The Celeb Next Door (17 page)

‘You sure you don’t want me to come too?’ says Vix.

‘Nah, I’ll be fine, there’s one right over there.’ I point to the café building. ‘See you in a tick.’

I take far longer than five minutes. After I’ve been to the loo, and despaired at my make-up-free reflection in the mirror, I go into the café and queue up to buy a bottle of water. On the way out, I notice a small group of protestors, standing around faded pictures of Chinese people and passing around a petition. It’s something to do with fighting human rights abuses in China. I sign my best squiggle and pause to read about the people who’ve been arrested and tortured or killed. It makes me think how lucky I am to have been born in London. The biggest
problem in my life is how to get rid of a lovely guy who really cares about me. How unfair is that?

Max and Vix are still immersed in their conversation when I arrive back. They’re laughing so much that it takes them a minute to realise that I’m standing there. I don’t feel the slightest bit jealous, I feel pleased, and it makes me certain I’m doing the right thing.

‘Hey,’ says Max, reaching for my hand. ‘You OK?’

‘Sure,’ I say, reluctantly allowing him to take it and trying to avoid Vix’s eye. ‘I’m good. Where shall we go next?’

‘Let’s go to see the Queen,’ he says. ‘If she’s in.’

‘Course she is. I told her we were coming.’

We have fun the rest of the afternoon, seeing the sites and eating ice cream in Leicester Square. Keeping the plan going is exhausting and I keep lapsing into being myself and enjoying Max’s company. But then Vix says she needs to head back and Max says he wants to buy me dinner. Before I know it, I’m left alone with him again in a boyfriend-girlfriend situation, and I can’t pretend that he’s just a mate and that everything is normal.

We go to a cheap Italian chain restaurant. I order garlic bread and a pizza, with extra onions. If Max minds, he certainly doesn’t show it. He polishes off his own meal and half of mine, making his breath equally stinky. He even says something about how great it is that I have a healthy appetite and I’m not one of those girls who’s constantly on
a diet and only eats salad. Arghh!

Afterwards, we wander into Piccadilly Circus and look for somewhere to sit down. We’ve just found a spot when I look up and realise we’re sitting right by the famous statue of Eros. Eros is only the Greek god of
love
. Max is bound to know that. We have got to get out of here before he spots it and goes all romantic on me!

‘Let’s go to the Trocadero,’ I suggest. ‘I’ve suddenly got loads of energy again. It’s fun. You’ll love it.’

I’m lying. The Trocadero is not that much fun. It’s, frankly, a bit rubbish. It’s a grand building that Mum told me used to be a restaurant, but now it’s run-down and full of touristy-shops, selling models of London buses, posters and pick and mixes. There’s also an entertainment centre, where you can play video games, go bowling or ride on the dodgems. After my stodgy meal, I’m too stuffed for pick and mix or bumper cars, so we play a couple of arcade games and then browse in the shops. One of them has a whole section devoted to Adam Grigson, with out-of-date calendars (it’s August), souvenir books and postcards.

‘Oh wow, I love Adam Grigson. He is
so
my type,’ I say, dropping Max’s hand and picking up a postcard showing Adam Grigson without his shirt. The words have just popped out of my mouth. It’s not as cruel as checking out a real, flesh-and-blood guy in front of him, but I know it’s still a mean thing to do. It must be obvious to Max that Adam Grigson is physically his polar opposite. I know I
wouldn’t like it if I was out on a date and the boy said, ‘Oh, I love tall, skinny blondes with big boobs.’

Max looks confused, then slightly wounded. ‘Let me buy it for you,’ he says.

Why does he always have to be so
nice?
‘No, you really shouldn’t. I can get it myself. And I don’t really need it.’

‘I want to. I insist. I like buying you presents.’ Before I can argue again, he heads off to the till, the photo in his hand. It’s as if he’s paying for me to slap him in the face. I feel like the biggest bitch in the world.

He comes back, not only with the picture, but with a stupid keyring with a photo of Adam Grigson in full vampire get-up on it. ‘Thought you’d like this too,’ he says. ‘To add to your collection.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, and I know I don’t sound very grateful.

‘Don’t you
mean fangs?’

I smile, in spite of myself. ‘Very funny. But you really shouldn’t have bought that for me. Why do you always have to be so generous? It’s too much.’ I know I sound cold and he looks hurt again.

‘What’s with you today? You’ve been really weird with me, blowing hot and cold. Have I done something?’

‘No,’ I say. And then I deliver the most pathetic, clichéd line in the book. ‘It’s not you, OK? It’s me.’

‘OK,’ he says, softly. ‘Why don’t we go home? I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I mutter, under my breath.

‘I just want to get a drink for the journey,’ he says, trying to sound bright. ‘Want one? Let’s go and find a shop that’s still open.’

We walk back through Trafalgar Square and up Charing Cross Road in silence. Just before the tube station, we find one of those newsagent/grocery stores that sells everything at inflated prices. I follow Max inside and loiter by the checkout, while he goes to find some cans of Coke in the fridge.

He’s on his way towards me with the drinks when I spot something that makes my stomach helter-skelter into my feet. There on the counter, where it can’t be missed, is a pile of copies of
Sizzling
, the biggest-selling gossip magazine in the country. And, unmistakably, taking up almost the whole of the front cover, is a huge and rather unflattering picture of Rufus Justice. The headline reads:
Fieldstar Drummer in Nude Garden Shocker!

T
here’s a whooshing sound in my ears and all at once it feels like everything is happening in slow motion. Max is coming towards me, smiling, with two cans of Coke in his hands, and I know that when he reaches me – in four seconds, three seconds, two seconds ... my life will be over. He hasn’t seen the magazine yet but he’s going to. It’s a one hundred per cent certainty. Even if I had the time, I couldn’t possibly buy every copy in the shop. And there will be more copies in other shops – copies in every newsagent in London and in every newsagent in the country.
Sizzling
sells millions. Worse, it won’t be long before other magazines and newspapers start picking up the
story and spinning it into whatever they want. I know how this works: I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.

‘Max …’ I say, desperately. ‘There’s something you should know …’

But it’s too late. He’s reached the counter and spotted the magazine. His face is white with shock and he looks shaky and breathless. Slamming down the drinks, he picks up the magazine for a closer look. Then, in an expressionless voice, he says, ‘And the magazine, please,’ to the shopkeeper. He hands over a ten pound note and, without waiting for his change, rushes towards me, grabbing my arm and almost marches me to the door.

‘Oh my God,’ he says. ‘This is really bad. Really bad. Got to get home.’ He practically runs to the tube station, forcing me to jog to keep up with him, and then he’s through the barrier and speeding down the escalator, two steps at a time. We reach the platform and jump on to a northbound tube just before the doors close. Once we’re sitting down, and the tube has moved off, he catches his breath. Then he thumbs through the magazine, clumsily, until he finds the page where the story is printed in full. Holding my breath, I peer over his shoulder to read it too.

Rufus Justice has shocked his neighbours in trendy Camden Town by stripping off and wandering around his garden starkers in the middle of the night. The exuberant Fieldstar
drummer was seen naked in his garden at 3 a.m. last week, according to a source, thought to be a friend. ‘He’s been sleepwalking since he was a kid, it’s a real problem,’ the source told us. ‘There are several young families on the street and the neighbours aren’t happy.’

We thought that Justice, who used to be known for his wild ways, had calmed down since meeting stunning Russian model Isabella Primanova two years ago. Sounds to us like he’s back to his old tricks …

With every word I read, my heart rate speeds up by another five beats, until I start to feel sick and breathless. It’s bad enough that Rufus’s embarrassing problem is out in public; worse, the article makes him sound like some sort of pervert who enjoys stripping off in his garden in the middle of the night. The sleepwalking part is hidden in the middle – you’d barely notice it if you weren’t reading closely. And they’ve got all the facts wrong! Isabella isn’t Russian – she’s Czech. And she’s not a model. And who is the source it mentions? I know it’s not me. It can’t be Max, or Isabella, or the guys in Fieldstar. The timing is too much of a coincidence for there to be any other possible explanation: Sky must have told someone what I told her; who, I can’t imagine. And then that someone must have told someone else, who told the magazine. And probably got paid loads for the story too! But whichever way I look at it, it’s still my fault.
What have I done?

Max stares at me, steely-eyed. I know he’s asking himself exactly the same questions as me, coming to the same conclusions at exactly the same time. He sighs and takes my hand. ‘Rosie, I don’t want to have to ask you this, but I have to know. Was it you? Did you tell someone? Because you’re the only person I’ve ever told. I can’t figure out how else it’s got out. It’s been a secret for years.’ He pauses. ‘I really hope it wasn’t you.’

I can’t look at him. I want the tube to stop in a tunnel and leave me there, in the dark, on my own, for ever. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I mutter. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

He drops my hand. ‘I know you wouldn’t sell the story. Would you? So who did you tell?’

‘Only Sky. We tell each other everything. I know that’s no excuse. But she’s in Goa. And I can usually trust her. Please don’t blame her, because it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m so, so sorry.’

I want him to be angry with me, but he isn’t. He doesn’t shout or walk away; he just looks at me with sad, watery eyes, as though he’s disappointed and I’m not the person he thought I was. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says, softly. ‘It’s totally my fault. Rufus always said I shouldn’t trust anyone. The rules are different when you’re a celebrity. I shouldn’t have told you.’ He turns away from me and stares blankly out the tube window, as the tunnel walls rush past.

I’ve been trying all day to make him go off me. And now he has. So why don’t I feel good about it?