My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (19 page)

My phone beeps again and I am glad of the interruption. Until I see that it’s Seymour, asking if he can come over after he finishes Sunday lunch with his family. Obviously he’s
having a hard time at home since the awkward argument with his parents. I am hit by a renewed wave of helpless guilt, knowing it’s my own fault and I still haven’t done anything to help
the situation.

I text back a vague reply saying that I’m really busy revising, nicking my mum’s madwoman in the attic joke and reusing it. Not cool, I know. Only a few days of this to go.

I put my phone down and try to go back to Shakespeare, but my concentration is shot. I stand and stretch, picking up my empty mug and Penguin wrapper. I might just see what’s on telly
while I take them downstairs. I really hate myself sometimes.

Ones to watch: Jackson Griffith

An unexpected addition to the list. The Sour Apple frontman made a well-publicized fall from grace way back in the annals of pop-music history (i.e. a couple
of years ago). He’s fulfilled every rockstar cliché going – from marrying a French model to allegedly drinking himself through the inevitable divorce. Throughout it all, his
deceptively jaunty, nostalgia-tinted brand of retro Californian pop has remained popular with a certain type of young lady, helped along by his poster-boy good looks. Derivative, sure –
he’s famously enamoured with all the classic troubadours of the peace ’n’ love generation, from Gram Parsons to James Taylor – but young Jackson is certainly easy on the
ears as well as the eyes. So expect a female-heavy audience this weekend if the rumours are true and he chooses this year’s Glastonbury to return from the wilderness. Early reports on his new
solo material are unexpectedly positive – so, gents, if your girlfriend drags you along to the acoustic stage to watch his set on Saturday afternoon, you might find yourself pleasantly
surprised. Especially if the sun is shining and you have a pint of local cider in your hand. Stranger things have happened.

‘Do we think this is a Bruges outfit?’

‘Definitely. You look great.’

My mum does look unquestionably great, but she has been trying on slightly different variations of white jeans and sexy T-shirts for the past two hours, and the little wheelie suitcase sitting
on her bed is still almost empty. In the bottom of it is her sponge bag – actually enormous as it’s stuffed full of every variety of make-up and beauty product imaginable – plus
one silky grey nightie and, in full view, the ridiculously sexy Elle McPherson underwear she has bought especially for the occasion, with the tags still attached. Mum has been obsessing over
whether sensible trainers for walking around Bruges might make her legs look short, but I have a feeling that they are not going to be doing a massive amount of sightseeing outside of their hotel
room. I should probably be more disgusted than I am, but I’m so used to this sort of thing by now that it’s only medium-gross. I’m sure some future therapist will have something
to say about this when I’m a middle-aged wreck, but for now it’s easiest just to go along with it.

‘It’s June so I should be OK with just my denim jacket, do you think?’ She puts on said garment and looks again in the mirror. ‘But then what if it rains and my hair goes
frizzy? Perhaps I ought to take something with a hood . . .’

‘You can borrow my red American Apparel hoodie, if you like,’ I suggest. ‘It’s quite warm as well, but it wouldn’t take up too much room in your bag.’

‘Ha ha, very funny. If you’re not going to offer any serious suggestions, do you fancy making us another cup of coffee while I try to figure out what on earth I can wear to dinner in
the evenings?’

Her sarcastic response is a bit wounding, as I was genuinely trying to be helpful. In fact, I was being pretty selfless as I really want to take it with me to Glastonbury, although obviously she
can’t possibly know that. What the hell is wrong with my red American Apparel hoodie? It’s cool. I think my mum is against unisex clothes on principle; American Apparel confuses
her.

I head to the kitchen to make yet another cup of coffee as instructed. While the kettle’s boiling I take my phone out of the pocket of my pyjama bottoms and check my texts. There are,
unsurprisingly, an excitable two from Anna already this morning. I text her back quickly to say that my mum is mucking about and taking
bloody ages
but Richard Jenkins is due to pick her
up in a taxi to St Pancras in an hour, so I’ll call as soon as the coast is clear. We need to be on our way by midday, on pain of death, in order to make all of our many, complicated
transport connections.

When I come back up the stairs, I’m pleased to see that the white jeans and various T-shirts have been added to the suitcase, along with a big gold necklace that sits on the top. However,
my mum is now wearing a small sparkly dress and high heels and looking at herself critically from the back in the mirror. Tendons are straining in her neck as she tries to examine her own
bottom.

‘Do we think this is possibly a
little
excessive?’ she asks.

‘Yes. What about that nice wrap dress you wear for work sometimes?’

‘Really, Chew –
really
? You want me to look like a middle-aged mum going to the office on my first dirty weekend in at least five years. Thanks a lot.’

‘Mum, you couldn’t look like a middle-aged mum if you tried,’ I reply truthfully.

This seems to placate her, and she actually throws a black jersey dress into the case.

‘Now, if I wear my skinny jeans and black boots on the Eurostar . . .’

‘Yes, that sounds a very good plan,’ I say decisively. ‘Richard’s coming to collect you at eleven, right? You should probably try to be totally ready by then; you
don’t want him to think you’re a flake, or neurotic, or something.’

‘Thanks for that extremely helpful advice, Tuesday,’ she snaps. ‘Please remind me why you’re hanging around while I’m
trying
to get ready. And why
don’t you get dressed? I would really rather Richard didn’t see you still slopping about in your pyjamas at this time of the morning.’

‘Well, I’m not planning on leaving the house for the next four days, so this is as good an outfit for my self-imposed hardcore revision boot camp as any.’

Yes, I am evil. It’s official.

‘I’m proud of you, darling,’ she replies in a softer voice this time, stopping and smiling at me for a second. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so stressed; I
just really want this to go well.’

I know the feeling. I know it better than she could ever imagine right now. I hug her as she throws a pair of high heels into her case, and squeeze tight. It suddenly hits me that so much will
have happened by the time I next see her, and everything could be completely different by then.

‘Don’t worry, you’re going to have a great time – I know it,’ I murmur into her shoulder. ‘And don’t worry about me for a second.’

By some miracle, by eleven o’clock she is packed and in yet another pair of skinny jeans, if somewhat over-caffeinated. She is waiting by the front door when Richard arrives bang on time
in a taxi. He grins when he sees her and helps her with her case; he even holds the car door open for her. My mum inspires men to do some very strange things.

‘Don’t work too hard, darling – see you on Sunday night, about eight o’clock!’

I wave them off until they are out of sight, and then I spring into manic action. In my haste I trip up the stairs and stub my toe while texting Anna. l limp into my bedroom, open my wardrobe
and pull out the rucksack I’ve got stashed away in the bottom of it. It’s already full of the things I might need at Glastonbury – a couple of summer dresses, a jumper and my
American Apparel hoodie; knickers and socks and two clean T-shirts; my swimsuit just in case; all the usual things like dry shampoo, wet wipes and metric craploads of eyeliner. That’s pretty
much it. I’ve got my festival routine pretty much sorted now that I’ve been to Reading a couple of times; I know what I’m doing. This time round, of course, my festival experience
is going to be exponentially more awesome, but I guess the general set-up will be exactly the same.

With lightning speed, I strip off my pyjamas and pull on the outfit that I’ve had secretly ready for days. Vintage denim shorts, my favourite T-shirt with a picture of John Peel on it,
granddad cardigan and a parka that I know from previous experience can double up as a sleeping bag if necessary. I lace up my Converse – high-tops as I’ve heard the terrain can be
pretty rough at Glastonbury, especially if it rains – and I perch my biggest sunglasses on top of my head. My very few valuables – phone and a bit of scraped-together cash – go in
a perfectly hideous 80s bumbag that I fortuitously found at the charity shop for just such an occasion as this. My outfit is actually pretty practical, I think.

I’m all set, but as I wait impatiently for Anna I become paranoid that I might have missed something. I know that if I am to avoid getting caught, I’ve got to have planned for every
eventuality. I’ve watched enough
CSI
to know how these things work. I need to get forensic.

I’ve told my mum that I’ll text her at regular intervals, which should be easily done – both to save her phone bill in calling from a foreign country and so that she
doesn’t risk disturbing me at any crucial points in my ‘revision timetable’. I’ve even stacked up my blog with a few autotimed posts that will show up on the site while
I’m away. Mum went to the supermarket before she left and filled up the fridge with food to keep me going throughout my ‘revision weekend’ – I’ve shoved most of it
into my bag, which serves the double purpose of making it look like I was here eating regularly and providing us with snacks for our adventure. Festival food can be really expensive –
although I wonder if there’ll be catering backstage . . . Backstage! Back-bloody-stage!

I’m all ready – as ready as I will ever be – so I lock the door behind me and lug my rucksack outside, sitting on it while I wait for Anna to come and call for me en route to
the station. I take out my phone to write the text to Seymour that I’ve been dreading sending.
Seymour, I’m sorry but I’ve been thinking and your mum’s right: I know
it’s a bit late now, but I don’t think we should see each other again until after the exams have finished . . . especially as we haven’t been getting on that well anyway.
I’ve *got* to concentrate on final revision and I can’t think about anything else right now. Good luck and we’ll catch up soon – not long to go now. Love, Chew xxx

I know it’s half-hearted and I’m not saying I’m proud of myself. I couldn’t in good conscience go to Glastonbury to meet Jackson without having said
something
to
Seymour. I can’t pretend that I’m going to meet Jackson to ‘interview’ him or for any perfectly innocent reason any more – and I can’t pretend not to know that
he feels the same, whatever that does or doesn’t turn into.

But at the same time – and I am well aware that this is awful and self-serving of me – I can’t risk incurring such wrath from Seymour that he comes tearing round here,
wondering where I am and making this situation even more potentially complicated. I had to be just ambiguous enough not to cause any extra fuss. I know it’s pointless, but I can’t stop
cursing myself for not doing this sooner, and properly. What a mess. But this will have to do for now.

If I know Seymour, and I think I do, then he will go straight into sulk mode and not contact me for a while out of principle. Not for at least four days.

Luckily I don’t have long to dwell on my own treachery, as Anna appears round the corner, so I stand up and wave madly while stashing my phone away in the hideous bumbag.

Anna is dressed ridiculously impractically, in a long floaty dress and gladiator sandals, with fake flowers in her hair. It’s immediately obvious she’s never been to a festival
before – she looks great and it’s sunny outside now, but it gets cold at night and it might rain. She’s only got a medium-sized handbag with her. I have a feeling there might at
least be one person who won’t turn her nose up at the idea of borrowing my red American Apparel hoodie at some point this weekend.

We squeak and jump up and down a little bit as we hug and then rush off down the street to the station. We’re both a little on edge, which only adds to our mania and speeds us up. Bumping
into anyone we know would be a disaster; one glance at us would make it pretty obvious exactly where we are going today.

For me, although I’m technically on study leave now, obviously it’s still a college day and I am supposed to be at home revising. Anna has it a bit easier – she has told her
parents that she’s got a school trip to London for the weekend, to see a few plays for drama. The other bonus of this – and I suppose I should be unsurprised because Anna lives in a
posh house near Seymour’s and goes to the girls’ private school – is that she told her parents they had to pay for the school trip, and they just
gave
her £150,
plus spending money. No questions asked. This is obviously crazy, but I’m not arguing as it definitely works in our favour on this occasion.

‘And it’s not a
total
lie,’ Anna explains optimistically. ‘I mean, there’s a theatre tent at Glastonbury, isn’t there? This weekend is going to be
educational
.’

This glass-half-full attitude is not the only reason why I’m glad Anna is here. She’s pre-booked our tickets, so we can nip straight on to the train without too much messing about.
Which is a very good thing as we’re both getting a bit twitchy in the small, crowded station.

Once we have dashed on to a train for Paddington, we throw ourselves into a double seat with a table. We both watch, practically holding our breath, as the train pulls out of the station. We are
moving. We are on our way. From this point on, nobody knows where we are.

I can’t believe we are really doing this. In a few hours’ time, we will be at Glastonbury festival.

To: Tuesday Cooper

From: jackson evan griffith