The Celeb Next Door (3 page)

‘Nice,’ I tell him. I can’t see any difference at all, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings. ‘What are you calling it, again?’

‘The Quiet Death of the Tarantula
,’ he says. There is pride in his voice.

‘You should sell your paintings at Camden Market,’ I suggest. ‘I know someone who could get you a pitch.’

Dad sighs. ‘Oh no, I’m a serious artist.’

‘I know, Dad.’ I smile at him. Poor Dad, I wish he could get a break.

‘I’ve got something to tell you …’ I begin, hopefully. ‘Rufus Justice from Fieldstar is moving into the Robsons’ old place. Isn’t that cool?’

‘You’re kidding me,’ says Dad. ‘Who told you that?’

‘I saw some removal men unloading his stuff. There’s recording equipment and everything. I wonder if the rest of the band will come round. And then maybe we can jam.’

I really should practise my guitar more often … I’ve only mastered two chords so far, but it hurts my fingers so much.

Dad starts to whistle his favourite Fieldstar track and sways his hips in time to the rhythm. It’s a little embarrassing when he does that.

‘All right, Dad,’ I say, and I head for the door. ‘Mum says dinner will be ready in a few minutes.’Which just about gives me time to text Vix and Sky with the amazing news.

Dinner is as chaotic as usual. Dad is in a world of his own, probably contemplating red and blue tarantulas dying quietly, and Mum has to keep answering the phone because she’s on call tonight. My phone keeps beeping too with texts from Sky and Vix who want all the details, and my little brother Charlie won’t sit still. In my opinion, there’s only one point to having a brother: if he’s older than you and can introduce you to his friends. A little brother, particularly one who is seven years younger, is useless. All Charlie does is leave his toys everywhere, make a racket and chase after you, pretending to shoot you with whatever object he can find. Charlie is officially a pain. I would much prefer to have a sister, even one far younger. At least I could teach her about clothes and make-up and plait her hair.

After dinner, Charlie scuttles off to his bedroom and returns with his football. He hands it to me, with a pleading look, like a pet dog that wants you to play fetch. ‘Will you play footie with me, Rosie?’ he asks. He’s oblivious to my indifference towards him, which is quite
sweet.‘You can be goalie and I’ll be the striker.’

‘Oh Charlie, I’ve got stuff to do,’ I say, groaning. ‘Can’t you play on your own?’

Charlie looks crestfallen.

‘Play with your brother for ten minutes,’ says Mum, who clearly just wants him out of her hair.

‘OK, OK.’ It’s not like I have anything else to do.

We go out into the back garden and I lean against the wall, while Charlie tries to aim the ball in my direction. I decide to let him score. He runs towards me cheering and throws his arms around my middle, giving me a big, awkward hug.

‘Wuh-un-nil, wuh-un-nil, wuh-un-nil,’ he sings. ‘It’s your turn, Rosie. You can be Wayne Rooney.’

Reluctantly, I walk forward and let Charlie stand in front of the wall in my place. I place the ball at my feet and take a step backwards, ready to take aim. I’ve already decided I’m going to miss the goal and let Charlie win, when I remember that if I stand on tiptoe I can just see over the wall into the house next door. Rufus Justice’s house. There’s a glass patio and, when the lights are on, you can get a pretty good view inside the house. Of course, there aren’t any lights on at the moment; nobody’s living there yet. But soon … I wonder if Rufus will have parties in the house, with celebrity guests. Over the summer he might have barbecues in the garden, and I’ll be able to talk to him over the wall …

‘Come on, Rosie,’says Charlie, propelling me out of my fantasy. ‘Aim!’

I run forward and, as Charlie dives to the left, I deliberately miss-kick the ball into a flower bed. He giggles and picks himself up from the ground. He’s covered in dirt. ‘Girls are rubbish at football,’ he says, triumphantly. ‘I win.’

‘Yes, you do,’ I agree.‘Well done you.’

Later, alone in my bedroom, I prepare for the week ahead. I put my schoolbooks in my bag and pick out the clothes I’ll wear tomorrow. Vix and I go to the same school, the girls’ school which is about ten minutes’walk up the road. It’s a comprehensive, and you don’t have to wear a uniform, but it’s really hard to get into and lots of famous people went there in the past. Sky attends the mixed comprehensive nearby, partly because that’s where her older sisters go, and partly because her mum didn’t manage to do the paperwork for the girls’ school in time. I wish all three of us were at the same school, so we could walk in together and gossip about the same people. Sometimes Sky says she feels left out. Then again, the good thing about Sky’s school is that she has guy friends she can introduce us all to. There are only boys in the sixth form at my school, and they’ll only talk to the sixth form girls.

I hate Sunday evening, because I know I’ll have to get up early tomorrow, and then there are five more sleeps
until the weekend. But maybe this week will be less boring than usual; maybe I’ll be making a new celebrity friend. Before I go to bed I text Vix and Sky goodnight and I plug in my MP3 player, so I can listen to Fieldstar’s latest album until I fall asleep. As my eyes begin to close, I wonder if Rufus Justice will soon be sleeping on the other side of the wall.

R
ufus Justice moves in to his new house on Tuesday morning, while I’m at school.

At four o’clock, the second the final bell rings, Vix and I escape together and, as we always do on a Tuesday, meet Sky in the café up the road. Over milky hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin divided into three uneven chunks, we discuss the day in forensic detail. Anything to delay going home to homework and our families. None of us is in a good mood:Vix and I had a maths test, which didn’t go very well, and Sky had a row with her boyfriend, Rich.

‘I can’t believe Rich blanked you like that,’ I tell Sky,
when she’s filled us in on the argument.

‘It’s so out of order,’ says Vix, who has never had a proper boyfriend herself. Plenty of boys like her – she’s got that blond, rosy-cheeked, girl-next-door thing going on – but she always turns them down. She’s too choosy, or too scared, or both – I’m not sure which. I’ve tried to talk to her about it but she gets embarrassed.

‘Yeah,’ I add. ‘I hope you showed him he can’t diss you like that.’

‘I was really offish,’ Sky insists. She is obviously more in love with Rich than she wants anyone to know. ‘But he’s going to call me later so we can have a proper talk. By the way ...’ she says, changing the subject, because she doesn’t like it when we criticise Rich. ‘I’ve been meaning to say, I love your new top, Rosie. It suits you.’

‘Thanks, Sky.’ I smile. I am wearing a stripy top today – not in tribute to Rufus Justice, who only ever wears stripy tops, in various colour combinations – but because the naval look is in and I bought it at the weekend from a Camden Market army and navy surplus stall. It’s a little bit big for me, and a little bit long, because it was designed for a Russian sailor with broad shoulders and a slim torso, not for an English girl who is petite and slightly pear-shaped. It only cost eight pounds though, and it’s authentic, unlike the copies you’ll find in the high street chain stores.

I buy most of my clothes from the market; it makes my
allowance go a lot further, and I’m far more likely to find something original, like a Fifties prom dress or even a Victorian lace bolero. The majority of my friends feel the same way and so we all go clothes hunting together most weekends. Only Sky, who has spent her life in tie-dyed cotton hand-me-downs and thrift-shop finds, refuses to buy market clothes. She likes whatever she can find in TopShop and Miss Selfridge, particularly if it’s short and tight and made out of polyester. It’s the same with her hair. As soon as she could afford to, she rebelled by having her waist-length dark waves cut into a glossy bob with a fringe. Her mum cried.

The café owner is giving us dirty looks, so we decide it’s time to leave. We have been sitting over a plate of crumbs for half an hour because we can’t afford to order anything else.

‘Oh my God!’ Sky almost yells, as we turn into Paradise Avenue.‘Look, the lights are on in Rufus’s house. He must have moved in.’

‘Seriously?’ I say, peering past her to see for myself. I’m so excited I think I might burst. ‘Oh my gosh, I think you’re right. Come on, let’s go and have a peek.’

The three of us scope out Rufus’s house, trying as hard as we can to see through the blackout blinds or shutters he’s had installed at every window.

‘There’s no way to see in – it’s like a fortress,’ says Sky. ‘It’s so annoying.’

‘We could ring the doorbell and just say hello,’ saysVix. ‘What’s the harm?’

Sky giggles. ‘Go on then, Vix, you first.’

‘No, you go first. You want to meet him much more than me. He’s only a person.’

One behind the other, we walk right up to the front door and Sky tentatively sticks out her index finger. It hovers above the doorbell. ‘I can’t,’ she says, stepping away. ‘I’m too nervous. Rosie?’

‘OK …’ I lift up my arm to try, then immediately snatch it back. I have the most enormous butterflies flapping about in my belly. They might even be birds.‘No, I can’t, I’m not ready. I need to think about what I’m going to say.’

‘Wuss,’ says Vix. She turns away. ‘I’m bored now. I’m going to leave you to it. Speak later, OK?’ She gives us each a peck on the cheek and walks slowly back to her house. Just before she goes inside she gives us a little wave.

‘Is she all right?’ I ask Sky.‘She’s been a bit offish lately.’

‘Has she? I haven’t noticed.’

‘Really? Oh, maybe it’s just me, then. Which is worse. I get the feeling she’s annoyed with me, but I don’t know why.’ Vix is my oldest friend, and I can sense when something’s not right. It’s been bothering me for a few days. ‘She doesn’t even seem that interested in Rufus moving in.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Sky reassures me. ‘I think she’s
just a bit over the whole celebrity thing and …Just have a chat with her, yeah?’

‘Mmm,’ I say. ‘I’ll try.’

‘So are we going to do this, then?’ she asks. We’re still hovering outside Rufus’s front door. ‘We could just ring the bell and run away. Maybe he’ll come out and then we can pretend we were just walking past, and blame some kids.’

‘Too risky. He might spot us. For all we know he’s watching us right now. You know, he probably has a security camera. Or one of those two-way mirrors.’ Oh God, I think, he could do. He might be looking me straight in the eye at this very moment, and I don’t know it. The idea makes me double over with laughter.‘Oh God, how embarrassing. Do you think it’s true?’

‘Hope not! Can you imagine? Listen, Rosie, I think I’m going to go home too. Neither of us has got the guts to do this now, and I want to make sure I’m in to speak to Rich. Why don’t we try again tomorrow?’

‘Sure,’ I say. But I don’t like giving up.‘I’m going to go home too and come up with a plan. In fact, I already have an idea …’

I let myself into my house and head straight for the kitchen. I have remembered that in TV shows people always take casseroles or muffins to their new neighbours, as a welcoming gift. I imagine myself arriving at Rufus’s door with a wicker basket filled with just-baked goodies,
covered by a navy and white gingham cloth. ‘A gift, to welcome you to the street,’ I’ll say, with a perfect smile (in my fantasy, I don’t have braces) and he will then, of course, invite me in for a friendly chat …

But when I look in the cupboards and in the fridge, all I can find is a packet of Jaffa Cakes, a few blackening bananas, and some leftover couscous. ‘Squishy banana, Rufus?’ It probably won’t do. I need a plan B.

That plan B comes in the unexpected form of Charlie.

‘Hello, Rosie,’ he says, padding into the kitchen, clutching his ball. ‘Wanna play footie again with me?’

Now usually, I would say, ‘No way, Squirt, not today,’ especially as Mum isn’t home yet to harangue me and Dad’s out of earshot upstairs. But I’ve had a brainwave. Playing football with Charlie could just be my way into Rufus’s house.