The Celeb Next Door (4 page)

‘OK, Charlie,’ I say, with a mischievous smile. ‘That would be fun.’

We wander into the garden and I head straight for the wall. ‘I’ll be goalie first, OK?’

I let Charlie score a couple of times, before putting my cunning plan into action. ‘Let’s try something new, OK?’ I suggest. ‘I know you can kick the ball harder than you do. You’re really strong, aren’t you?’

Charlie beams.‘Yes, course I am,’ he says. He runs at the ball as fast as his little legs will carry him, and kicks it up into the air with an excited yelp. It strikes the wall just to
the left of my head. I retrieve it and hand it back to him.

‘Well done! Now, go on, Charlie, do it again. But kick the ball really hard, as high as you can. Yes, take a run up to it and whack it really hard …That’s it …Again … Go on! See how far you can make it fly.’

This time the ball bounces higher, hitting the top of the wall. My eyes follow it, as it appears to hesitate in mid-air, before falling gently to the other side. Yes! Secretly, I clench my fist in victory.

‘Oh, Charlie,’ I scold.‘You’ve kicked it into next door’s garden. Now I’m going to have to go next door and fetch it. You silly boy.’

Charlie pouts. ‘Sorry Rosie,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to. Don’t tell Mum.’

‘Course I won’t.’ Charlie looks so bereft that I feel a tiny bit guilty, but it’s more than worth it. ‘Stay here and I’ll go and get it. OK?’

He nods and I pat him on the head, affectionately.

Maybe little brothers aren’t quite so pointless, after all.

B
efore I go round to Rufus’s house, I put on lip gloss and smooth down my hair frizz with serum. If I’m honest, I wouldn’t usually do this before going round to retrieve a football from a neighbour’s garden, but Rufus is not a regular neighbour, is he? He’s a celebrity neighbour and, therefore, worthy of a little effort.

I stand on his doorstep breathing fast for a few minutes before daring to ring the doorbell. My heart is pounding and I can feel that my face is flushed. Oh my God, oh my God, I think, it’s finally going to happen; I’m finally going to meet him. I’ve rehearsed my speech loads of times in my head. When Rufus opens the door, I’ll pretend not to
recognise him at first. I’ll act like he looks familiar and then slowly pretend I’ve figured out who he is. ‘You’re not Rufus Justice, are you?’ I’ll say, feigning surprise that he’s moved in next door. I’ll flatter him a bit and then I’ll say sorry about my stupid little brother and ask for the ball back. Hopefully, he’ll invite me in …

The door opens, just a crack. It makes me jump, even though I’ve been expecting it.

‘Ello?’ It’s a tall, blond, impossibly beautiful woman, with an accent I can’t place.

‘Oh, hello,’ I say, flustered. Who is this woman? I didn’t know Rufus had a girlfriend. There goes my rehearsed speech. ‘I’m, erm, really sorry,’ I stutter. ‘I, er, live next door, and I’ve just kicked my football over your wall. I mean, my brother has. Can I come in and get it? From your garden, I mean? The back one, obviously.’

The woman looks me up and down (more down than up, really, since I only come up to her chest). It’s quite intimidating. She nods – she must have decided I seem harmless enough – and opens the door wider.‘Come een,’ she says. She has the type of voice that vibrates like a purr. ‘You say you leeve nexta door? I’m Isabella.’

‘Oh, and I’m Rosie,’ I say, trying to stand on tiptoes, which is tricky in my wedge sandals. ‘So, er, do you live here alone?’

‘No, I leeve here wiz my boyfriend.’ Isabella gives me a knowing look, which says, ‘Who are you trying to kid?
You and I both know who my boyfriend is.’

I blush. I hope she doesn’t think I’m just another groupie, desperate for a glimpse of Rufus. She sighs loudly and leads me into the hall. Through the open door of the living room I catch a glimpse of him and my butterflies flap wildly in my tummy. ‘Oh!’ I say, pretending to be surprised. ‘Is
that
your boyfriend?’ My voice is all squeaky with excitement.

Isabella nods. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Vould you like to meet heem?’

‘Could I? I mean, if it’s all right? I mean, yes please.’

Isabella nods again. She shows me into the living room and leaves me there, before disappearing upstairs. Rufus doesn’t look up. He’s sitting on the edge of an enormous cream sofa, holding a Wii Nunchuk and staring hard at a huge plasma TV. He’s gorgeous, I think, although maybe not quite as gorgeous as he is in the poster on my bedroom wall. On my wall he’s had a shave. And he isn’t wearing brown socks with holes in.

I wait a moment for him to notice me but he doesn’t budge. Bravely, I walk right up to him. ‘I’m Rosie Buttery, your new next-door neighbour,’ I say. My legs are shaky and I hope he can’t tell. God knows why, but I’ve got a stupid urge to hum one of Fieldstar’s songs, which is playing over and over in my head.

‘Hi, Rosie, nice to meet you,’ says Rufus, who can’t ignore me now that I’m standing right in front of him. He
puts down his Nunchuk and holds out his hand, palm upwards. He doesn’t introduce himself; it’s clear he assumes that everyone he meets already knows his name.

I’m not sure if he wants to shake my hand or give me a high-five, so we end up doing this embarrassing kind of half clap, half holding hands thing. I blush even more. But it doesn’t seem to bother Rufus.

‘Um, er, so how are you?’ I ask. ‘Oh yeah, and welcome to our street.’

‘Thanks,’ says Rufus, grinning. He doesn’t ask me anything, so I stand there like an idiot, waiting. I’ve always wondered if Rufus Justice is a stage name. Now, it’s the only thing I can think about – the rest of my brain is a giant void.‘So is Rufus Justice your real name?’ I blurt out.

He smirks. ‘Yes, it’s one hundred per cent real. My parents are Mr and Mrs Justice. I was christened Rufus.’ He stares at me intensely. ‘Is Buttery your real name? Buttery! Surely not.’

I turn even redder, if that’s possible. ‘Yeah, honestly. It’s a super-old English name from, like, when the Normans invaded in 1066. I googled it once. My family fought at the Battle of Hastings and everything.’

‘Oh, cool,’ says Rufus. His eyes twinkle and he grins naughtily, as if he’s just had the most incredible, original thought. ‘Hey,’ he says, pointing at me, ‘I can’t believe it’s not buttery!’ He laughs at his own joke.

I’m not laughing. If your name is Buttery, you hear this
type of thing all the time. But, as it’s
the
Rufus Justice, I smile and say, ‘Funny. Clever. Very good.’

‘Lucky your parents didn’t call you Marge … Hey, now I’m – no
you’re
– on a roll!’

I’ve heard both of these before too. A million times. I force a smile. Dad always tells me that if you can’t beat them, you should join them. So I say, ‘Now, you’re spreading the joke a little thin,’ and giggle.

He doesn’t get it, or maybe he just isn’t listening. ‘Well, I’d better get going Ms Buttery,’ he says.‘Things to do.’ He points in the direction of his Wii console.

‘Oh right, yes, sure.’ Is that it? I want to say, ‘Can I have your number?’ or,‘Maybe we could hang out,’like I would to any normal new friend or neighbour, but he’s a rock star, and it doesn’t seem appropriate. Instead I say, ‘Right, see you around,’ and, when he doesn’t move, I head into the hall to see myself out.

The walls are still the same muddy colour that the Robsons painted them. Not a rock star’s style at all, I think. I’m already opening the front door when I have an idea. It’s a quite brilliant idea. Steeling myself, I turn around and walk straight back into the room I’ve just left. ‘Er, sorry to bother you,’ I mumble. Rufus is engrossed in his game, manically banging away on his games console. It’s a drumming game, and it’s very noisy. ‘Er, ahem,’ I say again, a little louder. I clear my throat. ‘Excuse me.’

Rufus taps out a little drum roll, just like he does on
stage, and turns to face me.‘Yes?’ he says. He looks mildly annoyed. ‘I was just winning there, although,’ he boasts, ‘I should do, given that I helped design the game.’

‘Wow!’ I splutter, remembering just how famous he is. He’s only the best drummer in the country. ‘Um, I’m sorry to bother you again. It’s just that I couldn’t help noticing your walls ... In case you wanted them painting. My dad’s a painter and decorator, you see, and he could give you a really good price, and he’s just next door …’

‘Yeah?’ says Rufus. ‘I have already got some quotes.’

‘I’m sure he could beat them all. He’s really cheap. And he’s really good, a proper artist. Plus he really likes Fieldstar. He could even paint in your logo if you want.’ I cringe. Maybe that was going a bit far.

‘I do need someone quickly,’ he says. He seems more interested now.‘To tell you the truth, the walls here make me want to puke. I was hoping to get it all done before I moved in, but what with the new album and everything … Anyway, tell him to pop over later and we’ll chat about it.’

Dad is busy on another job but he’s always saying he can’t afford to turn down work, and I can usually twist him around my little finger.‘Cool,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell him.’

I give Rufus a little wave and practically skip into the hall. There’s no sign of Isabella, so I shout ‘Bye, then’ and let myself out. It’s only when I’ve shut the front door behind me that it strikes me I have completely forgotten about Charlie’s football. What a shame. Now I’ll
have
to go back and get it.

‘G
reat news, Dad … I’ve, er, sort of said you’d paint Rufus’s house,’ I say, nervously, when I come back in. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Oh, and that you’d do it cheap. He wants you to go around with a quote.’

‘Ooh, yes,’ says Dad, without hesitation. It turns out I don’t have to do any twisting – of tales, arms, or around fingers – at all. Dad isn’t in the slightest bit angry. Quite the opposite. ‘I’d love to,’ he says. His other job is practically finished and he’s almost as keen as me to meet Rufus.

‘Working for a celebrity would be wonderful,’ he says.
‘My work could end up in one of those
At Home With
features in a magazine. And then, maybe, Mick Jagger will call on my services.’