My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (26 page)

For a second I wonder if Jackson really has come back to London like he said he was going to. Maybe right now he’s comfortably asleep in his hotel. In that hotel room of which I remember
every single detail. I know there’s no point thinking about it. I carry on not thinking about it all night, my eyes glued open until dawn breaks.

It’s only when I eventually go to board my train that I realize my ticket – bought for travelling yesterday – has expired, and I don’t have the money to buy a new one.
Thankfully the barriers are still open at this time of the morning, and I sneak on to the train and hope that no one will notice me.

When the train starts moving, I feel sick.

Sight

The ability to ‘see’ the truth plays a major part in the play. Both Lear and Gloucester act blindly and foolishly. Lear orders Kent to flee
‘out of my sight’, while Kent tells Lear that he must ‘see better’. Lear’s fool mocks his folly by chanting ‘out went the candle and we were left
darkling’. Of course, the most striking image is portrayed by the blinding of Gloucester in Act III.

Trace the imagery of light and darkness, tears, sight and eyes throughout the play.

There’s no time even to go home. I have to get off the train and run straight into college for the exam.

I still have my rucksack on my back and ruined, mud-soaked Converse on my feet. I am wearing shorts, for goodness sake. I would only ever wear shorts on holiday or with very thick tights. Or at
a festival.

As I go into the exam hall, my hopes start to drain away. My worst nightmare has come true and I have fallen at the final hurdle. I have technically made it back in time, but I might as well
have not bothered.

I haven’t been to sleep. I don’t have the books with me – the same ones I so carefully marked up and highlighted and which are right now sitting on my bedside table at home.
We’ve been saying for months how lucky it is that we can at least take our books in with us to the literature exam for reference, so that we don’t have to spend hours memorizing quotes
– I felt smug at how well prepared I was. I don’t even have a pen; I have to ask someone I don’t know if I can borrow a biro. The end has been chewed and it barely even works.

Although I’m friendly with a few people from my English course, I’m so glad that neither Nishi nor Seymour takes English. If they were here, I couldn’t stand the shame. I know
I’m being openly stared at – but I can’t shake the weird feeling that it’s not only because of my unwashed and completely inappropriate appearance. I’m probably just
getting paranoid because I’m so tired. All I can do is ignore everyone.

I inwardly tell myself that now I am here, I might as well try to make the best of it. I must be able to salvage something. I take a deep breath.

As I open up the exam paper, get as far as writing my name at the top and very quickly realize that this pointless. I begin to sob, silently and trying my best not to distract everyone else.
Keeping my weeping silent as my chest heaves and a glob of snot drips on to the table feels like a superhuman effort. After everything, the desolation and despair are just too much. Worst of all is
the utter finality.

There is nothing I can do. There is no ‘best’ to be made. This is my only chance, and I’ve blown it. Oblivious to all the eyes on me, I walk out of the exam hall and out of
college, still crying about all the things that have been lost forever and maybe for nothing.

I head automatically in the direction of home, and I don’t even bother to slow down to prolong my last walk of freedom. There’s no more dread, only resignation
– nobody can tell me anything I don’t already know, or make me feel worse than I do right now.

I’d assumed my mum would be at work, but then I see her car parked outside – of course she’s not at work; she came home to an empty house and she still doesn’t know where
I am.

I let myself in on autopilot.

‘Hi . . .’ I say, finding Mum sitting in the silent kitchen, drinking coffee and staring at the walls. ‘Look, I’m so sorry. I can explain everything.’

I can’t. There’s nothing to explain. I start crying again and I can’t even keep it quiet this time. I want to crumple up into nothing, here on the kitchen floor. I want my mum
to tell me that everything is going to be OK – but why should she? It’s not and it’s all my fault.

‘I don’t see what there is to explain,’ she says, sounding very, very tired. ‘Obviously we all know where you’ve been. I think I can fill in the blanks fairly
easily myself, without hearing all of the gory details, thank you very much.’

‘I . . . I don’t understand. I’m sorry, but while you were away I went to Glastonbury. You know, the festival. I thought I could get back in time and it would all be OK, but .
. .’

‘Tuesday, I don’t know if you’re a better actress than I thought, or if you really haven’t seen a newspaper in the last twenty-four hours.’

My genuinely blank face must be enough of an answer, because Mum grimly slides a stack of newspapers across the table towards me. I am actually sick in my mouth when I see the first picture
– on page four of the
Telegraph
. I look startled and shiny-faced, definitely not at my best angle, wearing the ratty veil that was shoved on to my head; in one hand I am clutching
those ugly purple plastic flowers, and the other hand is entwined with Jackson’s. There’s no point even reading the words. There are a couple of other newspapers, all turned down to a
page with a similar photograph – me and Jackson. A smaller version of the same picture is on the cover of the
Mail on Sunday
.

‘Mum?’ I begin.

I want to say I’m sorry. That I am a million times sorry.

‘Don’t, Chew. Just don’t. Trust me, there is nothing that could come out of your mouth right now that would make this any better. Nothing.’

She slams her coffee cup down and busies herself washing it up in the sink. I turn away and walk slowly up the stairs. I sit down on the edge of my bed and try to stop crying. My bedroom looks
different; I already turned eighteen a couple of months ago but this feels like the official end of my childhood.

A few minutes later I hear the front door slam and my mum’s car starting up. Now she knows I’m not lying in a ditch somewhere, I guess she might just as well be angry from the
office.

I haul my rucksack down to the kitchen and transfer my disgustingly dirty clothes – including the ones I am wearing – into the washing machine. As I get to the bottom, a shoal of
shimmering green sequins comes cascading out. It’s like a reminder of when things were still shiny and hopeful and good.

The mermaid costume is beyond repair – practically falling to bits in my bag and raining sparkles everywhere. It’s like it’s bleeding to death. I chuck it in the bin.

I head upstairs to have a bath; when I get in, the water turns slightly mud-coloured and a few green sequins rise to float on the surface. I keep running the water out and running more hot in
until every trace is washed away.

I have to admit, it’s lovely to feel clean and wrapped in my old dressing gown. Even after so few days away, I feel almost like I am coming back to civilization again after a spell in the
wilderness.

I bite the bullet and take the final step back to the real world – plugging in my phone. It takes a minute for it to light up into action, so I open up my laptop while I am waiting.
Everything then instantly goes mental.

My phone starts beeping and won’t stop. I have a gazillion messages and emails. I let my phone keep beeping itself into a frenzy while I sit down at the laptop. I daren’t even look
at my Facebook, but I log into my blog and my jaw almost clangs to the floor. Since Sunday, it’s had over thirty thousand page views. Thirty thousand.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to gather from this that people have seen the newspapers and figured out who I am. So I do what any sane person would do in a situation like this –
and Google myself.

Most of it is pretty vague. That same picture of Jackson and me that I saw in the paper. My name, but – thankfully – very few other details. I am described by one music website as
‘an amateur blogger’, and then as ‘a promising young writer’ by another. Grossly, the tabloids are all referring to me as a ‘teenager’, which I think is pushing
it as I am technically an adult, and even ‘schoolgirl’, which is inaccurate as I go to college. Not only am I an eighteen-year-old virgin, overnight it’s like I’ve become
the world’s most rubbish Lolita.

Then amid all the jokey articles about my ‘burgeoning festival romance’ and my fake wedding, I see a line that throws me into blackness. Of course I’ve been wondering
what’s happened to Jackson since I left Glastonbury – now I know. It’s worst-case scenario. I just hope it’s been exaggerated by the press.

I ignore the fact that my phone is still going crazy and, with shaking hands, I call Sadie Steinbeck.

‘Sadie, it’s Tuesday.’

‘Hi, Tuesday – I meant to call you. As you can imagine, things have been insane around here.’

‘But what’s going on? Is he OK? I only just heard.’

‘I’m afraid the stories are true – Jackson got himself into a really bad state after you left. He collapsed and had to be airlifted to hospital from the festival last
night.’

‘Is . . .’ I can hardly get the words out I’m so frightened. ‘Is he OK?’

She sighs at length. ‘That’s a tough question. He should be. He’s off the danger list. He’s conscious again. But he doesn’t seem to be making much sense. I
haven’t seen him – I flew back to LA on Saturday after I left you. We’re having Jack flown back right now; he should be here in a few hours. I’ve got rehab lined up for him
the second he steps off the plane. I think we need to make sure he does more than the thirty-day programme this time, gets himself well.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Sadie. ‘And Tuesday? This isn’t your fault, OK? Don’t blame yourself. I know I came on pretty tough back at Glastonbury, but
that’s just how it has to be with him. Jack’s been like this for a long time before he met you. Please don’t go thinking you can save him. I made that mistake a long time ago. We
can only do what we can do. Right?’

This blog Is Closed (for now).

Um, I’m more than a little freaked out. I’m sure you can all understand.

So I’ve decided I’m not going to blog here for a while. I’ve also closed the comments section for all of my past posts.

Things are tricky at the moment, to say the least, so I’m not going to comment further on anything that’s happened.

Thank you to those of you who have been kind – I really appreciate it. To the rest of you, I genuinely wish you all the best in your lives. I still can’t
believe that I have created such dramas; I honestly never meant to. Obviously I take responsibility for my actions and I am sorry for any upset I have caused.

So long and thanks for all the fish (I don’t even know what that means but I heard it somewhere once and it feels right).

Yours sincerely,

Tuesday Cooper/Chew/Ruby Tuesday . . . The Last Tuesday

x

I freeze as I hear a knock at the door. I can’t take any more drama today. I am wrung out.

I go to the door in my dressing gown, and it’s Nishi. She looks furious and I cower in the hallway, bracing myself for the onslaught.

‘You bloody moron,’ she snarls. ‘You dickhead.’

I couldn’t speak if I tried and I worry that I am going to start weeping yet again, as Nishi grabs me and hugs me tighter than I would have believed humanly possible.

‘Don’t you dare start blubbing, Tuesday Cooper. And let me in before anyone sees us being soppy idiots all over the place. The least you can do is make me a cup of tea.’

I can’t help but grin, despite it all, at the thought of having my best friend back. More importantly, she seems back to her old self.

‘Nish, I saw all those comments on my blog,’ I say, once we are settled in our usual positions on the sofa. ‘Thanks for sticking up for me. Seriously. It means a
lot.’

She waves a hand in the air like it’s nothing. ‘That’s what friends do. I know the exams made me go a bit crazy, but that doesn’t mean we’re not best
mates.’

‘How did your exams go?’ I ask.

‘All right.’ She shrugs, which I guess means she knows she’s done brilliantly but doesn’t want to tempt fate. ‘I obviously heard about your English exam, by the
way.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Everyone did. Like I said, you’re a dick. But if anyone can find a way around it, it’s probably you.’

Strangely this makes me feel much better, even if it does mean getting called a dick. Coming from Nish, that’s almost high praise. According to her rules, it also means we probably
don’t have to talk about it ever again, which is a blessed relief.

‘Have you been in touch with Seymour?’ I ask her.

‘Are you joking?’ she counters. ‘After what he said about you on your own blog? I know I’ve sided with him in the past, but I’m not having that. Line crossed.
Unacceptable. That’s it, I’m afraid.’

I wish I had morals as strong as Nishi’s. Everything must be so much easier if it all looks black and white.

‘Well, I’m really grateful that you stuck up for me, but in a way I don’t blame him. I think it’s fair to say that he had some provocation.’

‘No excuse. It was quite spectacular provocation though, Chew. I can’t believe all that Jackson Griffith stuff turned out to be true. I should probably apologize to you for not
believing you in the first place, but I’m not going to – the whole thing is so ridiculously off the scale, bonkers, I’m
still
not sure I believe it.’

Nishi has hit the nail on the head as usual. I’ve been back home for less than a whole day, and not only Glastonbury, but the whole Jackson Griffith affair, feels like a distant memory.
Not even that – more like a dream, or something I made up.