My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (9 page)

‘Anyway.’ I decide to try changing the subject. ‘How’s things with Anna, Nish? You guys do anything yesterday?’

She shoots me a look that freezes my blood. I instantly understand where all this animosity is coming from; it is not anything to do with comments or my blog or with me and Seymour.

‘I really wouldn’t know,’ she snaps. ‘You’re the one who walked home with her after she left me the night before last. I’ve barely even heard from her since.
I’ve got to go.’

She pushes her half-eaten quinoa salad aside and leaves the table without even saying goodbye to me, stomping out of the cafeteria.

‘Bad move, Chew,’ Seymour says, shaking his head and taking the last bite of his sandwich. ‘I’d better go after her. I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but I
really think you’d better apologize to her. See you soon, OK?’

He pats me vaguely on the shoulder and trots off after Nishi. This is unbelievable. What I want to know is, how come it’s all right for the two of them to gang up on me, yet the one time
that I speak to Anna on my own I’m suddenly the one in the wrong? Nishi and Seymour just love blaming things on me – that’s Chew, too loud, always putting her foot in it, always
getting things wrong, let’s say it’s all her fault.

At the moment I feel like I can’t do a single thing right. I am gripped by that pointlessly reckless, self-destructive feeling I get sometimes, which I know by now always ends in disaster.
Or at least leaves me feeling completely rubbish about myself.

I shove the whole bowlful of macaroni cheese into my mouth within seconds, barely chewing. I wash it down with a can of Fanta, practically in one gulp, followed by a bag of salt-and-vinegar
crisps that sting my mouth after the boiling hot cheese sauce.

I think of Nishi and her healthy lunches, and how Seymour can take about three hours to eat a two-finger KitKat, and it feels like I’m laughing in their faces, showing that I don’t
care. Too bad I’m the only one who will get fat.

I take a deep breath and plaster on some fresh orange lipstick – bright tangerine to match my vintage blouse – as I fear I have none left on by now.

I have a free afternoon and I had been planning to ask Seymour if he wanted to go to the cinema or something. But apparently he’s too busy running after Nishi, so I have nothing to do.
God, it’s a good job she’s a lesbian. There’s enough to worry about here as it is.

I march out of the college building and start pounding down the road in an attempt to dispel the furious, pointless feeling. I have no idea where I’m going. I’m too jangly to
concentrate on college work or anything else useful.

So I just keep walking. This is probably where I would smoke an angry cigarette, if I smoked. Fortunately I don’t.

After a while the fist-clenching frustration passes. However, the deeper emotion that lurks beneath – the recurring one that I can’t quite put a name to – does not.

I admit defeat and sit down on the nearest park bench. As if magnetized, my hand creeps into my pocket and closes around my phone. It’s an old BlackBerry – another cast-off from my
mum’s office – so I can pick up my emails on it.

I barely even look at it as I automatically thumb out a message. I certainly don’t stop to think about what I am doing.

I only type four words, but the gravity of each one hits me like a punch in the chest. I have a feeling that this is huge. I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, yet I’m
totally aware of all the potential ramifications – and I am doing it anyway. I don’t care that this might ruin my cosy little life in so many ways.

I hit send. Four words:
OK, I’ll do it.

To: Tuesday Cooper

From: jackson evan griffith

Ruby Tuesday,

I gotta say I was pretty delighted to get your message. But surprised as well. I don’t want to push you into anything or pressure you, or anything like that. I’m not so stupid that I
don’t realize this situation is very weird and it has been instigated by me. I know I can be crazy. I just really like you.

Please excuse my insane moment of sending you all those emails. It certainly wasn’t my intention to hound you. I just get carried away sometimes – addictive personality, I guess.
Some days I can’t seem to help myself.

I’m doing so much better now though. I feel like I’ve come back to myself, you know? I like just being quiet, doing some work. Being a productive human being, you could say. Trying,
anyway!

I’m glad I found your website. It’s funny, you know – cuz I feel kind of like I know you through your writing (when I found it, I went back through and read the whole thing) so
I kind of forget that I don’t really know you. Not really. I know enough to know I like you. I like your writing, you’ve got smart opinions, you like great stuff . . . I’ve seen
your picture as well, you know . . . You’re really . . . OK, how to say this without being cringey or completely grossing myself (and you) out?! Sorry. Look, you’re cute. As in, pretty.
Really pretty.

I think I did fairly well with not pestering you, like I said. But I confess I have been thinking about you, kind of a lot.

I know you might have really good reasons for saying you didn’t want to come and meet me (OK, you listed a lot of them and there are some big ones). I’m not so egotistical as to not
realize that you just might not want to! But I couldn’t help noticing in your last [electronic!] letter that you sound so down on yourself. Let’s be real: it sounded kinda like you
didn’t wanna meet me because you think you’re not pretty enough. If I’ve got this wrong, then sorry to patronize you or whatever – but it sure sounded like it. I know
you’re not a model or an actress or any of those things – and that’s part of why I’m attracted to you. I don’t wanna sound jaded or braggy, but I’ve had enough
of those types of people to last me a lifetime. Honest. Call me crazy, but I just have the weirdest feeling that you are the kind of person I need in my life right now.

So, in case you’re nervous or whatever, I just want you to know, whether we ever meet or not . . . A) I’m not that shallow, and B) You are so much cooler than all those other
girls.

As I have said a million times, I really wanna meet you – but only if you want to and it’s the right thing. I just think you’re a very cool girl. I am attaching the details of
my trip and my cellphone number. I hope to see you, but if not I will understand.

Yours respectfully, admiringly and hopefully

JEG

To: jackson evan griffith

From: Tuesday Cooper

Dear Jackson,

I’m starting to suspect that I might be as mental as you are. (Ha ha, no offence!) I don’t know if this is a good thing or not. Maybe it actually is.

I’ve known everyone in my life for so long, sometimes I feel like they make assumptions about me and they don’t always really listen. You know, good old Tuesday . . . I’m the
one sounding all cheesy now, but I feel like you’re the first person to really see me. Does that even make sense? I’m not just saying this because you said I was pretty! Flattery will
get you everywhere, apparently. God, I’m such a predictable girl sometimes.

If you feel like you know me through my writing . . . Well, I have been listening to your music for years and I think you are a pretty amazing human being.

Enough! Look . . . I know I’ve been sort of mucking you about, but I WILL come and meet you in London. (Note to self: how can I not?!) If you really do want me to, and this isn’t
some big sick elaborate joke at my expense.

I have some conditions:

Hey, get me – making demands on pop stars. But I feel I have to do something to preserve my own sanity amid all this.

Oh, one more thing. So I know you’re going to turn up and you’re not winding me up: the day of our meeting, I want you to Instagram a picture of yourself holding a sign saying the
word ‘falafel’. No explanations.

See you anon . . . ?

Tuesday Cooper, Serious Music Journalist and Girl About Town

From: jackson evan griffith

To: Tuesday Cooper

Whatever you want. Seriously. I mean it. I can’t wait.

J x

He’s done it. He’s really done it. He Instagrammed a blurrily snapped ‘falafel’, scrawled on hotel notepaper. I spent the entire train journey here
staring at it on my phone and reading all the mystified comments and speculation – ‘BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!’ – by a million fangirls.

In fact, looking at them all, it occurred to me that even they are mostly so much prettier and more glamorous than I will ever be. Not for the first time, I am absolutely stumped with wondering
what the hell he wants with me. I can’t shake the feeling that this must all be a mix-up, or at least some sort of elaborate cosmic joke. I mean, he used to be
married to a French
model
for goodness sake.

It’s probably a good thing that it’s too late to back out now. Otherwise I might chicken out and not even get to see what could happen in my own life. I’ve made my excuses at
college – an emergency dentist appointment – and Anna’s the only person I’ve told where I am really going, only in the interests of safety. I remember those ‘stranger
danger’ talks in junior school. In fact, I still have the occasional nightmare about strange men offering me sweets or asking me if I want to look at some puppies.

She’s sworn to total secrecy, but under strict instructions to call me if I haven’t texted her by four o’clock to let her know I’m safe, and to call my mum/Nishi/the
police/the media and confess all if I haven’t got in touch by six. I feel bad for putting her in this position; I downplayed the whole thing as much as possible, so that she wouldn’t
burst with excitement and not be able to tell anybody, but it was pretty hard for the two of us not to get carried away. I
may
have sort of given her the impression that I had been invited
to a press event, rather than a one-on-one meeting in a cafe. I mean, it’s an interview. Not a date – right? In which case, I probably feel way too excited at the idea of seeing this
intriguing, talented boy in the flesh.

Jackson – and I think the odds are good that that’s really who he is, rather than some crazy Internet stalker – even offered to travel out of London to meet me, if it would be
more convenient for me. Much as I was tempted by the idea of bumping into half the people I know in Macari’s while I was just casually having a coffee with Jackson Griffith, I told him
I’d be happy to come into London. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that, as I walk around Soho trying to find the random cafe we agreed on, I am completely
anonymous.

I thought I’d better dress like my character for the day, to keep me on the straight and narrow. I took the Serious Music Blogger theme and ran with it, so I’m in jeans and an old
Nirvana T-shirt, rather than my usual vintage tomfoolery. OK, I’m still wearing a ratty leopard-print cardigan and slightly smeary red lipstick. But I think I look pretty cool; I can actually
almost kid myself that I am a professional. I’m just here to do a serious interview, honest.

Of course, I am still struck by a complete crisis of confidence as I realize I am standing outside the cafe. It’s just an ordinary cafe, nothing to be frightened of. I’ve walked past
it more than a few times before, usually on trips to the massive Topshop with my mum or record-shopping expeditions with Nishi. I hover on the threshold until a tall, modelly woman with a cardboard
coffee cup and a briefcase shoves past me and tuts loudly.

At least it propels me through the door, where I stand and look around the crowded, bustling room. In one corner, I see a tall, hunched figure in a hood, their face obscured. I have a strong
feeling that it must be him, but I’m not sure enough to go over.

Then I see the cake. The table is completely covered in small plates bearing slices of it. The hooded figure looks up – even though he appears to be wearing a half-hearted disguise, made
up of a baseball cap and a pair of thick-framed glasses, it’s immediately obvious it is him. He looks different from all the mere mortals in the room. He has a force field around him. In the
flesh, underneath it all, he’s absolutely breathtaking. He’s like a beautiful lion. Seriously. Don’t laugh.

He finally looks up and grins over at me – a heartbreaking, perfect, crooked crocodile grin – and raises his coffee cup in salute.

Everyone else in the room seems to disappear as I make my way over to him, through the crowds and the tiny gaps between the tables. I can’t feel my legs, and my stomach has fallen out
somewhere around the door. Obviously I knew he was good-looking – he’s Jackson bloody Griffith after all – but up until now that had seemed purely conceptual. I wasn’t
expecting him to be so breathtakingly
beautiful
. I can’t take my eyes off him.

‘You said to get cake.’ He shrugs. ‘I didn’t know what kind you liked, so . . .’

He gestures helplessly around the table. There are at least five varieties of cake in front of him.

He stands up in a slightly awkward show of politeness. As he bends down, I suppose to hug me or kiss me on the cheek or something, I feel a rush of panic and find myself ducking to one side, so
that he headbutts the side of my shoulder. What an idiot. I’m only glad I ducked so that he can’t see my hideously blushing face.

Seriously, he is so good-looking in the flesh that I can’t believe he’s actually real. I’m starting to see where all those clichés come from, as I expect that any minute
now I’m going to wake up in my normal boring life.

When I force myself to look up, like staring straight into the sun, he is still staring back at me. His sleepy, amused eyes make my heart stop, just for half a second. It’s a physical
reaction to his unsettling beauty. Yeah, I knew he was a gorgeous pop star – but this,
this
, is like being so close to some priceless artwork masterpiece that you’re scared to
breathe. He’s still smiling, and he looks surprisingly young and somehow pure. Somehow I know instantly that he’s a nice person and I don’t have to be worried. My heart calms down
a notch, in a good way.