My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (24 page)

‘My inner ear ain’t what it used to be, babe. Come on – let’s go find out where we can go dancing around here. I don’t ever want to go to bed!’ Jackson
declares.

This whole place is like some kind of amazing labyrinth. We stumble into a field lit by old-fashioned lanterns with all sorts of crazy vaudeville entertainers. We find ourselves in an old
converted train carriage; inside it is decked out like it’s the 1920s – it looks like something out of
Murder on the Orient Express
. There are even moving images projected on
to the carriage windows so that it looks like scenery going past, as if we really are on a train. It feels like a proper secret – other than the people who work here, who are more like
performance artists than ‘staff’ – we are the only ones here.

‘Good evening,’ says a man in a conductor’s hat, who has an extravagant moustache and a totally straight face.

Jackson not only plays along but sits down on one of the train seats like this is totally normal. He has this easy-going quality that makes everyone warm to him. Soon, he and the train conductor
are chatting like they’re old friends.

‘Hey, this reminds me of a place I went to once back in the old motherland,’ Jackson says conversationally. ‘Hemingway was there. That was one crazy night.’

‘Oh yeah,’ I join in, as he winks at me. ‘Was that the night when Zelda Fitzgerald and I went skinny-dipping?’

‘Attagirl. The very same. And Dorothy Parker wrote a story about it – I was so mad at her when she laughed at me for falling in my soup.’

‘Oh, those were the days,’ I sigh, almost convincing myself that it’s true, his play-acting is so contagious. ‘Dorothy Parker was my favourite.’

‘Hey, she’d have loved your blog, I bet. Good old Dotty.’

By the time we get out of there, we both pretty much believe that we were society figures in 1920s Paris. We are still in full-flight fantasy mode when we head into what looks like a church
building next door.

As we push through the doors, we are hit by a palpable wave of loud music and crowds of people. It’s like we have crashed a party that’s in full swing. A preposterously tall man who
is dressed as a cross between Elvis and a vicar greets us as we step inside. It’s then that I notice the giant neon sign proclaiming this ‘The Little Glastonbury Chapel of
Love’.

‘Do I have my next willing volunteers here?’ he asks in a booming voice as everyone else cheers.

‘Sure, why not?’ Jackson replies like it’s an automatic reflex, although I’m not convinced he knows what’s going on – he looks even more confused than I
do.

I’m similarly discombobulated when I find myself wearing an enormous wedding veil that trails on the grubby floor behind me and someone shoves an ugly bunch of purple plastic flowers into
my hands. A top hat goes on over Jackson’s now crooked comedy Bowie wig.

Suddenly we are walking down the aisle to a crazed rock ’n’ roll version of ‘Here Comes the Bride’, we’re both saying ‘I do’ and Jackson is lifting me
up and kissing me in a most un-wedding-like fashion. It’s only when I come up for air that I realize quite how many people are staring at us. I’m not sure who starts it, but within
seconds the place is chaos.

‘Hey, isn’t that Jackson Griffith?’ someone shouts.

‘No, it can’t be.’

‘It is!’

As the ensuing pandemonium really kicks off, Jackson seems to sober up in an instant. He has a presence of mind I never would have predicted. He grabs my hand and gets me out of there as quickly
as humanly possible, given that there are dozens of people in our way, all trying to get near him.

We make it unscathed and flee into the Green Fields. Slowing down and falling silent, we walk hand in hand for ages. At first I think that the stars are especially bright tonight, until I
realize that people are sending paper lanterns up into the air. They are hovering all around us like a swarm of fireflies.

By the time we make it back to the tepee, it’s getting light outside. We fall into the ground-level bed inside, which is surprisingly comfy and piled up with cushions and throws.
It’s blissful.

As we lie down, still with all our clothes on, it’s like the full events of the day only just begin to sink in. We both take a deep breath and close our eyes for a moment, before turning
to each other and laughing.

‘I really shouldn’t go to sleep,’ I say, knowing that I’m going to any second. ‘I’ve got to leave really early to get home tomorrow. Today, I mean.’

‘It’s OK. Don’t go. I’ll make sure you get home in time. I’ve got to head back to London anyway; we can go together. This doesn’t have to end.’

The idea of this makes us both feel much better.

‘We should probably have sex now,’ he mumbles. ‘I really want to. But I’m way too sleepy. N’night, Ruby Tuesday.’

He cuddles into me, like a little kid or a kitten, before he falls straight to sleep and starts snoring his head off.

An Ending

I suppose it’s the lingering scent of exams hanging in the air, but I can’t shake off this sense of an ending. It feels exactly like an 80s
pop song. The 80s are unfairly maligned, in my humble opinion – that was a decade that did bittersweet really really well.

Echo & the Bunnymen. Talk Talk. ‘Bete Davis Eyes’. Early REM. Late Fleetwood Mac.

But there is no denying (to me, at least) that the king of the bittersweet pop song is ‘The Boys of Summer’ by Don Henley. Endings and new beginnings, all at
once. Love that may or may not last into the autumn. TV-inspired fake memories of driving around in convertible cars that I’ve never seen in real life.

I’m listening to it on a loop as I attempt to revise in the garden for my final exam. I can’t get it out of my head and the feeling is hanging over me as I
walk around the quiet house.

This time I’m nostalgic for a summer that’s hardly even got started yet.

Comments

‘Revising in the garden’. Yeah, right . . . I think that ship has sailed, if anyone else has seen the papers this morning.

Nishi_S

I’m surprised you’ve even got time to listen to music (or write your own blog) any more, now that you’ve got the notoriously flaky,
divorced mentalist Jackson Griffith to personally serenade you. Yes, in case you were wondering – I found out my girlfriend was cheating on me when I saw a photo of her in the Sunday papers
‘getting married’ to a fading pop star. My mum woke me up to show me the article in the
Telegraph
, which was particularly nice. Stay classy, Tuesday Cooper.

seymour_brown

Are you the same ‘Tuesday’ from the song? Think you must be. It’s an unusual name. Lucky girl!!

MusicLover97

No, she can’t be! I’ve looked at all the pictures on her Facebook page and this girl is NO WAY good enough for Jackson. She’s fat and
she doesn’t even have a pretty face! If it is her then Jackson just feels sorry for her or he really is taking drugs or something, ha ha. She thinks she is so clever, but she seems really
fake. He had a model for a wife and he could get anyone, so why would he want some unknown girl who is fat and not even that pretty? Tuesday is a well stupid name. She is probably just using him to
get people to look at her blog. By the way, this blog is crap!!

jacksongriffithfan4eva

Wow, what an articulate reply. You really come across as an intelligent person. Nobody asked you to look at this blog. In fact, to have found it at all
you must be some kind of a stalker. You know nothing about my friend Tuesday or this situation. Tuesday did not invite any of this and you are not qualified to comment. I will not sink to your
level by getting into a ridiculous argument, but please be warned that I will not tolerate any lies or abuse of my best friend. This is her website and you chose to look at it – have some
respect.

Nishi_S

I’ve been reading all the old comments on this crap website and you are not exactly her real mate – you are constantly hating on her! If she
is so great then let ‘Tuesday’ (if that is even her real name) stand up for herself. Jackson knows who his real fans are.

jacksongriffithfan4eva

Seriously, mind your own business. Whatever our differences, Tuesday is my best friend. A true friend is someone who is like a sister to you-who you
would stand up for no matter what, even if you have disagreements among yourselves. This is the last comment I will make, as I have no need to defend myself to you. But I would like anyone who is
reading this to know that Tuesday Cooper is kind and clever. She is a girl who has found herself in an extraordinary and public situation, and she has enough to deal with behind closed doors
without strangers interfering and casting untrue judgements. She has not encouraged this attention in any way and she doesn’t deserve public condemnation. Trust me, she’s going to have
enough to deal with at home.

Nishi_S

She’s also a cheat and a liar who dumps her boyfriend at the slightest sniff of a rich pop star giving her a free ticket to Glastonbury. Never mind
that she’s letting her friends and family down and messing up her precious A levels. Jackson Griffith is well known for being totally flaky, a disgusting womanizer and, most importantly, an
untalented idiot. They deserve each other.

seymour_brown

Nice, Seymour. Just get judgemental in public, why don’t you? Talk about ‘classy’.

anna_banana

Anna, I agree with you (although I can totally understand why Seymour would be so upset) – but I don’t see what this has to do with you. I
don’t really know why Chew isn’t on here speaking up for herself.

Nishi_S

Thanks for that, Nish. Helpful. I thought you said you weren’t going to make any more comments on here? Well, I’m certainly not going to get
in a public slanging match so I’ll say now that I’m not going to make any more comments (and I’m going to stick with that). Over and out.

anna_banana

She’s not on here ‘speaking up for herself, Nishi, because she’s too busy shagging Jackson Griffith. This was obviously an automatic
timed post, scheduled to show up on her blog now so that we wouldn’t know she had sneaked off to Glastonbury with him. Clever – go to that much effort and then blow it by getting your
picture in all the papers. I suppose she couldn’t resist the attention. The websites I’ve been looking at have even identified her and tracked her down – that’s why this
post has got so many views.

seymour_brown

die bitch die!!! leave jackson alone.

Anonymous

This has got on Twitter so you had better watch out. The true jackson fans will get you, bitch!

Anonymous

The Jackson fandom is an ARMY, so you need to watch your back. Sleep with one eye open from now on, slut!

Anonymous

Seriously – pipe down now or I’m calling the police.

Nishi_S

I wake up in the tepee and, as the events of last night come back to me, the first thing I realize is that I am alone. Jackson is not here.

If he’s gone, I think irrationally, then I wish we’d had sex last night. Maybe he’s gone for good and I will never see him again. If we’d had sex, then at least I could
have something concrete to remember him by – everyone has to carry the story of their lost virginity around with them for the rest of their lives. Mine would have been a really good one if we
had done it; I would have proof that I didn’t make him up.

I am still fully dressed, down to my now completely ruined Converse, and I feel unpleasantly clammy. With a jolt of utter panic I realize that the intense heat can only mean one thing.
I’ve overslept. This is potentially disastrous. I have no idea what crazy hour of the morning it was by the time we got to bed, or what time it is now.

I try to check my phone but it’s out of battery – I meant to charge it in the VIP phone-charging area, but I seem to have forgotten to do anything at all useful about this.
It’s totally dead. I am not winning this morning.

There’s still no sign of Jackson, so I stagger outside still half asleep and head through to the VIP bar to check if he’s there. I so want to be cool and nonchalant, but I have got
to get myself home. And
soon
.

I find Jackson sitting in a deckchair next to the free bar, with a drink in his hand.

‘Tuesday!’ he exclaims. ‘Hey, this is my girl Tuesday, the one I was telling you about.’

He’s with a couple of guys who I dimly recognize. Through my sleep-bleared eyes, there’s a slight time delay before I twig. They are the singer and bass player from Bucket Tree
– a band who are pretty famous and who I actually really like. Even they are looking at Jackson like he is the coolest man in the world, which he kind of is.

‘Like I said, Tuesday’s a terrific writer. She’s probably going to be a famous novelist or something one day.’ He grins up at me.

‘Wow, that’s great,’ says Simon, the bass player. ‘I really admire anyone who’s a real writer. Hats off. That’s a proper talent – beats anything in this
corrupt music industry.’

I really, really wish I’d bothered to have a shower, brush my hair or, best of all, clean my teeth before I came out to find Jackson. Of course, being in such a sorry state,
this
would be when I get to meet actual celebrities.

Well, at least Jackson doesn’t appear to have washed all weekend; he’s wearing those crazed denim shorts again and he definitely hasn’t brushed his teeth. I wonder how long
he’s been out here already today, while I was conked out in the tepee for hours. It doesn’t seem to be worrying him or anyone else in the least. Styling it out is the only option.
I’m a writer, I tell myself – they’re practically
supposed
to be scruffy.