-skating and otters and ‘desert-island condiments’. Once we started, neither of us seemed to be able to stop. One story led to another, until we were snorting tea out of our noses
and had forgotten what we were supposed to be talking about in the first place.

We had so much fun that I forgot ‘who’ he was and could only see the person sitting in front of me – a goofy, clever, lovely boy with the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen in
my life. It was so comfortable and easy, it was almost like chatting to my mum or Nishi – until I looked at him and my insides turned the consistency of Nutella when you put it on hot toast.
Delicious, hot . . . toast.

‘This is amazing,’ he said, in words that will surely be engraved into my cerebral cortex for the rest of time. ‘I know it sounds really tacky and cliché, but I really
feel like I can be myself with you — which, by the way, almost never happens. This kind of connection doesn’t come along too often.’

We stayed until the cake was finished and we had drunk so much tea we were sloshing.

‘I have to go,’ I told him, knowing I had to but half hoping he might argue.

Outside the cafe, it looked like he might. We hung around like a couple of losers, Jackson scuffing his feet on the pavement and me making lame jokes, suddenly all awkward again. Then our eyes
met and we both burst out laughing. Jackson took a step towards me.

Then, out of nowhere, there was some kind of kerfuffle across the road from us – a couple of cars pulled up and I could see people starting to crowd around. It took me a second to twig
that all this might be because Jackson had stayed in one place for too long and we had both forgotten about his rudimentary ‘disguise’. The hat and the glasses came off hours ago.

I watched as his whole being changed before my eyes. Gone was the easy bearing and amiable lollop; he was suddenly tense and twitchy. He shoved his hood up and hunched in on himself so I
couldn’t see his face.

‘Man, I thought I’d lost these guys this morning,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I really don’t want you to get caught up in all this. Seriously. It wouldn’t
be good for either of us. I’ll call you, OK? I’ve got to run.’

It wasn’t a turn of phrase. He turned and ran. I just stood there and watched him until he disappeared around the corner, and then I found my slightly shellshocked way to the nearest tube
station – entirely unnoticed by the crowd around me.

Now I’m home, feeling like a stranger in this familiar setting – as if the world has changed since I left the house this morning – and not sure whether I should be walking on
air or kicking myself. It was the loveliest day I have ever had, but it ended so abruptly it felt like a full stop.

I’m lying fully clothed on my bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkened room – when my phone blasts out its signature ironic rendition of
Single Ladies
. I don’t even
dare to hope. I make myself wait until the end of the chorus before I move, holding my breath so as not to tempt fate. Even when I see ‘unknown number’ flash up on the screen, I
don’t let myself hope. He might have lost my number. He might not really want to see me again. He’s definitely got better things to do.

‘Hello?’

There is a pause. A cough. Enough time for me almost to combust.

‘Ruby Tuesday?’

My entire body breathes a sigh of relief. I flop back on to my bed, falling through the darkness until I land on my back. My grin must be floating in the air of its own accord, like the Cheshire
Cat’s.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘I know I ought to say thanks for a wonderful afternoon and sorry I had to run out on you like that – and I will, promise. But first, I really wanted to ask you – where do you
stand on peanut butter?’

My laugh echoes all around the empty house.

‘Well,’ I reply thoughtfully, ‘I’m pro, generally. But the crunchy kind is the best, obviously. And not that weird organic, sugar-free stuff that my mum buys in the
health shop. Actually, it’s funny that I like crunchy peanut butter, because I only like orange juice with
no
bits. Orange juice with bits in is an abomination.’

‘Are you crazy?’ Jackson asks. ‘Real fresh orange juice is the best. My mom lives in Florida now and the orange juice there is crazy good. You ever been?’

‘Nope. I’ve basically been to Broadstairs and Spain. Oh, and France on a school trip once. What’s your mum like?’

‘Well . . .’ I hear him exhale at length while he has a think. ‘My “mum” is pretty cool. She’s a nice lady, you know. Super pretty – she used to be a
fashion model; now she renovates houses. We didn’t get on when I was younger and kind of wild, but now I like to hang out with her and my sisters when I’m back home. Doesn’t
happen very often.’

‘Are your sisters older or younger?’

‘Two older, one younger. By the way, Tuesday – will you come and meet me again tomorrow? I really want to see you again.’

‘Tomorrow?’ I can’t; I have to. I can hardly breathe. ‘I’d love to.’

‘I was hoping you’d say that. Come to my hotel if you like – it’s nice. Get there as early as you can so that we can have the whole day together. Anyway, I’ve told
you about my mom and my sisters. What about your family? It’s just you and your mom, right?’

I tell him all about my mum, and college and my friends, and somehow I don’t even worry that I’m boring him. I can tell that I’m not. I hear my mum come in and potter about in
the kitchen, and I take my voice down by a notch but don’t even think about hanging up.

Even with my mum downstairs, right below me – there in the darkness, lying on my bed with the bedroom door closed, Jackson’s voice is low and soft in my ear, and, as it gets later
and later and we keep talking and talking, I feel like we are the only people in the world.

I wake up in the morning, still in my clothes and with my phone squashed against the side of my face, stuck in my hair.

Random Chaotic Ramblings

Are you there, Internet? It’s me, Tuesday.

Sorry, I’ve been crap. This is the longest I’ve ever been without blogging since I started up this little electronic journal about three years
ago.

I’m feeling weird, and A levels are really looming. I think maybe I am more stressed about this than I have fully realized. Not to sound melodramatc – I know
they’re technically only exams.

But I really want to do well at them. This feels like my one big chance. To get out of this small town and go to university. To try to become a writer one day. To do
something with my life and be something other than ordinary and boring.

But then there’s a flipside to that – of course, there always is. Leaving my friends. Leaving college, which I have loved so much. Maybe not living with my mum
any more. Growing up.

I’m welling up here. I’m just overtired, honest.

From time to time it all feels like too much. Please forgive me if I don’t blog a lot these days.

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This time it’s different. I can’t pretend it’s an ‘interview’, or that I am doing this for any reason other than the fact that I am desperate to
see Jackson again – and this time I believe that he wants to see me. I can’t kid myself that I am not completely, stupidly, verging-on-insanity crazy about him. Not any more. I am so
excited I can hardly breathe. But at the same time, I am now a liar. There’s no going back from that. No excuses.

I am supposed to be at college. Right now, English literature – my favourite class, no less – is going on without me. Just when I need it most, as the exams start in a matter of
days. We’re studying
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
, which suddenly seems rather fitting. I hope this isn’t an omen. Things didn’t end too well for Tess.