‘I’m glad you like it,’ says Dad, proudly. He puts down his paintbrush and wipes his hands on his overalls. ‘Now I’m just going to pop out for a tea break. Back in five.’
‘OK, Dad,’ I say. I turn to Sky. I’ve been dying to ask her this … ‘What the hell are you wearing?’ She has on this hideous, floaty, peach dress that makes her look both twice as wide as she is and half as tall. ‘Didn’t your mum give you that for your birthday last year? I thought you hated it.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I loathe it. It’s a monstrosity. Mum asked me why I hadn’t worn it lately. So I put it on today, just to please her. Well, that’s what she thinks, but really it’s because I knew I was coming round here to help. So please, please, please get as much paint, plaster and dirt on it as you can so I won’t ever have to wear it out again!’
I giggle. ‘Seriously?’ I pick up a paintbrush and, tentatively, daub a tiny smudge of red paint on Sky’s dress.
‘Yes! I mean it! More!’
‘OK!’ I go over to Dad’s toolbox and grab the largest brush I can find. I wave it at Sky, before dunking it into the pot and flicking it as hard as I can. Now there are splotches of red all over her monstrous dress, in her hair, even on her nose. Sky giggles and gets another brush, dipping it into the same pot. She comes at me with the brush, splattering paint across my overalls, and swiping a swatch right across my cheek.
‘I can’t believe you just did that!’ I say. ‘This is war!’ I take my brush and paint a line straight down the middle of Sky’s nose, daubing a bindi-like splot between her eyes.
Sky grins mischievously, and comes at me again, wielding the paintbrush like a knife. She makes two precise stabbing motions at my chest, leaving large, uneven circles on the breast pockets of my overalls.‘Nice nips,’ she says. We’re laughing so much we can hardly breathe. I think I’m going to wet myself. Sky is doubled over, clutching her tummy. ‘It hurts,’ she says, panting. ‘You look so funny!’
‘You should see yourself,’ I tell her.‘Ha ha ha ha ha … Hell! Oh no! Oh bum!’ I’ve just noticed the wall, the wall that only this morning has been freshly painted in a last coat of cream matt emulsion. Now there are blossom-like splashes of red paint right across it, bleeding downwards to the floor. ‘Oh! My! God! Dad’s going to kill us! Where’s the cream paint? I’d better go over it again, quickly! Or will that just make it go pink? Bum! What shall I do?’
But before I can do anything, Rufus saunters in. ‘Nice,’ he says, glancing at the walls. ‘I especially like the red accents.’ He looks at me, and then at Sky, and smiles, wryly.‘They look pretty fetching on you too.’ Sky blushes – although it’s hard to tell, under all that red paint. ‘Your dad didn’t mention that idea, but actually, I quite like it. It’s very abstract, kind of expressionistic.’
‘Really?’ I say. I can never tell when Rufus is being sarcastic.
Yes, if you look at it a certain way it appears almost oriental. Clearly the creative gene runs in your family, Ms Buttery. I think your dad is a creative genius, far too good to be decorating houses. He showed me some of his paintings. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, but this room has helped make my mind up. When he gets back, I’m going to ask him if he’d like to design our next album cover for us.’
Oh my God. Dad is going to be over the moon. He’s always wanted to see his work on the front of an album. He’d prefer it to be on an old style, twelve-inch record, but a CD cover is almost as good. And sometimes Fieldstar do put out their albums on vinyl. ‘He’ll be dead chuffed,’ I say.
‘And while you’re here, there’s something I wanted to ask you too. A favour.’
My tummy lurches. What is he going to ask me? To keep on coming round even when the painting’s finished because he’ll miss me? To be his stylist? To sing backing vocals with Fieldstar?
‘My little brother is coming to stay for the summer holidays,’ he says.‘I think he’s around the same age as you, probably a bit older. How old are you, again, thirteen?’
That’s mortifying. ‘I’m fourteen,’ I say. I want to add, And three-quarters, actually,’ but I know that will make me sound even more like a little kid to Rufus.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Max is fifteen. So that’s cool. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind looking after him, showing him around and stuff. I thought you could hang out together, take him wherever it is that you and your friends go. Would that be OK?’
Sky shoots me a jealous look. ‘You lucky cow,’ she mouths.
‘Sure,’ I say, without hesitation. ‘I’d love to.’ I’m already picturing Max. I imagine he’s a mini version of Rufus, shorter and maybe not quite as muscular, but with the same sharp features, the same unruly mop. Like Rufus, he is bound to be gorgeous and incredibly talented. I can’t wait to meet him.
‘Cool,’ says Rufus. ‘Gets him out of my hair, so I appreciate it. He’s coming next Saturday afternoon. I’ll give you a bell when he arrives.’
Chapter 7
Meeting Max Justice
Max, it turns out, is nothing like Rufus. Nothing at all. He’s standing on my doorstep now, a huge grin on his face, looking at me expectantly. I peer at him, studying his features and measuring them against Rufus’s using an invisible ruler, the way Dad says he does when he’s painting a portrait. They couldn’t look more different, which is weird, seeing as they’re brothers and must share some DNA. Max has darker eyes and thicker, curlier hair, and his face is rounder, his nose squidgier. Nobody would ever guess they are related. Unless Max is adopted, or Mrs Justice took the wrong baby home from the hospital … but that’s not something you can ask about on your first meeting with someone, is it? I haven’t even said ‘hello’ yet.
I clear my throat and try not to sound disappointed. ‘Oh hi, I’m Rosie.’
He can’t tell. He’s still grinning inanely at me ‘Hi, Rosie, I’m Max. It’s great to meet you.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
‘I like your street.’
‘Thanks.’ I relax. He seems friendly, warm, easy-going. ‘So what do you want to do?’ Rufus’s only instructions have been to ‘look after him for me’ – that’s six weeks I have to fill, starting right now. ‘I could show you the sights or we could just hang out here for a bit. Or go for a coffee, or whatever. Your choice.’
‘I want to see Camden Town,’ he says. ‘I’ve never been here before. You can give me a guided tour. If that’s OK.’
‘Sure,’ I say, brightening. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s Camden. ‘Where do you want to start?’
‘The market, I guess. I’ve heard it’s really cool.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Which one? There’s actually six of them … I’ll show you.’We start to walk. You’ve really never been?’ I’m astonished. Hasn’t everyone been to Camden Market? It’s only one of the biggest tourist attractions in London. When I go on holiday to France or Spain, and I tell people where I’m from, they’ve always heard of it and they’re usually really impressed. ‘Where have you been hanging out all this time?’
‘Kent,’ he says. ‘I’ve been meaning to visit; I’ve just never got around to it. Although some of my mates have been at weekends. I couldn’t wait for Rufus to move down, so I could come and stay.’
We’re turning into Camden Road now, passing the takeaways where Mum occasionally allows me to buy dinner, and the newsagent and the skateboard shop and Camden Road railway station, which is hardly ever open because they’re always doing engineering works on the line. It’s a fine day and the tables outside the Grand Union bar are busy with friends meeting for an early lunch, or a late breakfast. A few metres along is the pharmacy, where most of Mum’s patients pick up their prescriptions, and then there’s Swanky Hair Design, the hairdresser where Dad gets his hair cut, and where Rufus has – on his recommendation – started going too. It’s not unusual to walk past, peer through the glass frontage and see an actor or musician sitting in one of the barber’s chairs. I’m not sure if these places are worth pointing
out to Max. They’re landmarks to me, but probably not of any interest to a visitor. I glance at Max. He’s not really looking at the street. He’s focusing on me. It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.
‘So how come you’re down here for the whole holidays?’
‘My parents are going away to Italy for the summer. They’ve got a villa there. I usually tag along but it gets really boring, and so they said I could stay at Rufus’s this year, now that he’s got a proper house with a spare room – or three.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Do you get on well?’
‘Yeah, although he’s six years older, so it’s not like we’ve hung out together much. By the time I started secondary school, he was practically leaving home.’
‘I’m a lot older than my brother too,’ I tell him. I don’t say that I can’t ever imagine wanting to spend my summer holidays with Charlie.‘Hey, so what’s it like having a rock star as a brother?’
Max shrugs. ‘I dunno, he’s just Rufus to me. My big brother. He’s been playing in bands ever since I can remember.’
‘Yeah, but it must be weird, seeing him on TV and in magazines, having groupies around all the time. It must be exciting.’
‘I guess. But I don’t know any different, do I? I do get a bit hacked off when people only want to get to know me as a way of getting to him. It happens a lot.’
‘I bet,’ I say, guiltily.
‘I can always tell now.’
Yeah?’ Oh God, I think, does he suspect me? Does he think I’m only spending time with him over the holidays because he’s Rufus’s brother? Because that’s almost the truth: I wouldn’t have given up my plans so easily for anyone else. I change the subject, quickly. ‘So, er, do you play in a band?’
‘Nah.’ Max laughs. ‘I had a go on Rufus’s drums once, but I was hopeless. Couldn’t keep in rhythm. I didn’t get anywhere with a guitar, either, even though I had lessons for a while. I guess Rufus got all the musical talent in our family.’
‘Oh,’ I say. He really is nothing like his brother. ‘So what do you like doing?’
‘Reading graphic novels. And skateboarding.’
‘There’s a cool skateboard shop I can take you too, just off Camden Road. We passed it a minute ago. And if you head up towards Holloway, there’s a skate park too.’
‘Yeah, Rufus told me. I can’t wait to see it.’
‘Hmm, maybe another day,’ I say, thinking better of it. I’ve never been on a skateboard in my life. I tried roller skates once, for a few minutes. Six long weeks later, they finally removed the plaster cast from my arm.
‘So what do you like doing?’ he asks.
‘Listening to music, going to the market, going to gigs – when I’m allowed. That kind of thing. Spending time with my friends mostly. I’ll have to introduce you to them.’
‘Sure,’ says Max. ‘That would be nice.’
Now we’re coming into Camden Town proper, just approaching the tube station. ‘See there,’ I say, pointing to my right, at the ugliest building you could imagine. ‘That’s Sainsbury’s. It’s hideous, isn’t it? But apparently, it was built by some famous architect. I’ve seen tourists here with guidebooks, taking pictures of it. Weird, huh?’
Max nods. ‘I couldn’t even tell you what my local supermarket looks like.’
‘And there, on your left, is the World’s End pub, which is always full of students and, underneath it, The Underworld. Loads of bands play there, especially goth ones.’ I’m beginning to enjoy myself now, feeling like a proper tour guide. All I need is one of those big umbrellas, and I could start charging tourists for this … ‘There’s the station …We need to cross the road now. Careful …This is called Britannia Junction. It’s just a crossroads, but it’s mentioned in a song by that guy from Blur. That’s the Electric Ballroom, another venue.’
‘Hasn’t Rufus played there?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. A couple of years ago, before Fieldstar got really big. I was too young to go then. Ah, here’s where the market starts. This is actually called Camden Market, it’s the modern bit. It’s good for T-shirts and stuff. Want to look?’
‘Sure,’ says Max. ‘If it’s OK with you. I could do with a new T-shirt.’
‘Course. You’d better stick close. It’s really crowded.’
‘Will do,’ says Max. He grins at me.
We walk around slowly, stopping to pause at the occasional stall. They’re all selling the same things: T-shirts emblazoned with band names and logos, old leather jackets and jewellery from India. ‘The other markets are better, I think,’ I say, apologising. But Max seems really excited, even a bit overwhelmed. I think it’s sweet. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to see Camden with fresh eyes. I have to remind myself that most people have boring high streets, with the same old chain stores and mobile phone shops. Of course, Camden has those too, but they’re mostly the other way, towards Mornington Crescent.
‘What do you think of that T-shirt?’ he asks. He’s pointing to a stall selling tops with comic book heroes on them. ‘The blue Judge Dredd one that’s hanging at the front?’
I don’t have a clue who Judge Dredd is, and I don’t much like the T-shirt Max has chosen (it’s got a weird man with a mask on it), but I’m not going to tell him that. ‘Looks good,’ I say.‘How much?’
‘Only a fiver. I think I’m going to get it.’ He asks the stallholder to fetch it down for him so he can try it on, then goes behind a makeshift curtain to undress. He comes out a few seconds later, wearing the T-shirt. It’s a bit big for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. ‘What do you think, Rosie?’
‘It looks great.’ It does suit him. I wait while he pays. ‘Shall we move on up the road?’
Max nods, enthusiastically. I can tell he’s having a good time by the way he’s swinging his arms and humming softly to himself as he walks along.
‘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.’
Ma
x 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.