The Celeb Next Door (7 page)

‘Hey, Max …’ I gesture to my right. ‘That’s where the big fire was, a couple of years ago. It started in that pub
where all the celebs go. You could see the flames and smoke from my house. It was a bit scary, especially when they thought the gas canisters were going to blow up. We nearly got evacuated.’

‘Yeah, I remember. It was on the news.’

‘My dad thinks it was dodgy. He says someone started it deliberately so they could redevelop the land. There’s a new market there now. Maybe we’ll look at that one another time, when we go down to the canal? I’ll take you to the Lock bit, and the Stables market now. They’re the best ones.’

‘OK,’ says Max. ‘I’d like that.’

We pass shop after shop selling shoes and second-hand clothes, past cafés and restaurants and pubs, where bands are playing live. The tunes and beats bleed out into the street, getting all mixed up together into one big mess of noise. I’ve always thought it’s like a soundtrack for Camden Town. Max seems overwhelmed by the shop fronts, which are all painted in vibrant colours – some of them even have giant models of boots or skulls or even aeroplanes on their roofs – and by the crowds of people we’re weaving through. There are punks with stripy mohicans, Rastafarians with dreadlocks, goths in corsets and pale make-up, and indie kids in sprayed-on skinny jeans and eyeliner. Just like the music, all mixed up together, happily. Nobody looks out of place in Camden Town. I once saw a guy walking down the street with his
pants over his trousers – like Superman. No one gave him a second glance.

We walk under the railway bridge, where Camden High Street meets Chalk Farm Road, and now we’re at the Lock Market, just a few metres from the Stables Market.

‘What’s that smell?’ says Max, sniffing suspiciously.

I giggle. ‘What do you think it is?’

‘No! People smoke weed here, in the street?’

‘Yeah,’ I tell him. I’m so used to it, I’ve forgotten how surprising it is to most people. ‘And down by the canal. The police are always cracking down, and they have sniffer dogs at the station sometimes. But give it a few weeks and everything goes back to normal.’

Max widens his eyes.‘You live in the maddest place,’ he says.

‘I suppose I do. But it’s all I’ve ever known.’ A bit, I think, like taking it for granted that your brother is a rock star. ‘Hey, are you hungry?’

‘I kind of am. Is there somewhere good round here?’

‘Ha! You could say that. Follow me.’ I lead him into the market, through a maze of stalls. ‘Now take your pick.’ On either side of us, for as far as you can see, are food stalls serving every cuisine imaginable. On sale here are veggie-burgers, falafel in pitta bread, home-made cakes, Italian ice cream and even Polish delicacies. There are organic hot dog vendors and stalls selling smoked salmon sandwiches. Alongside them stand Moroccan stalls serving up couscous
and tagines, and Chinese vendors dishing up noodles and stir fries. If you prefer something a little spicier, there are Indian curries or Mexican chillies. And, if you’re a health nut, you can have a salad, with orange juice squeezed freshly before your eyes. All of the stallholders are competing for our attention as we pass, trying to shout louder than the person on the stall next to them: ‘Wanna try? Wanna try?’

‘Wow,’ says Max. ‘Too much choice. Some chicken noodles, maybe?’

‘Sounds good,’ I say.‘I think I’ll have the same.’

‘Let me get these. My treat. To say thank you for showing me around today.’

‘Really? If you’re sure? Thanks, Max.’

We sit on a step and slurp our noodles, chatting about our friends and what we like doing after school. I wouldn’t usually eat noodles (or spaghetti) with a guy because they’re far too messy and I’d be self-conscious. But I’m not trying to impress Max, so it doesn’t really matter if I splash a bit of sauce on my top or if it dribbles down my chin. I feel comfortable with him, like I do with my girlfriends. He’s so much easier to talk to than Rufus: more down to earth, less up himself.

After we eat, we wander around the market for a while longer. I take Max to see the antique stalls and the furniture shops, where you can buy space-age sofas from the Sixties, shaped like swings or giant red lips. I show him
the best vintage clothes shops and I let him hunt for back issues of his favourite graphic novels in the second-hand bookshops. By now, we’re both starting to feel tired. There’s just too much to see, too much noise and too many colours.

‘We can come back another time,’ I say, after I’ve suggested we head home.‘You really can’t do it all in one day. It’s too much.’

‘Yeah, it’s total sensory overload,’ he agrees.‘But I’ve had an ace time.’

‘Me too,’ I say. And I really mean it. As we walk home, I think how good it will be to have a new guy friend to hang out with for the summer. I can’t wait to introduce him to Sky and Vix.

I
wake up smiling. Which doesn’t happen very often. Usually, I feel grumpy, but I’ve slept for almost twelve hours and I feel great. School broke up on Friday, the day before Max arrived, so not only is it the first official day of the summer holidays, which means I don’t have to go to school today, tomorrow or for as far ahead as I can imagine, but I also had
the
best night, last night. Yesterday, soon after we’d come home from the market, Max rang to ask me if I’d like to have dinner at Rufus’s later. I didn’t take too much persuading. In a contest between dinner with a rock star and Mum’s ‘cooking’, there could only ever be one winner. Dad was rather keen on coming too – despite his lack of an
invitation – although he claimed it was only because he wanted to show Rufus the sketches he’d been working on for the album cover.‘You’ll have to show him another time,’ I told him, firmly.‘Tonight is just for young people.’

I thought I was going round for a casual bite to eat, but it turned out to be a proper, grown-up dinner party, like the ones my parents have, except with much cooler guests. A couple of Rufus’s musician friends were there (no one else from Fieldstar, unfortunately), and Isabella had invited one of her Czech friends, another au pair named Ivana, who was almost as beautiful and even taller than her. I couldn’t help wondering if they were manufactured on a production line, like Barbie dolls. Ivana didn’t speak much English, so she and I grinned at each other a lot and waved our hands around.

I pull the duvet up over my chin and lie still for a few minutes, thinking how I can’t wait to tell Sky and Vix all about it, and how envious they’ll be. I was at Rufus’s until past eleven-thirty, until Mum texted me (for the third time) to say I
had
to come home and go to bed, even if it was the summer holidays. Spoilsport. Everything about last night was brilliant, including the food. I mean, I didn’t think I liked fish, unless it came coated in batter with a side order of chunky chips, but Isabella’s fish dish was delicious. I would have asked for seconds, if I hadn’t thought I’d look greedy.

‘This is divine,’ I said. ‘Er, what is it?’

‘Eez sea bass,’ said Isabella. ‘Wiz lemongrass and ginger and crushed po-ta-toes.’

‘Isn’t it good?’ said Rufus, licking his lips. ‘It’s amazing that someone from a landlocked country has such a wicked way with our scaly friends, eh?’ He looked proudly at Isabella and put his arm around her.

‘Yes, absolutely,’ I agreed, although I had no idea what he was talking about. It was only when I got home and googled it, that I learned that the Czech Republic doesn’t have a coast. The whole evening was like that: people discussing things I knew nothing about – politics and obscure bands and places I’d never visited – but including me in the conversation, so I didn’t feel left out. Even Rufus was much friendlier to me than he’d been before. He told me all about what life was like on a Fieldstar tour: sleeping in a cramped, smelly bus and spending such a short time in each place that, after a few days, you can’t work out which country you’re in. He told me how dull it was to make a pop video and go to the Brit Awards, even though it might look glamorous, and what a buzz it was to play live in Hyde Park with thousands of people singing along with you. He said how pleased he was that I was getting on with Max so well, and that I must come for dinner again. He even let Max and me have one small glass of wine each. Of course, I lied and said I drink wine all the time at home, and so my parents wouldn’t mind at all. It tasted foul and made my head swim, but I still drained the whole glass.

After dinner, we all went into the living room (nobody said anything about the walls I’d painted), and sat chatting
over coffee. Rufus’s friend brought out his guitar for an impromptu jamming session and everyone – even Max – joined in, singing Fieldstar songs and old tunes too.

Just thinking about it now makes me smile. I rub my eyes and look around me. There are Fieldstar posters all over my bedroom walls, including one directly above my bed, one in which Rufus isn’t wearing a top. When I look at it now, I feel slightly embarrassed, dirty even, like I’m perving on a relative. Eughh. There he is, flexing his muscles and pouting in a way I have never seen him pout. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen anybody pout like that in real life. I study my other posters. Rufus does look different in the pictures. He looks blank, vacant, as if he’s not really there. All the hours I’ve spent gazing at these posters, staring into his eyes, trying to work out what he was thinking, and it turns out he wasn’t thinking anything at all. Except, probably, ‘When will this be over so I can go home and play on my Wii?’

Max is coming over later to hang out and meet Sky and Vix. I really need to do something about my bedroom first. There’s no way I can let Max come in when there are photos of his big brother on every wall. It’s just too weird. I stretch, climb out of bed and put on a T-shirt and trackie bottoms. ‘Right,’ I say aloud. ‘Time to get to work.’ I stand up on tiptoes on my bed and, in one swift move, rip down the picture of Rufus’s torso. Perhaps I’m a little too hasty, because it tears, severing one of his arms from his body. Ouch. Lucky I’m not superstitious, because I’m sure that can’t be a good
omen for a drummer. Then, one by one, I peel the Fieldstar posters from my walls. They’ve been up there for about a year now, and the blu-tack leaves marks on the paintwork. I stop to see how I’m doing. The room looks bare, dull, characterless. I’ve had posters up for as long as I can remember, ever since dad painted over the alphabet wallpaper for me. It was a rush job and I can still make out faint traces of letters in the spots where the paint has rubbed away. I can’t leave it like that; I’ll have to find some other posters to replace them.

There’s no time to go to the market, so I hunt around my room for anything I can use. Tucked under my bed is a rolled-up cardboard tube that I’d forgotten about. Inside it there are several posters. I unfurl them: there’s the cute kitten I used to gaze at from my bed when I was about seven, a Disney film poster for
Beauty and the Beast
, a picture of Westlife from years ago, that I didn’t have the heart to throw away, and a portrait that I picked up in the market cheap, of a cute guy with dark, curly hair and a beret-type hat. I meant to put it up when I bought it, but there wasn’t room for it before. Now, there is. I paste it up above my bed, where Rufus used to pout, topless. It looks good, like it fits. But the room still looks wrong somehow, not like mine, so I stick the other posters up too. It’s all a bit of a hotch-potch – more like the poster section of IKEA than a room that someone real lives in – but at least you can’t see the marks on the walls any more, or the traces of the alphabet wallpaper.

Right, I’ve got one hour till my friends arrive. I need to shower and dress and try to eat some breakfast, even though it’s lunchtime already, and I’m still full from last night. Mmm, that chocolate pudding was divine … the way the rich, hot sauce oozed out when I touched it with my spoon. I
did
ask for seconds of that!

I am just about ready when the doorbell rings. If I’m lucky, it will be either Sky orVix, or both of them together, so I can fill them in on last night before Max arrives. But it’s him.