The Celeb Next Door (8 page)

‘Hi,’ he says, grinning again. He kisses me on the cheek. I can’t help noticing that he’s wearing aftershave – the same scent that Rufus uses. He must have borrowed it. ‘It’s really good to see you again.’

It’s only been about fourteen hours, but I play along. ‘Why, did you miss me?’

‘Course,’ he says. I might be wrong, but I think his neck and ears turn slightly red. ‘Did you have a good time last night?’

‘Oh yes, it was brilliant. Come in.’ I lead him into the hall. ‘I had so much fun. Rufus and his friends were lovely and, now I’ve spent a bit of time with her, I really like Isabella too. I didn’t think I would at first.’

‘Yeah, she’s fab. And she’s good for Rufus. She keeps him out of trouble.’

‘Trouble?’

‘You know, hanging out with dodgy people, falling out of
nightclubs and ending up in the papers. He went through a phase of that. It wasn’t really like him at all. I think the fame went to his head a bit.’

‘Yeah, I remember,’ I say. I’m glad Rufus isn’t like that any more; there’s no way my parents would let me hang out with him if they heard those stories.‘Come upstairs. We can wait for the others in my room.’

Max follows me up the stairs and into my bedroom, perching himself on the edge of my bed. I sit down next to him, not too close, and cross my legs.

‘So what do you have planned for me today?’ he says, looking around him. He’s obviously taking in the strange decor, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘Not sure. I thought we’d wait till the others get here and see what they want to do.’

‘OK. Whatever it is, I hope it’s as fun as yesterday.’

‘It will be, I promise. Sky and Vix are my oldest, bestest mates. They can’t wait to meet you.’

‘Sure,’ he says, although he doesn’t sound as keen to meet them as I’d expect. ‘It’ll be nice.’

Vix and Sky arrive together; they’ve probably met up on the street outside. Max waits in my room, while I go downstairs to open the door. We’re all dying to have a good gossip, but sound carries through my house, and I don’t want Max to hear us talking about him. ‘He’s here already – upstairs,’ I whisper. ‘Tell you later.’

He’s standing waiting for us by the bedroom door when
we come in. ‘Hi,’ he says, politely, holding out his hand. Vix shakes it and says,‘Nice to meet you.’ Sky nods and leans over to give him a peck on the cheek.

‘So …’ I say. There’s an awkward silence. Everyone is looking at my bedroom walls and I just know someone is going to say something.

‘Interesting new posters,’says Sky, smirking.‘I didn’t know you were into Westlife again.’

‘Well, I fancied a change,’ I say, making a face at Sky, who must have guessed why I’ve taken down my Fieldstar pictures. When I’m sure Max can’t see, I mouth ‘Shush’ at her.

‘Yeah, but since when have you been into Che Guevara?’ asks Vix, staring at the new poster above my bed.

‘Who?’

‘The guy on your wall up there.’

‘Oh, yeah, right. Shayne what? I picked that up in the market ages ago. How do you know him? Is he an actor?’

Vix giggles. ‘Not exactly.’

‘I didn’t know you were an old commie,’ says Sky.

‘Eh?’

‘Che Guevara was a Cuban Marxist revolutionary,’ says Vix. ‘In the Fifties. Didn’t you know?’

I turn beetroot. ‘I think I’ve heard of him, but I didn’t realise what he looked like,’ I say quietly. ‘I just thought he was a cute guy. I wondered why there were so many pictures of him in Camden Market. Whoops.’

‘Oh, Rosie,’ saysVix. She laughs at me, but not unkindly. ‘I suppose he was.’

‘Rosie’s not really into politics or history, are you, Rosie?’ says Sky, teasing.

‘She knows about a lot of other things though,’ says Max, sweetly sticking up for me.‘She gave me the best guided tour of Camden yesterday.’

‘Course she did,’ says Vix.‘She’s great, really, is our Rosie.’

‘Hey, everyone, I am here, you know!’ I say. ‘So what do you all want to do today?’ I change the subject, before anyone can say anything about the Disney poster, or the cute kitten. I’ve had enough humiliation for one day.

‘How about a picnic in Primrose Hill?’ suggests Vix. ‘It’s such a lovely day.’

‘Genius idea! Why doesn’t everyone go home, grab some food and drinks and we can meet at the end of the road in, say, twenty minutes?’

P
rimrose Hill is as close as you can get to a village in London. It’s the posh area, right next to Camden Town, about a twenty-minute walk from my house. Primrose Hill is picture-perfect, with old-fashioned street lamps and red telephone boxes outside huge, Victorian houses – the way London looks in movies. It’s full of expensive boutiques, restaurants and delicatessens, and yummy mummies pushing prams or driving their children to private schools in four-by-fours. This is where the really famous, really rich people live, the people who find Camden Town too seedy, or too noisy. It’s not unusual to see a Hollywood star here, taking his children for a walk,
or buying an organic loaf at the bakery.

The hill itself backs on to Regent’s Park and is a steep climb, which really gets your legs. But it’s worth it. If you walk up one of the paths to the top you can see almost the whole of London spreading out before you, panoramically: the BT Tower, the Millennium Wheel, even as far as the Dome and the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. I love going there with my friends on Sundays and summer holiday afternoons, to hang out and listen to our iPods.

It’s also the perfect place for a picnic. We’ve all packed ingredients from our kitchens that can be cobbled together into a picnic of sorts: crisps and chocolate, some fruit and leftover pasta salad. Sky’s brought some weird concoction with beansprouts and tofu that her mum found in the health food shop. It stinks.

‘Shall I toss it?’ she asks, as we pass a bin on Chalk Farm Road, just before the tube station.

I look at Sky, who looks atVix, who looks at Max, who looks back at me, and we all nod. ‘Yes please!’ I say. I know some people are starving but, honestly, I’ve seen tramps put Sky’s mum’s food back in the bin.

Our arms linked together in a chain, we walk up the steep hill that leads to the railway bridge, which marks the entrance to Primrose Hill village. Vix suggests that we go into the grocery store to buy a couple of bottles of Coke and a few extras to supplement our picnic. It’s crazily expensive in there – twice the price of Sainsbury’s – but
they always have the tastiest treats, and if everyone puts in a couple of pounds, it’s not so bad.

We’re standing in the queue to pay when Sky squeals ‘Oh my God!’just as a tall guy wearing sunglasses walks past us along the aisle. She whispers, rather too loudly,‘Isn’t that Adam Grigson again? Quick, Rosie, it’s Celebometer time!’

‘Yes, well done Sky! I think it is.’ My pulse speeds up with excitement. ‘What’s he doing this time?’

Sky peers over the shelves. ‘It looks like he’s buying a newspaper and some cheese. It’s Brie. No, Camembert.’

‘Celeb-what?’ says Max, intrigued.

‘Celebometer,’ says Vix. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but she sounds a bit condescending. ‘Rosie has invented this celebrity-spotting game. You get points depending on how famous someone is. Oh, and how hot they are.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I say. ‘Honestly.’ Celebrity spotting feels wrong in front of Max. After what he told me, I don’t want him to think I’m shallow and fake, like the people who try to befriend him to meet his brother.

‘Oh right, I see,’ says Max, who clearly can’t tell I’m embarrassed. ‘So how many points do you get for Adam Grigson, then? Because I’ve just seen Robert De Niro walk past the shop.’

‘Seriously?’ My voice leaps about ten octaves.

‘No,’ says Max. ‘Not really.’ He laughs. ‘But you should have seen the look on your face. Classic!’

I slap him on the arm.‘You’re mean.’

‘Yeah, and you’re gullible.’

We wander into the park and find a shady spot, halfway up the hill, just under a tree. Vix has brought a blanket, which she spreads out on the grass, and we all sit down on it, using our jackets as cushions. Then we pile our food into the middle and tuck in happily, sharing around the crisps and the little cupcakes we bought in the grocery store. After we’ve eaten, we lie down in a circle across the blanket, with our feet virtually touching, and play silly word association games and I-spy. Max swears that he’s spotted a UFO, but it turns out to be just an aeroplane, zigzagging its way through the clouds, on its flight path into Heathrow.

‘Will you walk up to the top of the hill with me, Rosie?’ he asks, when the game has fizzled out and nobody can be bothered to start a new one.

‘Course,’ I say, clambering up. ‘Will you two be all right for a few minutes?’

Vix and Sky are still lying down, their eyes closed. ‘Sure,’ murmurs Sky, sleepily. ‘Have fun.’

Max and I trudge up the hill together. It’s hard to believe that I’ve only known him for a couple of days, because it feels like for ever. And I’m so pleased he’s getting on well with Sky and Vix, and that they seem to like him too. He’s just slotted in, as if he’s always been a member of the gang. Hanging out with him for the rest of the summer won’t be a bind at all. It will be fun.

‘What an amazing view,’ he says, at the top, a little out of breath. ‘It’s like looking at a postcard of London.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘That’s probably why they’ve made so many films up here.’ I pause to take in the view myself. ‘If you look down there, to your left, you can see the zoo. See that high bit – that’s the aviary, where the birds live. I’ll have to show you it properly one day. It’s dead expensive to get in the main entrance, but if you walk round the back, along the canal, you can see some of the animals for free.’

‘I wish I lived in London,’ says Max. ‘As soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to move here.’

‘You should,’ I say.

We stand and look for a while longer before heading back down the hill to sit on the blanket with the others and chat. Max tells us about his school; it’s a boarding school, but he comes home every weekend. Rufus went there too. It’s no ordinary school: the pupils make the rules themselves, which sounds bizarre – not to mention extremely appealing. Why can’t my school be like that?

‘So you can choose whether to go to lessons?’ asks Vix.

‘Yeah, sort of. If I wanted to, say, go on a trip to a museum, instead of going to a history lesson, that would be OK. And there’s loads of drama and music and social stuff, which they think is just as important as academic work. It’s all about making you “a well-rounded person”, apparently. Most people end up with really good exam results in the end, so we must do some work, I guess. Loads
of famous people went there. Not just Rufus.’

‘God, sign me up!’ says Sky. She fills Max in on what it’s like at her comprehensive. ‘I bet you a million pounds it would be empty every day if we could choose whether to go to lessons or not.’

‘Are there girls at your school, Max?’ asks Vix.

‘Yeah, it’s totally mixed. I’ve got loads of girl mates.’

That figures, I think. It must be why he’s so relaxed in our company. Some of the boys I know treat me like I’m a strange creature from another planet. ‘Me and Vix go to a girls’ school,’ I tell him. ‘Although we do have some boys in the sixth form.’

‘Yeah,’ says Vix. ‘So do you have a girlfriend?’ It’s not like her to be so direct, and she blushes a little.

‘No, I was seeing someone last year, but it didn’t work out. What about all of you?’

‘Not me,’ says Vix. ‘I’m single. So is Rosie. But Sky’s got a boyfriend.’

‘Sort of,’ says Sky. ‘It’s a bit shaky at the moment. I’m not really sure where I stand.’ She looks sad.

‘Sorry to hear that. Anyway …’ says Max, immediately changing the subject.

So he is a typical guy, in some ways. None of them like talking about feelings, or relationships, especially tortured ones like Sky’s.

‘I’d actually better be going.’ He drags himself up from the ground and brushes grass and twigs from his jeans. ‘I
promised Rufus I’d help him set something up on his PC this evening, and I’m already later than I said I’d be.’

‘Are you sure you know your way back on your own?’ asks Vix. ‘I’m going to have to go home myself, soonish, so I could walk you back.’ She moves as if to get up to join him, climbing to her knees. But her leg is dead from sitting on it too long and she virtually topples over.