My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (2 page)

When they had their first ‘in the flesh’ date, after months of messaging and then awkward phone calls, Nishi arranged to meet Anna in a Starbucks and made me secretly sit at the
table behind her, in case Anna turned out to be a freaky old man or something. I sat there wearing a beret and reading a newspaper, mostly trying not to laugh and make a spectacle of myself. Nish
ended up calling me over to introduce me, and the three of us spent the whole afternoon hanging out in town together. It’s pretty much set the pattern for their whole relationship.

Most of all, it’s nice to see Nish so happy for once – I love my badass friend, but it’s actually kind of cool to see that she
does
have a soppy side. In all the years
that I have known her, I never would have guessed it could happen, but they are properly in love.

It’s a good thing I’ve got Seymour, otherwise I might feel left out. The fact that this has happened is basically a small miracle – as I would never previously have dreamed
I’d be able to get a boyfriend like Seymour. I’m still not entirely sure how I managed it. I’d casually admired him from afar at college for ages, but never thought much of it
– just like half the girls in my year, which is unsurprising, as he is so good-looking
and
plays in a band.

Then, somehow, we got chatting in the common room one day when he saw me reading a vintage copy of the
NME
that I’d bought off eBay. He seemed genuinely sweet and interested, so I
even forgot to be nervous as I explained to him the cultural significance of
Meat Is Murder
by the Smiths. We kept hanging out together and actually became friends – he started
coming round to borrow my charity-shop records or even to ask advice on his band’s demo tapes. It took a while, but things kind of went from there.

It’s probably a good thing that we were friends before we got together, as I know I’m not really pretty enough to be going out with someone like him – luckily for me I somehow
eventually won him over with my incessant chatter and encyclopaedic knowledge of Jared Leto films. Handsome boys love that sort of thing, right? Seriously, he looks like when they put glasses on a
ridiculously handsome actor in an American teen movie, to make it obvious that he’s the ‘clever’ one. He plays guitar and sings in a band called Terminal Ghosts. Despite
Nishi’s sniping, my friends think he’s cool; my mum loves him. Actually my mum mostly loves him because he has a slightly posh voice and unusually good table manners, plus he once sided
with her against me in an argument about which of the Bee Gees are dead – but that’s not the point. Even when he’s being annoying, they all generally take his side. It’s
always like, ‘Chew, what did you do?’ Fair enough, really. I guess we all know I’m punching above my weight.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I bring different qualities to the table – like the fact that I do better than him at college, and that before he met me he thought Iggy Pop was just
some old guy in insurance adverts.

Anyway, I really shouldn’t have to remind myself that life is pretty sweet at the moment. It’s nice to have this brilliant little group around me, after years of just Nishi and me
doing our own thing against the tide. It’s like the world has caught up, and being the slightly odd, clever kids has suddenly paid off for us.

We’ve got our A levels coming up in a couple of weeks’ time, and I’m weirdly excited about the whole thing. I really like all the subjects I’m studying, particularly
English, which has been my favourite subject for as long as I can remember. I love writing, and it’s been awesome to leave maths and science behind. I’m not a fan of any subject where
there is only one correct answer – if something is set in stone like that, it’s so boring; that just isn’t how my brain works. It’s probably why I also love really rubbish
reality TV – I’m all about the journey.

This is partly why I’m trying to spend a lot of time working on my blog at the moment. It’s a really fun hobby; obviously it’s grossly self-indulgent because it’s all
about me and the music and other stuff I’m into, and nobody reads it except for my friends and my mum. Still, I think it’s good practice for my writing. I would love to be a journalist
one day; it’s my dream to become a writer and move to New York. Or at least London.

‘We could go and try on ludicrous clothes we can’t afford in Urban Outfitters?’ Anna suggests for our next Saturday-afternoon activity.

This is pretty much our favourite thing to do. Which is why she’s Nishi’s kind of girl – and mine. She doesn’t need to ask us twice.

Monkey Gone to Devon

What is it, dear reader, about people called Kim that makes them so awesome? Just this morning, my Musician Boyfriend was making fun of me for my weird
love of Kim Kardashian and her whole family (although I would like it to be known that Khloe is my favourite Kardashian sister, hands down. I’m not too proud to admit it; I’m all about
the no-brow, me. I never want to be someone who pretends they’re cool all the time).

Anyway, I reckon Kim K is basically the new Liz Taylor. And we could do with a bit more of that in the world. I had to point out to my mocking Musician Boyfriend that I am
also a big fan of other such amazing Kims as Kim Deal (bass player from the Pixies, and also the Breeders, who are a great old band and you should really listen to their song
‘Cannonball’ if you don’t already know it) and Kim Gordon (basically the sexy bass-playing godmother of grunge, out of Sonic Youth – Kurt Cobain’s favourite band, fact
fans!). Actually it got me wondering whether Kim Kardashian might secretly be a really good bass player . . .

I had to remind Musician Boyfriend that he owns a Sonic Youth T-shirt but precisely zero of their albums – whereas I own TWO WHOLE Sonic Youth albums so I WIN. Then
we had a Skype dance party to Bikini Kill and all was once again right with the world. Good feminist Musician Boyfriend.

But he does have a point. Sort of. Please let’s not forget that Kim Deal and Kim Gordon should be equally as important to the Youth of Today – women who can
play instruments; bands that made songs so great I can legitimately say lame stuff like, ‘They don’t make them like they used to.’

To recap for any new readers – hi, Mister Nobody and Ms Nobody-hyphen-Jones! – my name is Tuesday (yes, that’s my real name – don’t ask) and
I am an expert in romanticizing an era that I am too young even to remember. I just want to make that clear, so that I can stop getting comments that all say I’m a sad old lady at the age of
eighteen.

Yes, I mean you, Musician Boyfriend! And you, Token Lesbian Best Friends (TLBFs for short – catchy, right?). And, OK – hi, Mum. *waves*

Literally nobody else ever reads this blog. Can’t think why. Oh, what’s that you say? It’s because I’m a sad old lady at the age of eighteen? Meet
you at Grey Gardens.

Comments

Token Lesbian Best Friends? Really?

anna-banana

Really, Chew – have we taught you nothing? You’re fired.

Nishi_S

Musician Boyfriend? I’m with the Token Lesbian Best Friends on this one. Nought out of ten for imagination. Oh, and hi, Tuesday’s
mum!

seymour_brown

THIS IS MY *ART*, MAN! No more criticizing or I’ll block you all. I’ve got loads of other readers. Loads. *tumbleweed*

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

Tuesday, I thought you were supposed to be revising for your exams up there?

Carrie_Cougar

I’m not kidding. Don’t think I won’t block you just because you’re my mother.

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

Dinner’s ready . . .

Carrie_Cougar

We *are* having chicken curry, right? If it’s stir-fry again, consider yourself blocked.

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

Gruel for you at this rate, young lady.

Carrie_Cougar

This is getting weird. I can actually hear you typing. I’m coming downstairs now so that we can make our hilarious jokes face to face for a
bit.

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

‘What do you think about leather trousers?’

Unfortunately I think she’s serious.

‘
Mum
! Isn’t it a bit, like, try-hard sexy housewife?’

‘And your point is . . . ?’

I think for a moment, doing my best to be genuinely helpful. ‘Carol Vorderman. Probably, like, Susanna Reid.’

‘Oh . . . I see.’ Her face falls, as well it might. ‘Thanks for ruining my fun. You don’t let me do anything.’

‘That’s what teenage daughters are for, isn’t it? To totally cramp your style.’

‘Apparently so. Remind me, when are you leaving home?’

My mum grins and grabs another slice of pizza, turning away from her laptop. Although, I do notice that she first shuts down the window she had open on Topshop.com showing skinny leather jeans.
I’ve done her a favour, seriously.

She concentrates instead on the crap film we’re watching while we eat our Saturday-night takeaway. I’ve kind of lost track of the plot, because we’ve been chatting too much
– but I think Leighton Meester is dying and Ryan Gosling’s going to give her a kidney or something. Tonight’s Netflix was Mum’s choice, not mine. I wanted the new Lars von
Trier, but she wasn’t having it.

I don’t mind; in fact, there are few things I enjoy more than dissecting – and secretly enjoying – my mum’s rubbish taste in films. It is quite nice just to chill out
with my mum on a Saturday night for once. I’ve been out with Nish and Anna all day, and she’s been on an afternoon coffee date – we both arrived home at about the same time,
impromptu, so we decided to put on our pyjamas and order a pizza.

My phone beeps. I quickly check the message before going back to squirting ketchup on to a pizza crust.

‘Was that Seymour?’ my mum asks.

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘What did he say? Have you replied? I hope you were nice to him. How come you’re not seeing him tonight, anyway?’

‘Calm down, Mother. His band are playing a gig in Reading tonight. There wasn’t room for me in the car, but it’s OK – it was a bit far for me to go anyway, since I have
revision and blogging and stuff to do this weekend. God, the way you go on, I’m sure you like Seymour more than you like me.’

‘You’re lucky, that’s all,’ she says. ‘You’ve got this gorgeous boy wanting to go out with you, and I couldn’t get a boy to call me back after the
second date when I was your age. Still can’t actually.’

‘Hey – not lucky, just sensible! I’ve learned from your mistakes. Don’t go for the douchebags.’

‘I wish I could learn the same lesson . . . Well, send Seymour a kiss from me.’

‘Coo-coo-ca-choo, Mrs Robinson.’

‘Daughter, has anyone ever told you you’re too witty for your own good sometimes?’

My mum is definitely feeling restless at the moment – I know all the signs. It’s been about six months since she and my last ex-stepdad broke up. She gets cross with me when I say
things like ‘my last ex-stepdad’ because she thinks it makes her sound bad. To her credit, I suppose I should add that at least she’s never made me wear a hideous bridesmaid dress
or tried to make me call any of them ‘Uncle Andrew’ or ‘Dad’, or anything repugnant like that.

‘After all, you’ve only had two stepfathers, barely even plural – you make it sound so much worse than it really is,’ she protests. ‘People would think I was Henry
VIII, the way you go on!’

But it
is
technically true. It’s now getting to the point when this is about the longest she’s ever been without a serious boyfriend. Since she was fifteen, as she’s
always telling me. She hates not having a boyfriend, or preferably a husband. I sometimes think she’s a bit like the Sandra Bullock of relationships – a great actress who has the
tendency to pick really bad films.

I honestly don’t understand it. I’d never had a boyfriend before Seymour, and I’m still not really sure what having a boyfriend is supposed to be like. We just ended up hanging
out together so much as friends that I suppose it seemed like the logical thing to do – unromantic as that sounds. We didn’t ever really have a conversation about it, and it was like
one day he had decided that I was his girlfriend. I wasn’t about to complain, and everyone is
still
telling me how lucky I am to have a boyfriend like Seymour. They don’t know
that he secretly spends forty minutes every morning making his hair look like he hasn’t tried, or that he only pretends to have read Jack Kerouac.

It’s not really what I always imagined – but, to be fair, it’s probably for the best that it hasn’t been like all my crazy Kurt/Courtney or Sid/Nancy fantasies.
We’re both still taking things very cautiously, even after a year or however long it is – which, most of the time, suits me just fine. I think we’re still both finding our feet
with figuring out what being more than ‘just friends’ entails – we can both be pretty awkward.

Luckily I’ve always been determined not to be one of those girls who gets carried away by having a boyfriend, forgetting all her friends and letting her principles fly straight out of the
window. So far, that definitely hasn’t happened and I don’t think either of us is in any danger of getting totally carried away.

I suppose it’s unsurprising that I might choose to be more sensible than my male-fixated mother, but I don’t like to sit about getting too Freudian about it. I can’t stand
people who feel sorry for themselves and blame everything on their parents. I’ve got better things to do, like just getting on with it.