The Celeb Next Door (16 page)

‘Delivery for Rosie Buttery. Needs to be signed for.’

For me? I can’t remember the last time I had a delivery. I don’t remember ordering anything online, and it isn’t my birthday for months. ‘Hold on …’ I’m excited now: what can it be? I grab Dad’s overcoat from the coat rack and put it on over my nightie. Then I take the door off the chain and cautiously open it a little wider.

‘Miss Buttery?’ The courier is about twenty and very cute. And here I am in my nightie. I haven’t even cleaned my teeth. How embarrassing.

‘That’s me. Although I don’t normally look like this. Had a late night, you see.’

‘Right. Er, would you like to sign here, please?’

‘Sure!’ I have a great signature. I’ve practised it endlessly, ready for the day when I’m famous and known as Rosie B and have to sign autographs. I present him with my best
squiggle – with a smiley face inside the ‘o’ – and, nodding, he hands over the giant box. ‘Ooh, do you know what it is?’ I ask.

‘No idea,’ he says.‘All I know is it was a bugger to carry on my bike. The van is out of action today. Enjoy.’

‘Oh, sorry. And thanks.’

He nods and disappears up the garden path, while I shut the front door and wrestle with the giant cardboard box in the hallway. It says,
Fragile, Keep Upright
on it, but it doesn’t weigh much. I can’t find any scissors, so I rip it open with the heel of one of Mum’s shoes, so excited that I almost forget to breathe. Inside is an enormous bouquet of slightly crushed red and pink flowers, a box of chocolates (the praline sort, that I don’t really like) and a small, soft, yellow teddy bear, with a tiny envelope attached to it. I pull out the card.

To Rosie
,

Thanks for making yesterday so special
.

I’ve been to hundreds of Fieldstar gigs, but this was the first

one I’ve really enjoyed
.

Can’t wait to see you again
,

Love, Max xxxx

Oh wow! This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. Nobody – certainly no boy – has ever sent me flowers, or chocolates or a teddy bear. And even though it’s clichéd and a little bit naff, and the teddy bear is cross-eyed, and I’ll be giving Mum the chocolates, and I
will probably kill the flowers before they’re even in the vase, I feel an overwhelming sense of happiness. I feel special. I don’t think I’ve ever felt special before.

I rush upstairs, leaving the gifts and the torn box on the floor in the hall, and, as fast as I can type, send Max a text:
Thk u so mch 4 pressies. Ur so swt. xxxxx

It’s only at this point that I remember I was in the middle of a conversation with Sky. The message box is still up, but under Sky’s name it reads,
User not online
. What a shame. I’d love to tell her about Max’s gifts and see what she thinks, but now I’ve no way of contacting her. And I have no idea when she’ll next be online. It could be days.

I read back over our conversation and realise I didn’t tell her, on pain of death, not to tell anyone about Rufus. I said it was a big secret, but perhaps I should have spelled it out. Still, she’ll get it, won’t she? And, as I said, she’s in Goa, she can’t tell anyone. I’m sure there’s no harm done.

I hear the rattle of a key in the front door. Dad must be home. ‘Rosie?’ he calls up the stairs.‘You up?’

‘Yes, Dad, just,’ I say, walking out of my bedroom, so he can see me at the top of the stairs. ‘Just coming.’

‘What’s all this in the hall?’

‘Hang on …’ I walk back downstairs.‘They’re presents. For me! I was about to come down and sort them out. Sorry about the mess.’

‘Hmm, you’d better do, before your mum gets home. Presents? From whom?’

‘From Max,’ I say, and as I say it, I can’t help thinking I wish the gifts were from someone else.

‘Oh, darling! How wonderful.’

‘I know! Sweet, isn’t it? He’s so generous and thoughtful.’

‘Looks like more than that to me,’ says Dad. He looks at me weirdly, almost as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I would have thought it was obvious,’ says Dad. ‘He’s falling in love with you. A boy wouldn’t make a grand gesture like that unless he was.’

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!

‘Really? Are you sure?’

I must visibly crumple up because Dad looks concerned.‘What’s wrong love?’

‘But I’m not in love with
him
, Dad. I don’t think I ever will be. I’ve been trying, for ages now, to make myself do something more than
like
Max, to want to be more than his best friend, and it’s just not happening.’ I feel I should explain about the kissing, to make it clearer, but that’s really not something I can talk to my dad about.

‘Sometimes it takes time,’ he says.

‘How much time? I don’t have time. Not if you’re right and he’s fallen in love with me already.’

Well, if you’re really sure that you don’t want to be more than friends, there’s only one thing you can do. The kind thing. You need to end it now, before it gets out of hand.’

‘But he’ll be gutted! I don’t want to hurt him. Maybe
he won’t even want to be my friend any more.’

‘You’ll hurt him more the longer you leave it. Yes, he’ll be upset, but if he’s as nice a guy as he seems, he’ll be a gentleman about it, I’m sure.’

‘And I’m his “plus one” at Fieldstar gigs. I won’t be able to go if I dump him. Rufus might hate me too. And what about the big album launch gig at KOKO? I’ve been looking forward to that more than anything.’

‘You can’t have it both ways, love,’ says Dad.‘You can’t just go out with Max because he’s Rufus’s brother.’

‘I know that.’ I do know that. I also know what I have to do. So why does something so clear and simple feel so complicated and difficult? Maybe, if I think really hard, I can come up with a plan B.

M
y plan B is simple and it’s genius: rather than dumping Max and breaking his heart, which will probably mean he doesn’t want to see me or speak to me ever again, I’m going to go all out to make him go off me. Then, he’ll dump me instead. And, being such a gentleman, I’m fairly sure that he won’t be spiteful enough to take away my guest list ticket for the gig at KOKO. He’ll see it as my consolation prize.

The idea came to me last night in bed, while I was lying awake wracking my brains for a solution – just like I’ve been doing every night for the past week. It’s a perfect plan: nobody gets hurt. I really can’t fault it. I’m tellingVix
all about it now. It feels so good to be (nearly) straight with her at last and to get everything off my chest, to talk to her in a way I haven’t been able to since the whole Max business began. I can almost see the Max-shaped block between us disintegrating before my eyes, chunk by chunk, like
Tetris
in reverse.

‘I’ve missed you so much, Vix,’ I tell her, hugging her for about the hundredth time. We’re sitting in her bedroom, drinking hot chocolate and eating home-made brownies. ‘Although I really do hate the fact that you’re always right!’

‘I’ve missed you too, Rosie,’ she says, hugging me back. ‘And I’m so pleased you’re finally being honest with me – and yourself – but …’

There’s always a ‘but’ with Vix.

‘… but I’m not sure you’re going about it the right way. It’s kind of a bit … manipulative, isn’t it? I mean, if you’ve decided you definitely don’t want to be with him, then shouldn’t you just be honest with him and call it quits, instead of playing games?’

‘Yeah, but, it’s much less painful this way.’ I don’t mention the wanting to stay on the KOKO guest list bit; she wouldn’t approve. I need her to think I’m being totally unselfish, or she might stop talking to me again. ‘It’s kinder.’

‘Maybe. So what are you going to do to put him off you? Stop shaving your legs? Forget to clean your teeth?’

‘Yeah, they’re two of the options. I’ve started making a list.’

‘Rosie! I was kidding.’

‘Oh, right.’

She laughs. ‘So what else is on this list, then?’

I tell her. My list, entitled
Ways To Make Max Go Off Me
, contains the following:

1) Stop shaving my legs.

2) Stop wearing make-up.

3) Only clean my teeth at night, and never before I see Max.

4) Chew gum. With my mouth open. All the time. (The fruit-flavoured sort, so it doesn’t cancel out the non teeth-brushing.)

5) Wear baggy clothes.

6) Develop some sort of nervous tic. A twitch, maybe? Or something really annoying, like constantly clicking my fingers or going cross-eyed.

7) Develop an interest in something incredibly boring, like bird-watching, and talk about it non-stop.

8) Yawn whenever Max starts talking about graphic novels, or manga, etc.

9) Check out other guys in front of him. (I might not go through with this one, because it’s too cruel. I don’t need Vix to point that out for me.)

10) Start being a little bit unreliable: turning up late, not ringing back or texting back straightaway, etc.

There’s also a number eleven, and it’s one I don’t tell Vix about:

11) Talk about how great Vix is all the time, involve her in as many of our plans as possible, and try to make him start fancying her instead. Result: a happy ending for everyone.

‘So,’ says Vix, ‘you’re going to give up on personal hygiene, turn into the wild woman of Camden Town and entirely change your personality. Hmm, have you thought what might happen if it doesn’t work, and he still likes you?’

No, I haven’t thought about that. My plan is foolproof. Isn’t it?

I guess I’ll find out soon enough, because we’re meeting Max in a few minutes. We’re jumping on the tube and going into London to see some of the sights. It only takes about fifteen minutes to get to Leicester Square station from Camden Town and the plan is to do Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus and The Mall, which runs up to Buckingham Palace, like the Queen’s personal, very grand driveway. Max hasn’t been to London properly since he was a kid, so he wants to do the whole tourist bit. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve invited Vix too, although he did say he’d like to spend some ‘alone’ time with me later.

I open the front door to him, dressed in old jeans that don’t really fit and a shapeless sweatshirt. I haven’t done
anything with my hair and I’m not wearing a scrap of make-up.

‘You look different,’ he says. ‘I can’t work it out.’ He studies my face. ‘I know what it is – you’re not wearing that black eyeliner you usually wear. You look fresh – natural. I like it.’

Vix catches my eye. Her expression reads: Well, that’s backfired on you, hasn’t it?

This isn’t going to be as easy as I hoped. Next time I see Max, I shall have to dress as a full-blown Emo.

We take the tube to Leicester Square and walk down Charing Cross Road to Trafalgar Square, where we perch on the side of one of the fountains. It’s a glorious day and it’s packed with backpacking tourists admiring the scenery. I act disinterested, like I’ve seen it all before (which I have), check my phone constantly and try not to engage in conversation with Max. He doesn’t look irritated; he looks concerned.

‘You OK?’ he whispers. He’s already asked twice.

‘Course I am. I’m just tired.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes,’ I snap. I’m not annoyed with him; I’m annoyed with myself for being mean.‘Look at all those tourists. Vix has travelled loads, haven’t you Vix?’ I say, changing the subject and my tack. ‘Tell him about when you went to the States. Max has been to America too, haven’t you, Max?’

Max nods and smiles.‘Which bits have you visited, Vix?’ he says.

‘I’ve got family in New York and I’ve been to LA, San Francisco, Washington, all over really.’

‘Yeah, me too. I went to a ranch in Texas last summer – I got to do real Wild West horse riding. No saddles.’

‘Really?’ says Vix, who used to be pony mad when we were kids. ‘Cool. I used to ride a lot when I was younger …’

Anyone can see that Vix has got so much more in common with Max than I have. Maybe he’ll start to realise that soon, and then … Right, now they’re talking, it’s time to leave them to it for a while. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I just need to pop to the loo,’ I say. ‘Won’t be five minutes.’ I start walking away.