The Celeb Next Door (2 page)

‘Look, Vix, it’s fine by me if you don’t want to play, really.’

She sighs. ‘It’s not that. It was fun to start with. It just feels like all you ever want to talk about these days is which celebrity you’ve seen. I’d rather talk about real stuff sometimes, you know?’

‘Sure. Course.’ I didn’t realise I was doing that. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it, hun,’ she says, affectionately.

‘So are you coming round tonight?’

‘I can’t, I’m sorry. Mum wants the whole family to have dinner together. I’ve got no choice, worse luck.’

‘Poor you. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then, on the way to school. And we’ll chat online later, of course. I’ll go and see what Sky is up to. I’m just turning into our street now. Bye, then …’

I have lived in Paradise Avenue, a hotch-potch of a street in Camden Town, all my life. My best friends Sky and Vix live here too. It isn’t a particularly long street, but it is a strange-looking one. None of the buildings match. At one end of the street there’s a council block and, at the
other, several big Victorian houses. I live in one of these – number seventeen – not because I’m rich, but because it’s been in my family for about sixty years.

Visitors always comment that Paradise Avenue has ‘character’ – and so do the people who live on it. As well as lawyers and business people and doctors, like my mum who works at the local health centre, there are some eccentric old ladies living in the sheltered housing block, and several writers and musicians. If you walk down the street at night, you are bound to hear a band practising, a guitar teacher giving lessons, or an opera singer rehearsing her scales.

There are also some people on Paradise Avenue whom you might want to avoid. There’s a very weird man who never cuts or washes his hair and spends all day in the betting shop, and a group of squatters who have taken over an empty house and turned it into an ‘art collective’.

Paradise Avenue certainly isn’t a street to live on if you like peace and quiet. But nobody chooses to live in Camden Town for that.

I’m at Sky’s flat now. I ring her doorbell, hoping that she’ll answer, and not her mother. It’s not that I don’t like Sky’s mum, I’m just not in the mood for chatting to her today. She’s one of those mums who insists on you calling her by her first name (Rebecca) and asking you about what you’ve been up to, as if she’s your friend too. Sky says it’s because she’s lonely since her dad left, but it can be
really embarrassing, especially when she tries to act like a teenager and wants to talk about boys or come out to the market with us.

It makes me glad that my mum is straight-laced and boring, like mums should be. I’m also very grateful that my parents gave me and my brother Charlie normal names. Sky’s sisters are called Ocean and Grass. That would be fine if they all lived on a hippie commune somewhere in India, but not when they have to go to the local comprehensive in the middle of London. Especially when their surname is Smith.

‘Hello?’ Sky’s voice blares through the intercom, making me jump.

‘Hey, it’s me. Can I come up?’

‘Yes! Thank God it’s you. Mum’s expecting some of her weird friends for dinner. Come up, please.’

She’s at the top of the stairs, waiting to greet me, when I arrive. She looks far too groomed for a Sunday evening at home, with her glossy, dark hair styled perfectly, and a stretchy black dress. Sky doesn’t do casual. ‘Save me,’ she mouths, as we hug.

I giggle and try not to notice the weird smell coming from the kitchen. ‘You can come round to mine if you like.’

‘Unfortunately, I can’t. Mum wants me to accompany her on the guitar. They’re singing sixteenth-century madrigals. Don’t you dare say anything …’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I say, but I can’t help smirking. ‘Maybe you could add a bit of rapping in the middle.’

Sky motions as if to slap me. I duck. ‘So what have you been up to since I saw you earlier?’

‘Just hanging out at the shops. Hey, I almost forgot to tell you: I had the most amazing star spot before …’

Sky is far more impressed than Vix at the mention of Adam Grigson’s name.‘Seriously? Like, wow!’ she says. She is as celebrity mad as me, if not more, mainly because it annoys her mum, who thinks celebrity culture is the worst thing ever to happen to society and will lead to the end of the world.‘You should have spoken to him. I wonder what he was doing in Camden.’

‘I heard there’s a film being made around here. I saw some location vans the other day. Oh my God, do you think they might have been filming in the cafe? Maybe I’ll be in it, in the background, like an extra.’

‘They wouldn’t have you,’ says Sky, grinning. ‘You’d keep waving at the cameras, just to make sure you were seen.’

‘That’s not fair.’ I pout, comically (my ‘trout pout’ look, Sky calls it). ‘Although you’re probably right.’

We go into Sky’s bedroom, put on some music and sit on her bed and chat for a while. From outside in the hall we hear the intercom buzz several times, and then the chatter of high-pitched voices. There’s a knock on the door and before Sky can say anything, her mum pushes it open. She’s wearing a long, loose, linen dress, and – very
obviously – no bra. I try not to look.

‘Hello, Rosie,’ she says, smiling at me.‘Why didn’t you come to say hello? It would have been lovely to talk to you.’

‘Sorry, Mrs … Rebecca,’ I tell her, sheepishly.

Sky nudges me in the ribs with her elbow, which makes me want to laugh.

‘Now, would you like to stay for dinner? Do you sing or play an instrument? We’re having a music night.’

‘I’m tone deaf, Rebecca.’That’s a lie, but I’m sure it’s only a little white one.‘I’d ruin it.’Which is definitely the truth.

‘Oh no, I’m certain you wouldn’t. You could play the tambourine.’

Sky nudges me again and this time I have to try really hard to suppress a giggle. I hold my breath but it bursts out of me, like a snort. ‘Thanks so much, Rebecca, but honestly, I don’t want to spoil your evening. Anyway, I said I’d be home for dinner.’

‘That’s OK.’ She smiles. ‘In that case, Rosie, I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind making your way home soon? We need to make a start.’

‘Not at all, er, Rebecca.’ I clamber up from the bed. ‘I’ll go now.’ I kiss Sky and make the shape of a phone with my hand. ‘Laters.’

Sky catches my eye and nods furiously. ‘Save me,’ she mouths again, and I purse my lips in sympathy.

It’s almost dusk now and there aren’t many people about, just a couple strolling to the nearby pub. I don’t recognise them, but strangers often use my street as a short cut to the main road. My house is at the far end, a few minutes’ walk from Sky’s flat.

As I walk, I wonder if there’s anything good on television tonight. I’ve got that empty Sunday evening feeling, the dread of having to get up early tomorrow and face a whole week at school. Next weekend is such a long way away.

I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that, as I approach my house, I almost don’t notice the large removal lorry parked outside the house next door.

‘Careful, love,’ says a man, carrying a large box. He narrowly avoids bumping into me.‘This stuff is expensive.’

‘Oh God, sorry.’ I stop and look around me. Now I can see that there are other men carrying boxes from the lorry into the house. It’s the largest house on the street and it’s been empty for almost a year. There’s been lots of building work going on at the house for the past few months – annoying drilling and knocking sounds, which have driven me mad. It’s hard enough to do my homework when there aren’t any distractions.

Now somebody is finally moving in. Will there be a girl my age, or even better, a fit boy? Knowing my luck, it will be a family with young kids, or some old people who’ll ask me to turn my music down when it isn’t even loud.

‘Is someone moving in?’ I ask one of the removal men. It’s a stupid question and I know it. I’m just not sure how else to broach the subject.‘I live next door, you see.’

‘Yeah,’ says the man. ‘Young guy. Think he’s some sort of musician.’ He gestures to the house and then points to the large, antique wooden table he’s off-loading from the lorry. ‘Must be doing all right for himself, eh?’

I nod. A musician sounds promising, especially a rich, successful one.‘Do you mind if I stand here a while?’

‘Feel free,’ says the removal man, who is out of breath and sweaty. ‘No skin off my nose.’

I lean up against the wall and look at the objects being unloaded from the lorry. As well as furniture and boxes of CDs, there is what looks like expensive studio recording equipment.

I’m beginning to feel a bit cold now and thinking I should go inside because Mum will be wondering where I am, when I hear a clattering from the lorry and a ‘Whoops, careful!’ followed by something much ruder from one of the removal men. Three of them are struggling with something they’ve clearly been told to treat with care.

Curious, I walk closer. It’s a huge drum kit. So, my new neighbour is a drummer? Drummers aren’t quite as cool as guitarists or singers, but at least they won’t complain about the noise from next door.

And then I notice something that makes me look again
in disbelief: the word
Fieldstar
and a squiggly star logo emblazoned on the front of the drum kit in bright red, luminous paint. I’ve seen this kit before, so many times, on TV and in pictures in magazines (and in posters on my walls). That logo means that the kit can only belong to one person: Rufus Justice, the drummer for my favourite band, Fieldstar.

My hand is already twitching for my phone. I can’t wait to tell Vix and Sky the most thrilling news they’ll have heard all year. The gorgeous and talented Rufus Justice is going to be my next-door neighbour!

Surely that must be worth at least five thousand points on the Celebometer scale. In fact, there is no competition. Game over!

N
obody takes much notice of me when I come in, but I’m used to that. Dad is in his ‘studio’ (the spare room), finishing his latest abstract masterpiece, Charlie is in his bedroom playing on his computer, and Mum is preparing dinner.

‘Mum, you’ll never believe it, but Rufus Justice is moving in next door!’ I announce as I walk into the kitchen.‘Isn’t that amazing?’

‘Who?’ says Mum, distracted.

‘Rufus Justice! From Fieldstar!’

‘Oh,’ says Mum.‘Am I supposed to have heard of him?’

‘Derr, yes. I’ve only got every album Fieldstar ever made
and posters of them all over my bedroom wall. And you bought me tickets to their gig for my birthday, remember?’

‘Oh, right. And which one is Rufus?’

‘The gorgeous one – well, they’re all gorgeous. The one with the big pecs and the sticky-out hair. The drummer.’

Mum looks concerned. ‘He’s far too old for you,’ she says, stirring furiously.

‘He’s only twenty-one. Anyway, he’s moving in next door, I’m not planning to date him.’ Although, come to think of it, that is a fantastic possibility. ‘Hey, I wonder if he’s going to register at your surgery. Then you’ll know everything about him.’

‘You know I can’t reveal information like that. It’s confidential,’ says Mum, in her serious doctor’s voice.

‘Yeah, I know. Boring.’ I didn’t really expect her to help. I shrug and start to walk out of the kitchen.

‘Don’t forget dinner’s nearly ready,’ Mum calls after me. ‘Five minutes, OK?’

‘OK.’ I make my way upstairs. I’m hoping that Dad might be a little more interested in my exciting news. He really likes one of Fieldstar’s tracks, the anthemic one that everyone sings along with at festivals. He says it helps him to concentrate when he’s painting. Walls, that is, not masterpieces. Dad is an artist, but he’s only ever sold one painting, so he makes his living as a decorator. Painting canvasses is what he does in his spare time.

‘Hey, Dad.’ I open the studio door. He is covered in
paint. It’s on his glasses, his cheeks, even in his hair, disguising his bald spot quite efficiently.

‘Rosie, come and have a look,’ he says. He steps back from his easel and studies the thick splotches of red and blue paint on his canvas.‘What do you think? I’ve done a lot to it since you last saw it.’