The Celeb Next Door (12 page)

When I check the notes on my phone, it turns out I
am
supposed to be going to a clothes-swapping evening tonight at Sky’s, with Vix and a few friends from school. I ring Sky, to tell her the bad news. She says she totally understands, she wishes she could come to the Fieldstar dinner too (I think she’s angling for an invite, but it’s not mine to give) and she’ll forgive me, as long as I promise to get her every member of Fieldstar’s autograph.

Then I go round to see Vix, like I said I would. We have an awkward, stilted conversation, and I know I need to sort things out with her properly when there’s more time. I’m just not sure how. At least she’s still talking to me. When I tell her I can’t make tonight, she shrugs, like she’s disappointed but not surprised. I swear I will make it up to her. We’ll have a girly night, just the two of us, doing something fun. Soon.

I
dress up for the evening – not for Max, but for Rufus I and his band mates. I’m wearing my newest, coolest, slinkiest dress. I bought it in the market (of course) and it’s vintage Eighties, some Japanese designer. The stallholder said it would be worth a packet in a few years, if I looked after it. I don’t really care about that. I’m just glad it fits well and that the colour (a lovely shade of purple) suits me.

Max offers to come round and pick me up, so we can arrive together like the others, but I tell him he doesn’t need to – I’m only next door! I get there at seven-thirty prompt, heaps earlier than anyone else, which isn’t exactly the ‘red carpet’ entrance I was hoping for. I sit and chat to
Max, and we play a bowling game on Rufus’s Wii. Max beats me every time. To be fair, he’s probably had loads of practice. It seems that rock stars aren’t that hot on punctuality, or maybe they just don’t wear watches. They all roll in together, with Rufus (they’ve been having predinner drinks at the local wine bar), at nine o’clock.

There’s a lot of noise from the hall when the others arrive. Nervously, I jump up from the sofa, smooth down my dress and try to look sophisticated. I watch as the members of Fieldstar file into the room, one by one, my wall poster brought to life. First, comes Rufus. He kisses me on the cheek and punches Max on the shoulder. Then there’s Jon, who’s shorter than the others, and shyer. I know this because it said so in a magazine interview. It also said his favourite food is chocolate and his favourite colour is green. He nods at me, shyly. Simon, who’s thin and wiry (favourite food: beans on toast; favourite colour: blue), grins. Finally, there’s Rob, who is tall and dark and gorgeous (always refuses to answer stupid questions in magazine interviews). He doesn’t seem to notice me at all. I can hear their girlfriends in the hall, talking to Isabella. I wonder if this is where I’m supposed to be too.

‘Rosie, meet Simon, Jon and Rob,’ says Rufus. ‘Guys, this is my little brother’s girlfriend, Rosie. She lives next door. Her dad’s the one designing our new album cover.’

I open my mouth to say something about not really being Max’s girlfriend, then shut it again. This isn’t the
time. I glance at Max. He looks happy. So I smile, and shake everybody’s hand, and think that if, two months ago, someone had told me I’d soon be standing in the house next door, shaking hands with the whole of Fieldstar, I’d have had them shipped off to the nearest mental asylum. Two months ago, I would also have said that meeting Fieldstar might just be the most exciting thing that could ever happen to me. It isn’t. It feels …normal.

The girls come in. They’re all pretty, in an understated way. They’re all wearing jeans. I fold my arms protectively over my dress and smile, as if I don’t have a care in the world. They peer at me and smile back. It’s a bit like being next to the clique of cool girls at school and knowing that, however friendly they seem, you’ll never be one of them. Isabella does the introductions this time, then heads back into the kitchen.

Max and I have to squash up close on the sofa because there isn’t really enough room in here for everyone. We’re so close that I can feel his pulse. His heart is beating very fast. Oh God, now I think his arm is creeping around the back of the chair, sort of around me, but it could just be the most comfortable way for him to sit. I look straight ahead, in case he’s trying to stare into my eyes again. And then, because I feel so awkward, I do something deeply out of character.

I say: ‘I should go and see if Isabella needs some help.’

Mum would be so proud. For the few seconds before she dropped dead of a heart attack, anyway.

I clamber up, trying not to knock into Max, and go into the kitchen. Isabella is juggling pans at an impressive cooker. It’s a mint green colour and it takes up half the room. I stare at it, open-mouthed, like it’s some kind of Tardis.

‘Hello, Rosie. You like Argarr? She eez my baby,’ purrs Isabella.

Isabella has a baby? Does Rufus know? ‘Sorry? Who’s Argarr?’

She strokes the green monster. ‘Aga. Zee cooker. You like?’

I have met people who call their dogs and cats their babies. One of my friends at school loves her iPhone so much that she jokes it’s her baby. But a cooker? ‘Oh yes, it’s, er, she’s lovely. What are you making? Can I do anything?’

‘Most eez fineeshed. You can help make a hollandaise, no?’

I have no idea what a hollandaise is, but I have a feeling it probably doesn’t contain windmills or clogs. ‘I’m sorry, Isabella. I can’t cook. Tell me what to do and I’ll try.’

‘Your mama no teach you?’

‘No. She can’t cook either.’

She looks shocked.‘What she do?’

‘She’s a doctor. At the local health centre.’

‘Ah, yes. I go there. Rufus too. But what you eat at home?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ I say. ‘Ready meals mostly. With tons of salad and fruit.’

‘I teach you,’ she says, smiling.

It turns out hollandaise is a sort of bright yellow mayonnaise that’s made out of egg yolks and butter. We’re having it with asparagus as a starter. I’m not sure I like asparagus, and Dad says it makes your pee smell funny. But at least I’m learning something very useful. I now know not only how to make a cup of tea, boil an egg and make a microwave meal – to date, the sum total of my cooking skills – I’ll also be able to rustle up a mean hollandaise. I wonder if it goes with cheese and onion crisps.

Isabella doesn’t seem to mind that I’m watching, rather than doing. She’s amazing: beautiful, clever and a brilliant cook. I’m only ever going to be close to being one of those things (clue, not the first, or the last), and that’s debatable. That’s why I’m probably never going to date a rock star.

‘Eez good that you and Max are together now, no?’ she says, as she stirs furiously.

I blush. ‘Sort of. We’re not really together. I mean, it’s early days.’

‘He eez nice boy, no? Kind boy. You should snap heem up. If my leetle sister eez in London, I introduce her.’

I feel a pang of jealousy, which surprises me. I’m not sure I want Max, but I’m darn sure I don’t want Isabella’s little sister – no doubt beautiful, clever and the winner of
the Czech version of
Junior Masterchef
– to have him.‘Is she coming to stay?’ I ask, nervously.

‘No, she need veeza. Not have.’

‘Shame,’ I say.

Isabella says she’s got things under control, so I go back into the living room. Max grins at me and I feel a little burst of affection for him. I sit down next to him and when his leg brushes against mine, I don’t move away. The others are chatting loudly, laughing and joking about things they’ve done and people I don’t know. It’s hard to join in with the conversation because everyone knows each other so well. Instead, I smile and nod a lot, and hope dinner will be soon. I’ve hardly eaten anything today and I’m starving.

Finally, Isabella comes into the room and announces that dinner is ready. She says that as it’s such a lovely, warm night, we should eat outside. I also suspect the dinner table isn’t big enough for all ten of us. I’ve never been in Rufus’s garden before – although I’ve tried to peek over the wall a few times – and it’s beautiful. There are Moroccan jewelled lanterns and giant candles everywhere and huge, multicoloured cushions spread out around a low, ancient wooden table. In one corner, there’s a little alcove, covered by swathes of transparent fabric in rich colours. I want to say, ‘Wow!’ but no one else looks that impressed. I guess they’ve seen it before.

Isabella tells everyone to sit down on the cushions and then she brings out the food. First comes the starter, with
the hollandaise I couldn’t make. I put a huge dollop on my asparagus. I don’t really like it, but maybe it will stop my pee from smelling. Then there’s some sort of spicy chicken dish, with rice and salad and, for dessert, an amazing passion fruit cheesecake, with exotic fruit salad. I wonder if Isabella would give Mum cooking lessons. Not that Mum would have time.

It’s weird to see Rufus with his band mates. He doesn’t seem so important, somehow, or so sure of himself, or even so charismatic or good-looking. I’m learning that there’s a definite pecking order in bands, and even though Fieldstar call themselves a ‘democracy’ (which means they all write the songs together and share the money), the drummer comes right at the bottom. Everyone is talking about a film about an old band called Spinal Tap, which I’ve never seen, but which is supposed to be hilarious. And particularly funny about drummers. In the film, all the drummers have really bad luck. They die in crazy ways, like spontaneously combusting on stage, or being killed in bizarre gardening accidents. I must ask Dad to rent the DVD. Max says it’s a fifteen, so it’s touch and go whether Mum will let me watch it. I might get away with it, as I am very nearly fifteen. Rufus says I should point out it’s a documentary, so it is clearly educational. Everybody laughs at this; I don’t get the joke, but I pretend to.

‘It’s a spoof,’ Max whispers to me, kindly. ‘Not really a documentary.’

‘Course,’ I say.‘I knew that.’

‘Hey, what’s the difference between a drummer and a drum machine?’ says Simon. He pauses, and Rob and Jon shout in unison,‘You only have to punch the information into the machine once!’

Everyone laughs really hard, even Rufus. I can tell he doesn’t think it’s that funny though.

‘What do you call someone who hangs around with musicians?’ says Rob.‘A drummer!’

Simon again: ‘What do you call a drummer who’s just split up with his girlfriend? Homeless.’

Rufus groans and, not very chivalrously, tries to deflect the jokes on to me.‘Very funny, guys. Do you know what Rosie’s surname is? Buttery. Buttery, I tell you!’

‘Lovely name,’ says Rob. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Rufus, picking on teenage girls. Anyway, how do you know it’s the drummer at the door?’

‘He doesn’t know when to come in,’ sing-songs Simon. ‘Boom boom.’

‘Let’s change the subject,’ says Karen. She’s the sweetest of the girlfriends, not counting Isabella, and the only one who has tried to talk to me properly. Earlier, she told me she likes my dress, and asked me where I got it from. ‘So, Rosie, how long have you and Max been seeing each other?’

On second thoughts, I think I’d rather talk about drummers. ‘Um, er, I …’

‘About a day,’ says Max. ‘We had our first proper date last night. But we’ve been friends for a while.’ He beams at me.

‘Aren’t they sweet?’ says Rufus. He hugs Isabella. Karen nods, and takes Simon’s hand. Max takes mine. I let him. It feels OK, not horrible, not wonderful, not even weird. Just OK.

So that’s it. In the end, other people have decided for me: I am now Max’s girlfriend. We are going out. We are an official couple. An item. I’m still not convinced that I want to be, but I’m going to give it a go. Mum has always said I give up on things too easily, that I should make more of an effort. This time, I’m going to do just that.