‘Max …’ I say, desperately. ‘There’s something you should know …’
But it’s too late. He’s reached the counter and spotted the magazine. His face is white with shock and he looks shaky and breathless. Slamming down the drinks, he picks up the magazine for a closer look. Then, in an expressionless voice, he says, ‘And the magazine, please,’ to the shopkeeper. He hands over a ten pound note and, without waiting for his change, rushes towards me, grabbing my arm and almost marches me to the door.
‘Oh my God,’ he says. ‘This is really bad. Really bad. Got to get home.’ He practically runs to the tube station, forcing me to jog to keep up with him, and then he’s through the barrier and speeding down the escalator, two steps at a time. We reach the platform and jump on to a northbound tube just before the doors close. Once we’re sitting down, and the tube has moved off, he catches his breath. Then he thumbs through the magazine, clumsily, until he finds the page where the story is printed in full. Holding my breath, I peer over his shoulder to read it too.
Fieldstar Full Frontal Garden Scandal!
Rufus Justice has shocked his neighbours in trendy Camden Town by stripping off and wandering around his garden starkers in the middle of the night. The exuberant Fieldstar drummer was seen naked in his garden at 3 a.m. last week, according to a source, thought to be a friend. ‘He’s been sleepwalking since he was a kid, it’s a real problem,’ the source told us. ‘There are several young families on the street and the neighbours aren’t happy.’
We thought that Justice, who used to be known for his wild ways, had calmed down since meeting stunning Russian model Isabella Primanova two years ago. Sounds to us like he’s back to his old tricks …
With every word I read, my heart rate speeds up by another five beats, until I start to feel sick and breathless. It’s bad enough that Rufus’s embarrassing problem is out in public; worse, the article makes him sound like some sort of pervert who enjoys stripping off in his garden in the middle of the night. The sleepwalking part is hidden in the middle – you’d barely notice it if you weren’t reading closely. And they’ve got all the facts wrong! Isabella isn’t Russian – she’s Czech. And she’s not a model. And who is the source it mentions? I know it’s not me. It can’t be Max, or Isabella, or the guys in Fieldstar. The timing is too much of a coincidence for there to be any other possible explanation: Sky must have told someone what I told her; who, I can’t imagine. And then that someone must have told someone else, who told the magazine. And probably got paid loads for the story too! But whichever way I look at it, it’s still my fault. What have I done?
Max stares at me, steely-eyed. I know he’s asking himself exactly the same questions as me, coming to the same conclusions at exactly the same time. He sighs and takes my hand. ‘Rosie, I don’t want to have to ask you this, but I have to know. Was it you? Did you tell someone? Because you’re the only person I’ve ever told. I can’t figure out how else it’s got out. It’s been a secret for years.’ He pauses. ‘I really hope it wasn’t you.’
I can’t look at him. I want the tube to stop in a tunnel and leave me there, in the dark, on my own, for ever. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I mutter. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
He drops my hand. ‘I know you wouldn’t sell the story. Would you? So who did you tell?’
‘Only Sky. We tell each other everything. I know that’s no excuse. But she’s in Goa. And I can usually trust her. Please don’t blame her, because it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m so, so sorry.’
I want him to be angry with me, but he isn’t. He doesn’t shout or walk away; he just looks at me with sad, watery eyes, as though he’s disappointed and I’m not the person he thought I was. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says, softly. ‘It’s totally my fault. Rufus always said I shouldn’t trust anyone. The rules are different when you’re a celebrity. I shouldn’t have told you.’ He turns away from me and stares blankly out the tube window, as the tunnel walls rush past.
I’ve been trying all day to make him go off me. And now he has. So why don’t I feel good about it?
Chapter 20
Paparazzi on Paradise Avenue
Rufus Justice is depressed. He hasn’t come out of his house for six days, not once, since the story about his sleepwalking broke. He can’t even go in his own back garden because most of the paparazzi lenses are trained on it, hoping to catch him in the buff. Max says he just sits in the living room with the curtains shut, wearing his dressing gown and playing on his Wii. He hasn’t even touched his drums or picked up a pen to scribble down a song idea. Isabella is going spare and the other Fieldstar members are worried sick that Rufus won’t be able to play the gig at KOKO, which is only days away now.
I feel so bad that I’ve offered to go round to explain what happened and to say sorry to Rufus, but Max said not to. He’s such a gentleman that he hasn’t told his brother I’m to blame. Rufus has no clue how the story got out, and now he probably never will. It will just remain a ‘mystery’. Max says it’s better that way.
‘Rufus doesn’t really trust anyone anyway,’ Max explained. ‘Where the story came from isn’t important now. The fact is it’s out and it can’t ever go back in.’
The day after Sizzling hit the shops, two of the tabloid newspapers picked up on it and it spread all over the internet too. People have been posting really mean pictures showing a naked, fat guy with Rufus’s head pasted over the top, and telling incredibly mean jokes, like saying they have no trouble sleeping properly when they listen to Fieldstar’s albums. Fieldstar had a meeting with their management team and it was decided that they’d do something called ‘fire fighting’. Now they’re trying to turn the negative story into a positive one. So, reluctantly, Rufus has done interviews with newspaper health sections and on the radio about his sleepwalking problem, and how it isn’t funny at all. It’s actually a serious medical condition that can be really dangerous. One paper said some people have hurt themselves or their partners while they were asleep. Not that Rufus has ever done this. The line is he wants to help other people with the same problem.
I used to think celebrity gossip was exciting. But all the fuss has made me realise that being famous can be rubbish sometimes. I’d hate to be Rufus now, stuck in my house, with photographers and journalists ready to pounce at any opportunity. No one cares that he’s a real person, with real feelings.
I’ve been trying to do some fire fighting of my own. I’ve put my Max plan on hold, for starters. It feels mean and petty now. And the truth is, I think he’s gone off me a little bit anyway – it’s obvious, however sweet he’s being. It feels like he doesn’t really trust me any more. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s stopped being so open with me and so affectionate and, because he’s worried about Rufus, he’s been spending a lot of time at home and not coming out very much. The few times he’s kissed me, I’ve just closed my eyes and thought about Adam Grigson. Until all the fuss has died down, I don’t see how I can do anything else. I’m stuck with him as my boyfriend.
The night I saw the magazine, I rushed off an email to Sky the minute I got home. I was hoping she’d see it quickly and fill me in on what happened. A tiny part of me was praying that maybe, just maybe, she’d swear she hadn’t told a soul and the whole thing really was a massive coincidence, so I could stop blaming myself. Either way, just sending it made me feel better.
Dear Sky,
Oh God! What a mess!
Rufus is all over the news in England. Have you heard?
God, not sure how to say this but was it you? Did you mention it to somebody? There’s this ‘source’ and no one knows who they are. I know I should have made it crystal clear that you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the sleepwalking, but I thought you’d realise that without me saying. I’m not blaming you, but it’s really dropped me in it. Who did you tell? How did it end up in a magazine? I want to die! PLEASE email me or call me as soon as you can.
Love, Rosie x
I hav
en’t heard from her. Maybe she hasn’t been able to go online, or maybe she’s too shamefaced to answer me. She’s coming back from Goa in a few days, so I’ll be able to ask her what happened, face to face.
I’m with Vix right now in a café on Camden High Street, eating strawberry and white chocolate muffins and drinking iced chocolate frappés. Her treat. We’re sitting in our favourite spot, right by the window, watching people go by. People, not celebrities. I’ve packed the Celebometer away for now, maybe for keeps. It doesn’t feel fun any more. It’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place!
This time I’ve been totally straight with Vix. I confessed what I’d done and she has been surprisingly sweet about everything. She says she’d have done exactly the same thing – told me or Sky – about Rufus’s sleepwalking, if she’d been Max’s girlfriend.
‘It’s not really breaking a promise to tell your best friend something because there’s an unwritten code, isn’t there?’ she says. ‘Everyone knows it. Talking to your best friend is a bit like thinking aloud.’
‘Except Sky told someone else.’
‘Yeah, but like you said, you didn’t tell her how important it was not to, and she was probably going crazy out there with no news and no gossip. She’s going to feel terrible when she finds out what trouble she’s caused.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, although I think that, secretly, Sky will also feel quite proud to have started such a fuss. She doesn’t know Rufus like I do.
‘Everyone will forget about it soon, though. There’ll be some other celebrity scandal to talk about.’
Yeah,’ I say. ‘I know. But the stuff about Rufus will always be on the web now. And he wanted to keep it private. Anyway, want another drink?’
‘What do you think? Course I do.’
‘I’ll get them this time.’
There’s a long queue, mainly because the guy serving – I think they call them baristas – is a bit hopeless and keeps getting the orders wrong or giving people the wrong change. I lean against the counter, impatiently, thinking, ‘Hurry up, already.’
‘God,’ says a voice from behind me.‘We’ll still be here for breakfast at this rate.’
I turn around. It’s a guy, a year or two older than me, perhaps, and he’s absolutely gorgeous, with dark hair flopping over one eye and a slim, muscular body. He looks like he should be in a band. But probably isn’t.
‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ I say, trying not to blush. I suddenly feel self-conscious. I check out my reflection in the cake counter. I think I look OK. Thank goodness I put the plan on hold and started wearing make-up and dressing like me again.
‘It’s always the same here,’ he says. ‘Always too packed. So are you a tourist visiting the market?’
‘As if! No, I’ve lived in Camden all my life. I’m a local. You?’
Yeah, I live here too. Well, Chalk Farm, officially. Just the other end of the high street.’
‘Oh right, I’m up by the Camden Road end.’
He smiles and holds out his hand. He is soooo my type. ‘I’m Laurie, by the way.’
‘Rosie,’I say, shaking it. I hope my palms aren’t too sweaty.
The queue still isn’t moving much. I try to catch Vix’s eye, but she’s sitting with her back towards me.
You here with a friend?’
Yeah, my best friend, Vix. She’s just over there.’ I point to the back of Vix’s head. ‘We always sit in the window seats. Best place for people-watching. You?’
‘Just getting a takeaway. I’m doing a summer job at the sports shop on the high street. I’m on my break.’ He checks his watch. At least I was.’
You can go in front of me, if you like.’
‘Ah, you’re very sweet, but don’t worry. If I’m late, I’m late.’
By the time I’ve picked up my drinks, I’ve found out quite a lot about Laurie. It turns out he’s just about to start sixth form. He has a sister in my year at school and he’s been to some of the same gigs as me. He’s so easy to talk to, and so cute, I almost forget I’m standing in a public queue with a stranger. And I almost forget I have a boyfriend.
‘So,’ says Laurie, as he collects his own drink. ‘I have to get back to work now.’ He pauses. ‘I’m, er, not normally this forward but, er, do you fancy meeting up some time? Could I take your number? I would ask you out for a coffee, but as we’re already in a café that sounds a bit stupid.’
‘Oh …’ I can feel my face fall.
‘Sorry,’ he says, with a forced smile. ‘You don’t have to give it to me. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, it’s not that. I’d love to give you my number. But I really can’t. I have a, er, boyfriend.’ I want to add, ‘I’m working on it,’ but that would make me sound really mean.
‘Shame,’ he says. ‘Maybe some other time.’
‘Maybe,’ I say.
‘See you around, then.’ He smiles and turns and I watch him walk out of the cafe.
I feel gutted. And, once again, I’ve got no one to blame but myself.
Chapter 21
KOKO
Last night, Fieldstar launched their brand new album at KOKO with a one-off gig. People queued around the block from five in the morning, camping out, hoping that they would be lucky enough to buy one of the small number of public tickets available. Everybody else was on the guest list: friends and family, rock stars, TV presenters and footballers, as well as journalists and people from Fieldstar’s record company. It was a real dress-up occasion, like a film première, and Isabella looked incredible, in a beautiful sea-green silk dress. Guests drank free champagne and cocktails and ate mini burgers in toy-sized buns, or tiny portions of fish and chips from cardboard cones. Afterwards, there was a big party, which went on until three a.m. There are still empty bottles and bits of tinsel littering the streets around KOKO. Everybody is saying it was the event of the year, if not the decade. Then again, they always say that, don’t they?
Maybe he’s just a really good actor, but you’d never have guessed that Rufus had any troubles. He even made a joke about his ‘problem’ and announced that he was setting up the ‘Rufus Justice Sleepwalking Foundation’ to raise money for research into sleep disorders. Fieldstar played a stonking set and their new album tracks went down a treat with the audience. The critics loved them too. One journalist blogged, Tonight saw the birth of a classic album from Britain’s best-loved band.
But the best moment of all was when Rufus unveiled the new album, on stage, and said it was called The Tarantula. Guess what: the sleeve features Dad’s painting, The Quiet Death of the Tarantula. Dad is so proud. And I’m so proud of him. His little squiggle of a signature is there, in the corner, on every copy. Fieldstar have put the album out on vinyl, as well as on CD and download, so true fans will be able to see Dad’s work on a proper scale. Dad says that Rufus liked his original ideas for the album cover but kept coming back to the Tarantula painting, which Dad brought round to show him after Rufus had admired a photo of it on his phone. ‘It has such power, such tranquility,’ he told Dad. ‘I think we all feel like that tarantula, dying quietly on the beach, don’t we?’
I have absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Still, who cares? Dad is so happy he looks like he’s going to burst. This may only be the second painting he’s ever sold, and Mum says he shouldn’t have done another ‘mates rates’ deal with Rufus, but it’s going to be seen by millions of people, all over the world. My dad is going to be famous. Kind of.
I can’t tell you how much I wish I could have been there last night to see it all, to be part of it. But I didn’t go to KOKO. I only know what happened because I’ve read some of it on the internet and Vix has filled me in on the rest. I didn’t go because yesterday morning, I woke up and, for the first time in my life, I was one hundred per cent certain of what I had to do. I had my plan C.
‘Muuuuuum,’ I called out, in a cracking voice. ‘I don’t feel well. Please come.’ I wrapped myself up tight in my duvet and tried to lo
ok sweaty and pale.
Mum came in, looking concerned, in her officious doctor’s way. ‘What’s wrong, Rosie?’
‘I feel awful,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a terrible fever and my muscles hurt, and I’ve got a headache and a cough, and the runs, and I’m all sweaty too. And then I go all cold.’ Those are the symptoms of a disease that Katy Kay, from my favourite girl band, Proud Girls, had when she came back from Africa. I remember reading about them.
‘Sounds like you’re a bit flu-y’, Mum said, suspiciously. ‘Unusual in August. But possible. You’re probably just coming down with a cold.’
‘Oh no, it’s not a cold. It’s much worse than that,’ I whined. I remembered some of the other symptoms. ‘My eyes hurt and I’ve got a bit of a rash too.’
‘Let me look.’ She opened the duvet and I did my best impression of a shiver. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘My joints hurt too.’
‘Rosie, I’m sure you don’t feel well, but I think you’ve been reading my medical encyclopaedia again. You’ve just listed all the symptoms of dengue fever.’
‘Yes, that’s it. That’s what I’ve got.’ That’s exactly what Katy Kay had! I remembered. She was bitten by a mosquito on holiday, and that’s what caused it.
‘I’ve been bitten by a mosquito,’ I said. ‘Look.’ I showed Mum a little midge bite on my leg. ‘This must be it. I got bitten on Primrose Hill the other day.’
She sighed. ‘Rosie, you can’t get dengue fever in England, and certainly not on Primrose Hill. It’s a tropical disease. The mosquitoes here don’t carry it.’
‘What about climate change?’ I asked. ‘It’s been a very hot summer.’
‘It’s not dengue fever,’ said Mum. ‘Believe me. But I’ll take your temperature anyway, just to be sure you are OK.’