The Celeb Next Door (18 page)

R
ufus Justice is depressed. He hasn’t come out of his house for six days, not once, since the story about his sleepwalking broke. He can’t even go in his own back garden because most of the paparazzi lenses are trained on it, hoping to catch him in the buff. Max says he just sits in the living room with the curtains shut, wearing his dressing gown and playing on his Wii. He hasn’t even touched his drums or picked up a pen to scribble down a song idea. Isabella is going spare and the other Fieldstar members are worried sick that Rufus won’t be able to play the gig at KOKO, which is only days away now.

I feel so bad that I’ve offered to go round to explain
what happened and to say sorry to Rufus, but Max said not to. He’s such a gentleman that he hasn’t told his brother I’m to blame. Rufus has no clue how the story got out, and now he probably never will. It will just remain a ‘mystery’. Max says it’s better that way.

‘Rufus doesn’t really trust anyone anyway,’ Max explained. ‘Where the story came from isn’t important now. The fact is it’s out and it can’t ever go back in.’

The day after
Sizzling
hit the shops, two of the tabloid newspapers picked up on it and it spread all over the internet too. People have been posting really mean pictures showing a naked, fat guy with Rufus’s head pasted over the top, and telling incredibly mean jokes, like saying
they
have no trouble sleeping properly when they listen to Fieldstar’s albums. Fieldstar had a meeting with their management team and it was decided that they’d do something called ‘fire fighting’. Now they’re trying to turn the negative story into a positive one. So, reluctantly, Rufus has done interviews with newspaper health sections and on the radio about his sleepwalking problem, and how it isn’t funny at all. It’s actually a serious medical condition that can be really dangerous. One paper said some people have hurt themselves or their partners while they were asleep. Not that Rufus has ever done this. The line is he wants to help other people with the same problem.

I used to think celebrity gossip was exciting. But all the fuss has made me realise that being famous can be rubbish
sometimes. I’d hate to be Rufus now, stuck in my house, with photographers and journalists ready to pounce at any opportunity. No one cares that he’s a real person, with real feelings.

I’ve been trying to do some fire fighting of my own. I’ve put my Max plan on hold, for starters. It feels mean and petty now. And the truth is, I think he’s gone off me a little bit anyway – it’s obvious, however sweet he’s being. It feels like he doesn’t really trust me any more. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s stopped being so open with me and so affectionate and, because he’s worried about Rufus, he’s been spending a lot of time at home and not coming out very much. The few times he’s kissed me, I’ve just closed my eyes and thought about Adam Grigson. Until all the fuss has died down, I don’t see how I can do anything else. I’m stuck with him as my boyfriend.

The night I saw the magazine, I rushed off an email to Sky the minute I got home. I was hoping she’d see it quickly and fill me in on what happened. A tiny part of me was praying that maybe, just maybe, she’d swear she hadn’t told a soul and the whole thing really was a massive coincidence, so I could stop blaming myself. Either way, just sending it made me feel better.

Dear Sky
,
Oh God! What a mess!
Rufus is all over the news in England. Have you heard?
God, not sure how to say this but was it you? Did you
mention it to somebody? There’s this ‘source’ and no one knows who they are. I know I should have made it crystal clear that you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the sleepwalking, but I thought you’d realise that without me saying. I’m not blaming you, but it’s really dropped me in it. Who did you tell? How did it end up in a magazine? I want to die! PLEASE email me or call me as soon as you can.
Love, Rosie x

I haven’t heard from her. Maybe she hasn’t been able to go online, or maybe she’s too shamefaced to answer me. She’s coming back from Goa in a few days, so I’ll be able to ask her what happened, face to face.

I’m with Vix right now in a café on Camden High Street, eating strawberry and white chocolate muffins and drinking iced chocolate frappés. Her treat. We’re sitting in our favourite spot, right by the window, watching people go by. People, not celebrities. I’ve packed the Celebometer away for now, maybe for keeps. It doesn’t feel fun any more. It’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place!

This time I’ve been totally straight with Vix. I confessed what I’d done and she has been surprisingly sweet about everything. She says she’d have done exactly the same thing – told me or Sky – about Rufus’s sleepwalking, if she’d been Max’s girlfriend.

‘It’s not really breaking a promise to tell your best
friend something because there’s an unwritten code, isn’t there?’ she says. ‘Everyone knows it. Talking to your best friend is a bit like thinking aloud.’

‘Except Sky told someone else.’

‘Yeah, but like you said, you didn’t tell her how important it was not to, and she was probably going crazy out there with no news and no gossip. She’s going to feel terrible when she finds out what trouble she’s caused.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, although I think that, secretly, Sky will also feel quite proud to have started such a fuss. She doesn’t know Rufus like I do.

‘Everyone will forget about it soon, though. There’ll be some other celebrity scandal to talk about.’

Yeah,’ I say. ‘I know. But the stuff about Rufus will always be on the web now. And he wanted to keep it private. Anyway, want another drink?’

‘What do you think? Course I do.’

‘I’ll get them this time.’

There’s a long queue, mainly because the guy serving – I think they call them baristas – is a bit hopeless and keeps getting the orders wrong or giving people the wrong change. I lean against the counter, impatiently, thinking, ‘Hurry up, already.’

‘God,’ says a voice from behind me.‘We’ll still be here for breakfast at this rate.’

I turn around. It’s a guy, a year or two older than me, perhaps, and he’s absolutely gorgeous, with dark hair
flopping over one eye and a slim, muscular body. He looks like he should be in a band. But probably isn’t.

‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ I say, trying not to blush. I suddenly feel self-conscious. I check out my reflection in the cake counter. I think I look OK. Thank goodness I put the plan on hold and started wearing make-up and dressing like me again.

‘It’s always the same here,’ he says. ‘Always too packed. So are you a tourist visiting the market?’

‘As if! No, I’ve lived in Camden all my life. I’m a local. You?’

Yeah, I live here too. Well, Chalk Farm, officially. Just the other end of the high street.’

‘Oh right, I’m up by the Camden Road end.’

He smiles and holds out his hand. He is soooo my type. ‘I’m Laurie, by the way.’

‘Rosie,’I say, shaking it. I hope my palms aren’t too sweaty.

The queue still isn’t moving much. I try to catch Vix’s eye, but she’s sitting with her back towards me.

You here with a friend?’

Yeah, my best friend, Vix. She’s just over there.’ I point to the back of Vix’s head. ‘We always sit in the window seats. Best place for people-watching. You?’

‘Just getting a takeaway. I’m doing a summer job at the sports shop on the high street. I’m on my break.’ He checks his watch. At least I was.’

You can go in front of me, if you like.’

‘Ah, you’re very sweet, but don’t worry. If I’m late, I’m late.’

By the time I’ve picked up my drinks, I’ve found out quite a lot about Laurie. It turns out he’s just about to start sixth form. He has a sister in my year at school and he’s been to some of the same gigs as me. He’s so easy to talk to, and so cute, I almost forget I’m standing in a public queue with a stranger. And I almost forget I have a boyfriend.

‘So,’ says Laurie, as he collects his own drink. ‘I have to get back to work now.’ He pauses. ‘I’m, er, not normally this forward but, er, do you fancy meeting up some time? Could I take your number? I would ask you out for a coffee, but as we’re already in a café that sounds a bit stupid.’

‘Oh …’ I can feel my face fall.

‘Sorry,’ he says, with a forced smile. ‘You don’t have to give it to me. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘No, it’s not that. I’d love to give you my number. But I really can’t. I have a, er, boyfriend.’ I want to add, ‘I’m working on it,’ but that would make me sound really mean.

‘Shame,’ he says. ‘Maybe some other time.’

‘Maybe,’ I say.

‘See you around, then.’ He smiles and turns and I watch him walk out of the cafe.

I feel gutted. And, once again, I’ve got no one to blame but myself.

L
ast night, Fieldstar launched their brand new album at KOKO with a one-off gig. People queued around the block from five in the morning, camping out, hoping that they would be lucky enough to buy one of the small number of public tickets available. Everybody else was on the guest list: friends and family, rock stars, TV presenters and footballers, as well as journalists and people from Fieldstar’s record company. It was a real dress-up occasion, like a film première, and Isabella looked incredible, in a beautiful sea-green silk dress. Guests drank free champagne and cocktails and ate mini burgers in toy-sized buns, or tiny portions of fish and chips from cardboard cones. Afterwards, there was a
big party, which went on until three a.m. There are still empty bottles and bits of tinsel littering the streets around KOKO. Everybody is saying it was the event of the year, if not the decade. Then again, they always say that, don’t they?

Maybe he’s just a really good actor, but you’d never have guessed that Rufus had any troubles. He even made a joke about his ‘problem’ and announced that he was setting up the ‘Rufus Justice Sleepwalking Foundation’ to raise money for research into sleep disorders. Fieldstar played a stonking set and their new album tracks went down a treat with the audience. The critics loved them too. One journalist blogged,
Tonight saw the birth of a classic album from Britain’s best-loved band
.

But the best moment of all was when Rufus unveiled the new album, on stage, and said it was called
The Tarantula
. Guess what: the sleeve features Dad’s painting,
The Quiet Death of the Tarantula
. Dad is so proud. And I’m so proud of him. His little squiggle of a signature is there, in the corner, on every copy. Fieldstar have put the album out on vinyl, as well as on CD and download, so true fans will be able to see Dad’s work on a proper scale. Dad says that Rufus liked his original ideas for the album cover but kept coming back to the
Tarantula
painting, which Dad brought round to show him after Rufus had admired a photo of it on his phone. ‘It has such power, such tranquility,’ he told Dad. ‘I think we all feel like that tarantula, dying quietly on the beach, don’t we?’

I have absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Still,
who cares? Dad is so happy he looks like he’s going to burst. This may only be the second painting he’s ever sold, and Mum says he shouldn’t have done another ‘mates rates’ deal with Rufus, but it’s going to be seen by millions of people, all over the world. My dad is going to be famous. Kind of.

I can’t tell you how much I wish I could have been there last night to see it all, to be part of it. But I didn’t go to KOKO. I only know what happened because I’ve read some of it on the internet and Vix has filled me in on the rest. I didn’t go because yesterday morning, I woke up and, for the first time in my life, I was one hundred per cent certain of what I had to do. I had my plan C.

‘Muuuuuum,’ I called out, in a cracking voice. ‘I don’t feel well. Please come.’ I wrapped myself up tight in my duvet and tried to look sweaty and pale.

Mum came in, looking concerned, in her officious doctor’s way. ‘What’s wrong, Rosie?’

‘I feel awful,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a terrible fever and my muscles hurt, and I’ve got a headache and a cough, and the runs, and I’m all sweaty too. And then I go all cold.’ Those are the symptoms of a disease that Katy Kay, from my favourite girl band, Proud Girls, had when she came back from Africa. I remember reading about them.