My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (5 page)

‘Chew,’ Nishi says, ‘is everything all right with you? That was kind of why I wanted to bring this up, as well. I don’t just want to be totally self-obsessed for once!
How are things with you and Seymour?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ I find myself saying automatically.

It’s funny. There are things I
would
like to talk to Nishi about, now that I’ve got the chance for once – she is looking at me across the table with genuine concern
– but for some reason I find I
can’t.
Admitting that anything is less than perfect just seems too scary. Even though I know I’m being stupid and I should take this rare
window while I can, I can’t seem to stop myself from forming my face into a silly grin and waving her words away like I don’t care. I can’t even make myself look her in the
eye.

‘Tuesday,’ she says, in her usual no-nonsense tone, ‘it’s up to you whether you want to talk to me or not, but I’m your best friend and I’m here. No matter
what. I’m not going to go all soppy, but I want you to know that. OK?’

There’s a pause, in which I worry that I might actually burst into tears. Nishi, being my best friend in the entire world and all of history, lets me have a moment to pull myself together
if I want to.

‘Yeah,’ I say eventually. ‘I know.’

We do look at each other this time, across the table. Dead on. Eyes level. We don’t have to say any more – thankfully for both of us. I take her hand and squeeze it, just for a
second; I drop it quickly before she tells me to get off.

‘Hey.’ I smile once more. ‘Shall we get pudding? Go crazy for once. I’ll buy you a treacle sponge and custard or whatever canteen delight they have today.’

‘Yeah, go and see – tell me what they’ve got.’

I jump up to have a quick look at the blackboard and report back. I am laughing so much when I get back to the table that I can barely speak.

‘It’s spotted dick!’

‘My favourite,’ Nishi replies, totally straight-faced.

You Remind Me of the Babe

Because we have nothing better to do with our time, recently my friends and I decided to rewatch a childhood favourite film,
Labyrinth
.

When I was a kid, I was unfazed by this film. There was singing. There were funny goblins and animatronics, and weird flamingo-esque creatures whose heads came off. It was
hilarious and fun, and only a tiny bit scary in just the right kind of way (i.e. not very).

So I was pretty shocked when I saw it now that I am an oh-so-worldly and cosmopolitan eighteen-year-old. It’s pure filth! Reader, I was appalled. And pretty
excited.

David Bowie wears a catsuit and a codpiece! He sings weird pervy songs to a teenager that say things like ‘How you turn my world, you precious thing’ and
‘Everything I’ve done, I’ve DONE FOR YOU.’

When I was seven, I kind of wanted to be Sarah from
Labyrinth
because she got to wear a pretty white dress and hang out with weird creatures and talking animals.
Now I kind of want to be her because she is really hot and – spoiler alert – has the chance to hang out for eternity in the labyrinth with the Goblin King. Who is, like, David Bowie.
And, fact fans, she grew up to be Jennifer Connelly.

I hope I don’t feel like this if I start rewatching all my beloved childhood classics; it’s way too disturbing. There’s nothing in
The Lion King
that’s going to give me weird sex dreams, is there?

Comments

Ahh,
Labyrinth
– yep, that was definitely one for the mums.

Carrie_Cougar

Ew.

Tuesday-yes-that-is-my-real-name-Cooper

I love the
Labyrinth
– how come nobody invited me?

seymour_brown

Because it was girls only. Although Bowie’s codpiece was clearly wasted on the TLBFs. I’d be *well* up for watching it again, BTW. If that
wasn’t obvious. In fact, I might buy you a catsuit and a Bowie wig for your next birthday.

Tuesday-yes-that-is-my-real-name-Cooper

Hey, if only I knew that chicks dug catsuits so much, my whole life would have been a lot easier. I might not have bothered with that whole boring
‘learning to play guitar to get girls’ thing. Thanks for the tip!! Anyway, I’m rambling now but I really love Bowie. I know it’s not cool but I’m really into his
plastic soul 80s period – great pop tunes, man! You seem like a girl who knows her music, so I bet you’ll shoot me down and say you only like Ziggy Stardust or whatever – but
I’m just gonna put myself out there! Feel free to think I’m totally lame and never speak to me again! Also, just wanna say I really like your writing – you’re
funny!

jackson_e_griffith

Um, thanks? I’m not sure what to think about this . . . ?

Tuesday-yes-that-is-my-real-name-Cooper

I walk through the front door and the atmosphere in my house feels different. It’s familiar, but I haven’t sensed this for a long time.

First of all, my mum’s home before I am for once. Her car is already parked in the road outside. This hardly ever happens; I usually have a minimum of an hour by myself, for watching TV
and eating snacks before dinner without consternation. Usually I have at least three rounds of toast and get started on cooking dinner before Mum gets in from work.

As I walk into the house, kick off my shoes and dump my bag in the hallway, I register that music is playing somewhere, the windows are open and my mum’s work clothes and belongings seem
to be scattered liberally about the house.

‘Hello, darling!’

I hear her voice and follow it outside, where I find my mum sunbathing in the last rays of afternoon sun hitting our minuscule garden. As she sits up, I realize she’s topless and wearing
only an ancient pair of yellow shorts that won’t quite do up. Prince is playing on her laptop.

‘Um, what’s going on?’ I ask, feeling a bit of a frumpy spoilsport.

‘Well, it was such a beautiful afternoon I decided to work at home for once. Do you know what nobody ever says on their deathbed? “I wish I’d spent more time at
work.”’

‘Oh god, what’s
actually
going on?’ I ask again, more suspicious by the millisecond.

I know what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth. It’s been a while, but the signs are so clear it’s embarrassing.

‘I’ve met someone!’

I kind of have to admire her optimism. Sometimes I can really see where I get my annoying cheerfulness from. The way she says this, if you didn’t know better, you’d honestly think
she was my age and had never been kissed before. Not a woman who’s been divorced three times (so far) and has had more unsuitable boyfriends than I own ridiculous American Apparel leggings.
And – trust me – that’s a lot. She basically epitomizes that old quote about the triumph of hope over experience. Bless her – I wouldn’t change her for all the world.
Maybe one day she’ll even be right.

‘Actually, before we discuss this in detail, do you maybe fancy putting your boobs away?’ I ask.

‘You teenagers these days are such prudes,’ she tuts. ‘Pass me my top then. It’s getting a bit chilly anyway – shall we go inside?’

‘You don’t have to ask
me
twice, Mater.’

As soon as we’re back in the kitchen – and my mum, thankfully, has pulled on a T-shirt with a picture of a parrot on it – she turns to me with shiny eyes and a naughty smile,
desperate to spill.

‘Go on then – who is he?’ I ask as required.

It feels like our roles have been reversed as I pour myself a glass of orange juice and eyeball her beadily.

‘Well . . . we met on that dating website I’m on, but we’ve been chatting for a while now.’

‘Sneaky.’ I wag my finger at her.

‘Shut up. We’ve been emailing a lot and this afternoon we just spoke on the phone for the first time. He’s Welsh; he’s got a lovely voice. We’re meeting up this
weekend.’

‘How come he’s got nothing better to do on a weekday afternoon than chat on the phone to you – doesn’t he have a job?’ I’m grinning as I say it. I want
nothing more than for my mum to be happy, but we have to be able to have a little fun about it. ‘You have to laugh or you’d cry’ has so often had to be our philosophy about my
mum’s love life.

‘Actually he’s a teacher. A history teacher, in fact. He had a free period.’

I mock-groan. ‘Of
course
he is. A Welsh teacher who’s going to lock me in the coal shed to teach me some good old-fashioned respect, right? What’s his name?’

‘Richard Jenkins.’ She says it in the same way that I might say ‘Jackson Griffith’ or some other world-class hottie – Kurt Cobain, if he wasn’t dead.

‘What a boring name. Probably suits him. I bet he wears a lot of brown corduroy and reads the
Guardian
and clears his throat all the time, right?’

‘Ha!’ my mum shoots back. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Did you know that Richard Jenkins was actually Richard Burton’s real name? If it’s good enough for
the most handsome classic movie star who ever lived . . .’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ I say, all faux innocence. ‘A couple more marriages and you’ll be up there with Elizabeth Taylor – you must be made for each
other!’

For a second, I think she’s going to tell me off; it doesn’t happen very often but, according to my mum, there’s a line and I don’t know when not to cross it. Then we
both start laughing and crease up in absolute hysterics. It’s the only way forward.

Fortunately my mum then appreciates that it really is a bit chilly and goes upstairs to put on a pair of jeans. I follow her up there and we end up getting into pyjamas instead and lolling about
on her bed, putting the TV in her room on.

After a couple of episodes of
Bake Off
that we’ve had saved up, we can’t really be bothered to cook a proper dinner. We shuffle downstairs in our pyjamas to make scrambled
eggs and cups of tea to take back to bed. In a stroke of brilliance I grab a packet of Jaffa Cakes from the cupboard and stick them in my pyjama pocket to bring up the stairs along with my dinner
on a tray.

We stick yet another rubbish film on – something to do with Anne Hathaway and a stray dog – and, unsurprisingly given our viewing choice, I end up falling asleep. I wake up at four
in the morning in my mum’s bed with the TV still on; I switch it off and creep back into my own room, making sure my alarm is set.

As I climb back into my own bed, still only semiconscious and drifting straight back into sleep, the thought of Richard Jenkins the history teacher randomly comes into my head. I really hope
he’s nice and it all works out for her – but I need to make the most out of this kind of quality time while I can. We don’t get to do these kinds of things when my mum has a
husband.

Like a Lead Balloon

I think maybe it’s because I don’t really have a dad – it’s fine, don’t worry this isn’t some ‘boohoo, my sad
childhood’ post; there are plenty of other places to go to for that. But it does mean that my taste in music – although I would hasten to say that I myself am most emphatically NOT-is
maybe a little bit . . . girlie. Please note that I do include a lot of classic Riot grrrl under said banner of ‘girlie’. I don’t sit about listening to Adele’s saddest
songs and weeping all the time. Don’t stereotype me, man.

For some reason, I had always decided in my head, for no good reason, that Led Zeppelin was ‘boy music’. I’ve never listened to them much, despite my
well-documented obsession with the 70s. Until now, dear reader.

I found a copy of
Led Zeppelin I
in my favourite charity shop the other day and a strange thing happened. I felt weirdly drawn to its cover and had a sense that
it would be the perfect addition to my collection. Suddenly this seemed like a gaping hole in my musical education – and, you know, I can’t be having that. Hey, apparently Led Zep are
Tori Amos’s favourite band – so if that doesn’t blow my previously misguided theory out of the water, I don’t know what does.

So it now sits in front of me as I type, and I am going to explore the world of boy music. I shall report back from the trenches of testosterone rock in due course. Wish
me luck.

Comments

Good start. . . led zep one is a worthy addition to the collection. i have a hunch you’ll like dazed & confused, great track, let me know what
you think.

jackson_e_griffith

Look, thanks for the recommendation and I don’t mean to be rude but WHO ACTUALLY ARE YOU? Not being funny, but pretty much nobody reads this silly
little blog of mine except for my friends and my mum, so I find it pretty hard to believe that this is the real Jackson Griffith. I’m really pleased that you seem to like my crazy ramblings,
whoever you are – so obviously I don’t mind you *not* being THE Jackson Griffith. But as you seem to be hanging around in my virtual living room quite a bit, it might be nice if we
could do proper introductions. Excuse me if this is incorrect blogger etiquette – it’s totally up to you where you spend your online surfing time, so don’t feel under any
obligation or anything – but I wouldn’t know because I’ve never really had a real-life anonymous reader before! I’d just like to keep things cosy and polite.
Thanks.

Tuesday-yes-that-is-my-real-name-Cooper

hey, weird I know but it is me. I mean, I am me. guilty as charged. I goggled myself, ok?? Goggled, Googled, whatever – I’m an egomaniac! i
hope you don’t think me too forward but i saw there’s an email address listed here on your site – emailing you now with proof of the pudding! This mystery will soon be solved. The
MYTH! The MYSTERY – woooo!