My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (13 page)

I want to be pleased for her; I honestly can’t fathom why I feel a tiny bit deflated by the huge juxtaposition in how our respective ‘dates’ today ended. Was it even a date
that I was on? I keep telling myself that it was just a friendly meeting, that Jackson knows I have a boyfriend so I haven’t done anything wrong . . . There is a good chance I might just be
kidding myself.

I keep telling myself that I didn’t even kiss him so it’s fine, but I spent the whole day cuddled up on the sofa with him. I didn’t tell Seymour where I was going; I stroked
Jackson’s hair while he lay there with his head in my lap; I have a boyfriend; this behaviour was clearly treacherous and wrong. I’m a much more terrible human being than I ever
thought.

So why am I disappointed that he didn’t kiss me?

‘What did you talk about?’ I ask my mum.

‘Oh, I don’t know – everything!’ she exclaims. ‘I found out a lot about him actually. He’s divorced and he has two sons – the youngest is a couple of
years older than you. They’re both at university; one’s on a study year in America. Richard’s originally from north Wales, but he lives quite near here. He went to university in
London and lived there for a long time after that . . .’

As she carries on talking it makes me realize that – although I felt so unexpectedly close to him for most of our day together – Jackson and I didn’t really talk about
anything. Nothing important anyway. Most of our conversations have just been fun and silly. Maybe I’ve been imagining a hidden meaning behind it all. I just know that I like him more than
anyone I have ever met. Maybe I’m being some ridiculous, pathetic fangirl and it’s just because he’s handsome and famous – but I really don’t think that’s
it.

I know everything about Seymour. I know his family. I know that his favourite colour is green and he’s scared of spiders and he used to wet the bed until he was eleven. I saw him cry when
his dog Ted had to be put down, and he came with me to the funeral when my favourite auntie Clara died. This is the stuff that is important.

‘Are you all right?’ my mum says.

‘Yes,’ I reply decisively. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘I’ve been going on about myself for quite long enough,’ she goes on. ‘You look tired – how was your day?’

‘OK, thanks. Actually I am a bit tired. I think I’d better go to bed. I’m really glad your date went well.’

All of this is true. None of it is a lie. It seems important to me, from now on, to make sure that I am completely honest.

Tomorrow I will talk to Seymour and tell him the truth. It’s the right thing to do. Jackson Griffith or no Jackson Griffith.

The Last Tuesday

(Jackson Evan Griffith/Sour Apple Music)

She’s a face on the screen.

She’s a voice in my head.

She writes like a magazine.

She’s not too jaded yet.

Day like I’ve never seen.

Just hang out, watch TV.

She makes me teapots of tea.

Never want her to leave.

Hope this time it might last/Don’t knock me off my path . . .

Ruby Tuesday dream girl.

Can’t believe you’re real.

Ruby Tuesday dream girl.

Teach a robot to feel.

The only face on my screen.

The loudest voice in my head.

Keep writing your magazine.

Don’t get too jaded, not yet . . .

‘Hey, Ruby Tuesday. I didn’t wake you up, did I?’

‘No, I was awake,’ I lie, luckily perking up as usual at the sound of Jackson’s voice. ‘How did the gig go?’

‘It was OK. People are expecting me to be such a train wreck I think they’re just happy if I show up.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Some place up north. Newcastle, then Glasgow tomorrow. It’s good, but I wish you were here. Actually I’ve gotta go – we’re driving overnight and they’re
waiting for me. I just wanted to say hi.’

‘I’m really glad it’s going well. Thanks for ringing. Speak later, yeah?’

‘Definitely. Speak to you later, Ruby Tuesday.’

Have I mentioned that I am the world’s worst person? I’ve been talking on the phone to Jackson constantly and rereading his emails every chance I get, still unable to believe that
this is really happening – but it is. It is the best thing that has ever happened to me and it should be perfect.

But I still haven’t talked to Seymour. It sounds so lame, but there just hasn’t been a good time. I’ve built it up to be such a big deal in my mind – and it is.
I’ve never had a boyfriend before and I have never broken up with somebody before, so the moment has to be right. It doesn’t help that I am absolutely terrified about instigating such a
horrible conversation.

I’ve barely seen him, and I’ve made it through the week on autopilot. Luckily Seymour doesn’t seem particularly to have noticed. This should be a good thing, but it’s
making me feel wretchedly guilty. Especially when in one of our brief conversations he said that it ‘meant a lot’ to him that I’ve stopped blogging lately – he said it
really showed that we’ve both been mature about the situation. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, honestly.

My first exam is only a few days away; luckily I’ve been so busy revising and stressing about that that I haven’t had much time to think. None of us has. As the exams get closer and
closer, I feel like it would be too cruel to dump him just before our A levels start. I’m not saying that I’m, like, so amazing that it would be the worst thing in the world for someone
to be deprived of going out with me – but we’ve known each other for a long time and I owe it to him to do it properly.
I’m
finding the idea of us not being together a
bit sad, and it’s me making the decision – and, let’s face it, I’ve got the consolation of a gorgeous pop star on the other end of the phone, even if we’re technically
‘just good friends’. Telling myself that this means I’m not doing anything wrong is starting to sound fraudulent, even to me. I’ve got to put a stop to this bizarre
situation, and as quickly as possible.

In fact, I’ve been so preoccupied with Jackson – not to mention exhausted at college every day, due to staying up late on the phone or messaging with Jackson every night – that
I’ve been neglecting my real life entirely. I haven’t been blogging at all. Nishi is still being a tiny bit weird with me, I think. But that might be all in my head, because I’ve
barely seen her – she’s been so busy all of a sudden as well. The exams mean so much to her, she has gone into lockdown. I’m probably just being paranoid. Maybe it’s my own
guilty conscience at work and I should leave Nish out of it. Anyway, even if she is being weird, that’s just Nishi – she’s always been moody and we’ve always been OK in the
end.

I was gearing up for breaking up with Seymour this weekend. All set. Then my heart sank when he texted to remind me that I’m going to his house for Sunday lunch. Feeling mean, I’ve
been telling myself that I’ll get lunch out of the way and then do it straight after that, as soon as we get the chance to talk on our own.

Now it’s Sunday and I’ve been psyching myself up all morning, feeling so anxious I can barely function. The prospect of lunch with Seymour’s parents would have me feeling nervy
at the best of times – this has been amplified times a billion now that I have decided today is the day to have The Talk.

I decide to open up my laptop and just check my emails quickly before I go. It is not lost on me that this is probably particularly treacherous – I can’t deny that I’m hoping
for a quick email from Jackson before I go round to Seymour’s.

I see his latest email and I am thrown. Completely thrown. Thrown to the wolves; out on to the motorway. For a loop, a curve ball.
That song.
He has emailed me the lyrics and attached a
link to a video of him playing it. It’s a song about me; I can’t believe it.

Watching it is the most surreal experience of my life. It’s Jackson Griffith, singing in that voice I know so well from a million records. The song is beautiful; it’s classic Sour
Apple, up there with his best – I can imagine hearing it on the radio.

But he is still wearing the same stripy T-shirt he had on that day at the hotel. Some of his things scattered about the messy hotel room in the background look familiar. The fact that I am
getting to know him as a real person makes my heart leap.
He is singing my name
.

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, laptop swaying on my shaking knees. I’m due to leave for Seymour’s in ten minutes; I’m even wearing a sensible mid-length skirt and
non-holey cardigan in honour of the occasion. I’ve kept my wonky attempt at cat-flick eyeliner though, and the Sonic Youth T-shirt I’m wearing underneath the cardigan – I
can’t sell out on my fashion principles entirely.

Jackson Griffith wrote a song for me.

I take a long look at myself in the mirror. I straighten my sensible skirt and give my fringe a last comb so it sits just right. I look myself in the eye, dead on. Then I run out of the room and
slam the door behind me, stumbling so hastily down the stairs that my legs nearly fly out from under me. I must get this lunch out of the way and talk to Seymour as soon as possible. I am not a
liar by nature; I was not built for a life of intrigue. I must be brave.

Who am I trying to fool with all this ‘just good friends’ stuff? I might have met him only twice. I might have had a poster of him on my bedroom wall when I was a kid. But I have got
to know him – really know him – through his emails and his late-night phone calls, his husky laugh and his easy, sun-drenched accent. Who am I trying to fool, full stop? I have fallen
in love with Jackson Griffith. Not the pop star. The lovely, weird, erratic, sweet boy.

Now that I’ve heard that song – that beautiful song that is all about
me
and has totally nailed this crazy, brilliant situation – I no longer think I’m deluding
myself to suspect that he might, just might, feel exactly the same way.

For the first time a feeling of total joyous excitement overtakes the dread in my stomach about what I have to do today.

I almost collide with my mum at the bottom of the stairs and narrowly avoid her full coffee cup ruining my neat and tidy outfit.

‘Watch it!’ she snaps, taken by surprise.

I know how she feels. I feel as though I’ve been hit by a freight train this morning too. Mum didn’t get back until late last night, and she is still shuffling about in her dressing
gown. This is most uncharacteristic, so her second date with Richard Jenkins must have gone well.

‘Good night?’ I ask her.

‘Terrific. We might go away together for the weekend soon. Maybe to Bruges; I’ve always fancied Bruges, and of course Richard is very interested in the history. I think there’s
quite a lot of history there. He’s a very bright man, you know – a real academic. Anyway, you look nice. Are you going round to Seymour’s?’

‘Yeah. I’m running late actually; I’ve got to go. Can’t be late for Sunday lunch. Roast beef apparently.’

‘Good. Well, have fun. Give Seymour a kiss from me. And say hi to his mum.’

I think of the slightly sour face Elaine makes whenever I mention my mum. I don’t think she means any harm, or even realizes she’s doing it – but it makes me hug my mum extra
hard before I leave to walk round to Seymour’s.

‘And how’s your mum, Chew?’

As she says this, Elaine’s nostrils flare by just half a millimetre, and the right-hand side of her top lip curls up to meet it halfway. After a split second her features return to their
usual formation, but the slip of her mask is burned into my vision like one of those flick books you make when you’re a kid. I should have known that being round at Seymour’s, with his
parents’ disapproving faces and slightly snotty vocal tones, would knock all the fight out of me. If I wasn’t so polite, I’d use this as an excuse to rebel, but as usual her icy
glare makes me feel too pathetic to say anything out of line.

At least Elaine can bring herself to say my name now without looking literally like she has to chew it. You can still see her secretly wishing for a Lucy or a Charlotte or a Sophie, but she
manages to hide it better than she used to – I guess she’s got used to me. I know she’ll be delighted when I’m off the scene though.

‘Mum’s brilliant, thanks,’ I say, grinning through a mouthful of homemade tiramisu. ‘She’s got a new boyfriend and she’s really happy. It seems to be going
well – so, you know, fingers crossed.’

‘How nice.’

Of course, if there is one thing this lunch has been, it’s ‘nice’. We’re on our third course; we’ve already had prawns as a starter and then a full roast dinner.
Now there’s pudding
and
cheese. There’s a tablecloth and flowers on the table. Seymour and I have been allowed a glass of wine each. His younger brothers and sister have
finally been excused from the table after a million rounds of ‘please
may
I’ and ‘elbows
off
the table’; I can hear them playing outside in the garden. I
kind of wish I could be out there with them, running free. Seymour’s younger siblings are the funnest people in this house – they always appreciate my latest hair colours and fashion
choices, so I try to sneak them in some Haribo whenever I can.

Yes, it’s all been very
nice
. Seymour’s family have been so hospitable and perfectly polite to me. I don’t know why I have to keep reminding myself of this.

‘Actually, I’m glad you’re both here.’ Elaine smiles at me with her teeth and abruptly changes the subject. ‘There’s something that Michael and I have been
wanting to talk to you both about.’

Seymour’s dad looks decidedly uncomfortable, and pours himself another glass of wine. This cannot be a good sign. Seymour and I exchange a quick glance. I notice that he has turned
slightly pale. I feel more treacherous than ever. I just want this lunch to be over so that I can do the whole awful ‘we need to talk’ thing on Seymour.