My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (3 page)

Whenever I am in danger of feeling down about having no dad – not to mention a mum who sometimes forgets that I exist – I remind myself that other people have it a lot worse. From
what I’ve heard, having a nuclear family can be very overrated. Sometimes I just feel a little bit left out that I’ve never had one, that’s all. It’s yet another one of
those things that I Just Don’t Think About. Sometimes it gets a bit exhausting trying to remember all the millions of things I choose not to obsess over, but it’s better than the
alternative. If I’m not careful I’ll get neurotic about
not
being neurotic.

Besides, I really like my mum – or Carrie, as she’s more commonly known. Leaving to one side all her own neuroses, general madness, failed relationships and the fact that she chose
to call me Tuesday, we really get on. I was named after my mum’s favourite actress, Tuesday Weld – who, as far as I can tell, was famous for being beautiful, a child star and a
girlfriend of rich and famous men. I am not, and nor do I ever intend to be, any of these things.

‘Anyway, do you think you’ll see today’s date again?’ I ask her.

‘Put it this way – he said that he’d bet I was stunning when I was thirty. This from a man with a paunch and quite alarming hair growth from his left ear, who picked his nose
behind the menu.’

‘Yikes.’

This is not only rude but grossly unfair. My mum is better-looking in her forties than I am at eighteen. Seriously. This is not only due to our respective ratios of skinny leather jeans to
second-hand granddad cardigans. Our looks are about as similar as our life priorities – my mum is tanned and toned with meticulously highlighted hair; she’s into yoga and spinning, and
she tries every celebrity diet fad going. I’ve rarely ever seen her without lipstick on, and I don’t think she has ever left the house with unshaven legs or bedhead. She really makes me
laugh sometimes – in fact, we baffle each other in equal measure – but most of the time we manage to go for a ‘live and let live’ kind of tolerance policy in our little
household. With frequent but well-meaning jokes at each other’s expense.

I must admit – although I want her to be happy – I’m enjoying this interval of it just being my mum and me at home, before I go off to university. It’s relaxing, and
it’s nice to spend time with her when she’s not obsessing about a man and putting him first.

Obviously I hope she finds herself a lovely new husband immediately once I’m out the door – after all, that’s what she’d like most of all. A really nice one this time,
who’ll stick with her and realize that she’s even more amazing than she looks.

Although men have drifted in and out of the scene, it’s really always been just me and my mum, when it comes down to it. My dad moved out when I was three and never came back, so I
don’t even remember him. I’ve never had a father figure who has lasted for any notable period of time. I think my mum spends more time worrying about this than I do. I’ve trained
myself not to lose too much sleep over the fact that I don’t have a proper dad, or even a decent stepdad.

I’m too busy pondering the important things: like the perfect winged eyeliner, or whether I would still fancy Kurt Cobain and River Phoenix if they were middle-aged rather than dead; how I
can make myself more like Lena Dunham or Tavi Gevinson, but with Jemima Kirke’s looks and wardrobe. I don’t have time for the trivial stuff. Honestly . . .

Sweet for Sour Apple

My first-ever crush was on Leonard Cohen. Not even kidding. I mean, so what if I was eleven and he was seventy-five – in ten or twenty years, who
would care about the age difference anyway, right?

Then, when I was nine, I dressed up as David Bowie for Halloween (Ziggy Stardust era, natch). Strong look. And, yes, there is photographic evidence.
³

Therefore I would say it’s pretty unsurprising that, as a precocious thirteen-year-old, my favourite band was Sour Apple. Yes, dear reader, my bedroom wall was
plastered with pictures of Jackson Griffith.
⁴
Jackson said himself that Sour Apple was a band for sixteen-year-old girls (I was precocious,
remember?) and their mums – he was right. Sour Apple are about the only band my mum and I agree on. We had a picture of Jackson stuck on the fridge for a while, and we always listened to
Come On Over (Please Leave Quietly)
on repeat on the way to school, singing along and for once in total harmony (on a metaphorical level, you see; neither one of us can actually sing in tune).
My mum liked them because they were modern – and she had even more of a crush on Jackson Griffith than I did. I liked them because they sounded a bit like a cross between Nirvana and Cat
Stevens. We both still love Jackson Griffith.

So, my mum and I have both been saddened to read about Jackson’s current, ahem, difficulties. I hope the news that he is taking a break due to
‘exhaustion’ is true – that he just needs a really long nap in front of the telly and he’ll be back on top form again, rather than something more sinister. Hugs not drugs,
Jackson!

Comments

That model he was married to left him, right? Hey, I can overlook the rehab rumours for a voice/face like that. Your next stepdad?

Carrie_Cougar

MOTHER!!! HE’S STILL ONLY 23 YEARS OLD!

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

Lighten up, kiddo. I’m hoping that my fifth husband hasn’t even been born yet. And aren’t you meant to be revising?
Boom.

Carrie_Cougar

hey I don’t think i’ve ever had a mom and daughter fight over me before – this is pretty cool . . . nice website and i’m not just
saying that cuz you said sweet things about me – ps dont believe everything you read!!

jackson_e_griffith

Ummmm . . . . . .

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

hey.

jackson_e_griffith

This is a joke, right? Someone is winding me up, and given the scale of my readership, that narrows it down to one of about four people. Nishi, is that
you?

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

I hope so, or I should probably be worried right now! :-/

seymour_brown

I think I can say with quite a lot of certainty that you don’t have anything to worry about, seymour_brown !! x

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

Seymour and I are sitting at our favourite table in our favourite Japanese restaurant. I can’t believe that I am a person who would actually have a favourite Japanese
restaurant with ‘my boyfriend’. Still, it’s just the weird way it’s worked out – I’m not changing for anyone.

As if to prove this, I am wearing old three-stripe tracksuit bottoms and a ripped checked shirt with the same granddad cardigan I’ve been wearing all week. You know what it’s like
when you have one item of clothing that’s all you want to wear, at least for a while? Everything else just feels wrong, until the next favourite item of clothing comes along and replaces it.
I think I’ve got quite a badass look going on, but my mum actually laughed out loud before I went out the door. Then she rolled her eyes and muttered something about it being a wonder that I
had such a handsome boyfriend, or any boyfriend at all. Which I guess proves that I fulfilled my chosen objectives with tonight’s outfit. It’s a good thing I’m not easily
offended.

Anyway, I’m not totally out of place. When I say ‘favourite Japanese restaurant’, don’t go picturing some Michelin-starred celebrity haunt. It’s a really cool,
authentic cafe called Moshi Munchers, with plastic chairs and strip lights, where you order food by number at the counter and the only drinks you can get come straight from cans in lurid colours
with Japanese writing on them, so I have no idea what they actually are.

I’ve got a row of tiny bowls in front of me filled with miso soup, pickles, steamed dumplings and octopus balls (yes, really – they sound gross but they’re the best), so I am
happy as I fill my face clumsily with my chopsticks.

‘How did the gig go?’ I ask Seymour, through a mouthful of food.

‘Chew –
chew
,’ he says in mock exasperation.

‘So-
rry
,’ I reply sarcastically.

I open my mouth to show him both its contents and my annoyance at him trying to tell me what to do – Seymour can be very squeamish, not to mention prim and proper, sometimes. He looks away
and waits until I’ve swallowed before replying.

‘It was quite worthwhile, I think, thank you. I talked to some other bands and some promoters. It was good. I’m sorry you couldn’t come; I think you’d have enjoyed it.
What did you get up to?’

‘What do you
think
I got up to?’

‘OK, let’s see . . . Hanging out with Nishi and Anna? Buying crap from charity shops? Writing your blog? Exchanging fashion and beauty tips with Carrie?’

‘Ha ha. You’re almost exactly right. You know me so well. Carrie sends you a big kiss, by the way. With tongues, probably.’

‘Thanks for that, Chew. Nice image, not weird and gross at all. I’m just glad she likes me. She’s cool, your mum.’

‘Yeah, I know. I’m pretty lucky actually,’ I agree. ‘How are all your lot?’

I have to force myself not to make an involuntary face as I say it. Seymour, unlike me, has the most nuclear of families. His parents are still together. He is the oldest of four children. His
grandpa even lives in an annexe next door. All of Seymour’s family are ridiculously ‘lovely’, in a way that means they do not understand anything or anyone who is not completely
and appropriately ‘lovely’ at all times.

The first time I went round there for Sunday lunch I tried to help by carrying some plates through from the dining room into the kitchen – where I overheard Seymour’s mum, Elaine,
talking about me and using the incomprehensible abbreviation ‘NQOT’. It was only when I asked my mum about it later – careful not to let on where I’d heard it – that I
found out it’s a horrible, snobby phrase that means ‘Not Quite Our Type’.

I’ve never said anything about it to Seymour or anyone else – and I just made a massive effort with Elaine from then onward. I’m pretty sure I’ve won her over by now
– I hope so, anyway – and she’s quite nice to me these days, even if she isn’t the funnest person in the whole world. I would never upset Seymour by saying anything critical
about his family, so there’s no point even thinking about it. Bygones and all that.

It’s only occasionally I still worry about that sort of stuff around Seymour’s family now. Like, I’ll inadvertently use the wrong fork or admit to liking
TOWIE
and
they’ll ban me from their house forever.

‘How are my family? What do
you
think?’ Seymour laughs, pushing his glasses up his face as he does so. ‘My mum’s on my back twenty-four hours a day about A
levels, even though they haven’t even started yet. She and my dad actually sat me down after Sunday lunch and asked me when I was going to consider giving up the band for the sake of my
“academic career”. It’s a bit worrying actually. I tried to tell them that it’s not likely to happen any time soon, but I don’t think they really get it. So then of
course –’ he looks over at me guiltily – ‘they said I should probably lay off seeing you so much, at least until the exams are over.’

I’ve seen this one coming for a while; I’m surprised he hasn’t. I try my very best to compose my face into a neutral position, as I know there is absolutely no point getting
cross about this, and Seymour gets very upset at the slightest sign of conflict.

Inside, I feel really unfairly got at. Because of how we both are, just due to our natural personality types, people seem to make a lot of assumptions about Seymour and me. I mean, he’s
the one who’s in a band, even though to look at him he may not seem like the most rock ’n’ roll type. In fact, he lives and breathes it – and as a result he doesn’t
care about college nearly as much as I do.

Elaine might like to think that I’m ‘NQOT’ – I suppose because I’m loud-ish, not particularly posh and definitely not smartly dressed – but if she bothered to
ask me, she’d actually find that I’m a pretty good influence on her outwardly quiet, sweet son. I’m more focused on my writing than anyone else I know of my age. I know my blog is
just a small, silly thing, but I work hard on it. I’m desperate to go to a good university and do something interesting with my life.

Sometimes I really wish I could be more the quiet, enigmatic type. Quieter, smaller –
less
. Life would be a lot easier. But whenever I try, no matter how hard, it’s
impossible to keep it up for long. It feels like trying to hold my breath underwater. I’ve always been crap at swimming.

‘Well, what can you do?’ I shrug and give Seymour a reassuring smile. ‘I mean, you can understand why they’d want to make sure you give it your best go.’

In reality, although it annoys me that Seymour’s parents would jump to conclusions about me as usual, this time I do think they have a point. In a small way it’s a bit of a relief. I
want to make sure I do the best I possibly can. This actually might prove to be the perfect excuse – Seymour can be a bit touchy, and I don’t want to risk an argument.

‘You’re so cool,’ Seymour says blithely. ‘Look, shall we go? It’s a weeknight and it’s nearly ten. You know what my mum can be like. I’d rather not be
butchered in my prime.’

‘Sure,’ I find myself saying, even though it’s closer to half past nine and I really fancied a pudding. Hopefully my mum will be around when I get home – I need to stay
up and finish a blog post I started earlier anyway, so it’d be nice if she and I could hang out together for a midnight chocolate feast.