My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (11 page)

When I woke up this morning, I suddenly knew that I have to break up with Seymour. It’s the decent thing to do, and I suppose this whole Jackson situation has only confirmed some things
that Seymour and I both already knew. As soon as it hit me, I realized it was obvious. I’ve never felt this excited about Seymour – and it’s taken this to make me see it. More to
the point, in all the time we’ve been going out together, I’ve never been able to talk to Seymour like I can with Jackson, and he’s never made me feel like my best self. Not like
this. Even if nothing ends up happening with Jackson, it’s made me realize that it’s over with Seymour. I just have to tell him.

I’ve always thought I was a pretty brave person – but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve been telling myself all morning that I don’t have time – I’ve
been too busy getting dressed and putting on eyeliner and dyeing my hair on the spur of the moment. But really I don’t have the guts, not yet. And so, on the most exciting day of my life so
far, I feel like the world’s most terrible person.

I can’t even pretend not to have made an effort this time. For once I thought, Why the hell not? So I am wearing a ridiculous red dress and feeling utterly overdressed to be sitting on
another train that is on its way into London. But in a good way – like I have a secret. If only everyone on this train knew where I was going.

I’m just hoping that my absence at college for one more day might go unnoticed – I sent a vague text to Nishi elaborating on my made-up dentist story. As luck would have it, my mum
has her first in-person date with Richard Jenkins tonight. So she’s been too preoccupied to pay much attention to me for the past day or two, which has helped. It also means that she’ll
be out for the whole evening. It’s not like I’m intending to stay out all night – I’m really, seriously, certainly not – but at least if I get in a bit late because of
the trains or something, I won’t have to go into some big, awkward fake explanation. This must be the first time I’ve ever been so genuinely pleased about one of my mum’s dates,
so at least that’s a plus.

I’ve been fidgeting and jiggling all the way into London, staring out of the window at the whizzing grey scenery as it turns gradually – painfully gradually – from suburban to
urban, because I am physically incapable of concentrating on a book, or even a magazine. I can’t even listen to my iPod – it would be too weird to listen to Sour Apple when I am on my
way to a secret assignation with Jackson Griffith, but I can’t think of anything else I want to listen to right now.

It occurs to me that I still seem to find it impossible to think of him as just ‘Jackson’. I mouth the word into the thin air to practise, and it feels foreign in my mouth –
not right somehow. I can only think of him as ‘Jackson Griffith’ – pop star, pin-up, international playboy, not a real person. This surely means that I am way too immature and
stupid to be meeting him at a hotel in London.

It’s too late to be thinking about any of this, as the train is pulling wheezily into Paddington. As I get off, I see the day has now turned sunny and warm, rays of bright sunshine falling
through the grand glass roof of the station. Now that I am an anonymous girl in the big city, I suddenly don’t feel so ridiculous in my secondhand red 50s dress. As of this morning, my hair
is now a dark red, rather than brassy blonde – more Rita Hayworth than Riot grrrl – and I wanted to dress fittingly. Or so I tell myself. Like I am doing all of this ‘for
myself’. I hate to admit that I just wanted to try my best to feel pretty for once.

Just for a moment, here where nobody knows me, I imagine that I could be any normal, pretty girl on a sunny day, on my way to an exciting date that might change my life. Maybe passing strangers
might think that I am called Sophie or Lucy – something lovely like that – and that I might be the sort of person who has brothers and sisters, or a dad.

It only lasts for a minute, before I get self-conscious and wonder if people who turn their heads are actually looking at me because I’m weird, not pretty, a bit too fat. Uncontrollable
Chew. But it’s nice while it lasts.

And then here I am, miraculously on the pavement outside his hotel.

It’s a perfect day. The sun is still shining down on me. I am standing here in a grand street in the very centre of London, a beautiful white building looming in front of me, a discreet
brass plaque confirming that this is the right place. Inside is a hotel that is super-fricking-trendy cool and old-school luxurious in equal measure – apparently it’s Jackson’s
favourite place to stay whenever he’s in London. I’ve never been anywhere like this before in my life.

Outside, amid the few people walking past on their way somewhere else, there are again a couple of men with cameras. It would be pushing it to call them ‘a crowd of paparazzi’, but
it’s obvious that is what they are. Either luckily or unflatteringly, I seem to be invisible to them. They are paying absolutely no attention to me; they are just hanging around in the street
outside, smoking and laughing, far too deep in conversation even to look up. If they did, I expect they would think that I was a hotel employee, a waitress on my way to work, maybe even a renegade
teenage Sour Apple fan. Too ordinary to suspect of anything else.

I’m so self-conscious that I trip over the doorstep as I walk inside, even though I feel as though I’m making every move in slow motion. Thank goodness I don’t fully fall over,
but I stumble badly and have to grab the door frame to pull myself back up. Cool, Chew – very cool.

It’s enough to take away from what I suppose ought to be a moment of triumph. Instead I feel mousy, kind of sheepish – far from the loud, confident and clever girl that everyone
thinks I am – as I walk into the hotel and up to the reception desk. I still think this might all be a joke.

‘Yes?’ the hipster girl behind the desk intones.

She’s what I would typically have imagined in all my worst nightmares – sleek black hair, thick black glasses frames, red lipstick, half a sneer. Perfect, probably French. I have to
remind myself that I am supposed to be here. I have been invited.

‘I’m here to see Jackson Griffith,’ I say, practically a whisper. ‘He’s expecting me. My name’s Tuesday Cooper.’

‘Sorry, Ruby Cooper?’

‘No,
Tuesday –
like Tuesday Weld or, you know, the day of the week.’

‘What an, ah,
unusual
name. One moment. I’ll just check if he’s awake . . .’

She smiles in an unpleasantly proprietary fashion, as if she knows all his domestic habits and I know nothing.

The receptionist discreetly covers her mouth as she murmurs into the phone, half turning away from me so that I can’t quite hear what she is saying. If he’s asleep, or he’s
forgotten, or he’s changed his mind – I’ll die. I swear I will die right here on this beautiful Moroccan rug.

After a moment she turns back to me with a bit more interest, visibly thawing by at least ten degrees, but she still sounds surprised when she speaks.

‘He’s awake,’ she confirms, her pussycat smile spreading across her alabaster face. ‘You can go on up. Lift’s on the left; Jackson’s up on the third floor
– his usual, room 316.’

I raise my eyebrows at her just for a split second to show that I know her game. She’s jealous that I’m on my way up there – invited – and she’s trying to psych me
out. I might look like nobody, but obviously – and against the odds – I am
somebody
. People don’t like unexpected twists like this.

‘Thanks so much for your help,’ I say, imagining I’m Courtney Love or Liz Taylor or Kate Moss – anyone but me – as I walk to the lifts.

The lift glides with such expensive precision it doesn’t feel like it’s moving. It’s me who’s uncontrollably jiggling on the spot. The carpets are so thick I can’t
hear my own footsteps. The whole process seems almost too smooth when I find myself outside his door. I have to remind myself:
Jackson Griffith’s hotel-room door.

Then the door opens before I have even raised my hand to knock, while I am still standing there dumbly. I’m staring down at the carpet and the first thing I see is a pair of large,
slightly grubby bare feet. I look up slowly until I see that unmistakable face, shaggy dirty-blond hair and dreamy blue eyes – the colours of the sand and the sea. He’s seems much
taller than I remember, standing over me in the doorway. I don’t know where to look, because he is wearing only a pair of battered jeans that are hanging low on his hips. That’s it. I
don’t know where to look, because I want to stare and stare and stare. I have never fancied anyone this much in my entire life – so much so that it’s unsettling.

I put up no resistance whatsoever as he pulls me inside and closes the door behind me. Honestly I’m still trying to get my breath back, just from the
look
of him. Just from being
near this golden beauty of a man. With no top on. He practically glows. He looks as though he has been carved out of fresh yellow butter. In a good way.

It’s so different this time, in a hotel room instead of a crowded cafe, and with none of the excuses of yesterday. This is not as safe as being on the other end of the phone line. I am
still just lucid enough to think, I could get myself in so much trouble.

‘Hey,’ he says with a grin. ‘How are you doing this morning?’

I try to reply and just make a strangled noise at the back of my throat.

‘You OK?’ he asks.

I nod a bit too emphatically. ‘Fine,’ I croak. ‘You?’

‘Yeah, I’m cool. Had a pretty good sleep actually. And I have a feeling today’s gonna be a great day.’

Thankfully he goes to pull on a stripy T-shirt and my eyes are able to roam far enough to take in the scene inside the room – it’s a beautiful hotel room as I expected, all high
ceilings and lavish features and white linens; there’s a sitting area as well as a bedroom and a bathroom, and a balcony – but it’s all a total mess. I can see at least three
guitars, a couple of room-service trays, coffee cups, discarded newspapers and overflowing ashtrays, clothes strewn everywhere. The level of carnage is impressive, and I wouldn’t consider
myself a tidy person. The image conjured up is of a grown man who is used to people picking up after him. Now I’ve been confronted with him in the flesh like this, I can see why they
would.

When I look up, I can see that he is watching me intently, a beautiful smile on his face. All trace of sensible thought is wiped from my brain.

‘Hi,’ he whispers, leaning down close. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

For a second I think he’s going to kiss me, but we just keep staring at each other. On the one hand, he seems so much older and worldlier than me, but on the other, it’s already very
evident that he’s just a kid, not much older than I am and appealingly helpless. There’s something about him that puts me at ease, even here in a hotel room where we barely know each
other.

‘I’m sorry about the mess. It’s a really bad habit, you know? I got in late – I’ll clean up at some point in time, I promise. Stuff just seems to . . . accumulate
somehow. Hey, we should get some tea. I know how much you love a nice cup of tea. Maybe a few English muffins or something. Mary Poppins. Queen Elizabeth. Did you eat breakfast yet?’

Actually one unexpected bonus by-product of this clandestine meeting is that I haven’t been able to eat much in the way of solid food since yesterday’s cake. However, suddenly the
knot in my stomach has gone without a trace, and I am starving. Before I can answer out loud, my gut gives off a massive, thunderous rumble. It sometimes does that at the mere mention of food.
Jackson laughs in delight before I have time to be mortified.

‘You read my mind. Hold that thought,’ he says, simultaneously picking up the bedside phone to call room service.

‘Breakfast’s on its way,’ Jackson says, creeping up behind me a minute later. ‘I didn’t know what you like so I kind of ordered everything.

For want of anything better to do, I sit down in the living area and switch on the massive TV. Jeremy Kyle is on, which kind of kills the exotic, luxurious, forget-about-the-real-world buzz that
I’ve had going on. I don’t really know what to do, here in close quarters, so I concentrate on the TV for a few minutes. We became so relaxed with each other by the end of yesterday,
and we talked about everything imaginable on the phone last night, but here in this room it suddenly all feels a bit too real. It’s sending me into a very quiet panic.

When I next get up the nerve to look around at him again, I see that Jackson is just staring at me, an amused look on his face.

‘You look really pretty today by the way,’ he says. ‘I like your hair.’

We just stare at each other for another long moment, before there is a knock at the door. Even though Jackson ordered breakfast, we both jump.

He disappears and comes back shakily wheeling a huge trolley bearing food and a giant silver teapot. Once he has manoeuvred the trolley into the sitting area, he just stands there next to it,
resting his weight on one foot and hovering like he doesn’t have a clue what to do. There is silence for a moment, underneath the noise of the TV.

I would have thought that I would be the one feeling awkward, out of place and not knowing what to do with myself. As it turns out, there is no choice but for me to take charge. I stand up and
usher Jackson on to the sofa, swapping our positions.

‘Shall I be Mother?’ I ask.

I kick off my shoes and get stuck in. I know it’s not exactly rocket science, but I am so often all clumsy fingers and thumbs that I’m glad I can do something that makes me feel at
home – I work as a breakfast waitress in a hotel in all the school holidays and I am a bit of a whizz at juggling crockery.

‘How do you take your tea?’ I ask him, looking up from the task at hand to find him staring at me again.

‘I have literally no idea.’ He laughs. ‘You’re very cute though.’

‘Well, then you can have it the same as mine – strong, with a dash of milk and no sugar. I take tea quite seriously.’

‘I like my tea like I like my women,’ he drawls, picking up one of the many acoustic guitars littered around the place, this one a battered blue beast covered in stickers and leaning
against the sofa. ‘Strong, with a dash of milk and no sugar . . . Sounds good to me, sugar. Sugar, booger, Zeebrugge . . . That’s a place in Belgium, you know. Greatest songwriter of my
generation, so they say!’