The Celeb Next Door

by Hilary Freeman

  ‘No, I leeve here wiz my boyfriend.’ Isabella gives me a knowing look, which says, ‘Who are you trying to kid? You and I both know who my boyfriend is.’

  I blush. I hope she doesn’t think I’m just another groupie, desperate for a glimpse of Rufus. She sighs loudly and leads me into the hall. Through the open door of the living room I catch a glimpse of him and my butterflies flap wildly in my tummy. ‘Oh!’ I say, pretending to be surprised. ‘Is that your boyfriend?’ My voice is all squeaky with excitement.

  Isabella nods. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Vould you like to meet heem?’

  ‘Could I? I mean, if it’s all right? I mean, yes please.’

  Isabella nods again. She shows me into the living room and leaves me there, before disappearing upstairs. Rufus doesn’t look up. He’s sitting on the edge of an enormous cream sofa, holding a Wii Nunchuk and staring hard at a huge plasma TV. He’s gorgeous, I think, although maybe not quite as gorgeous as he is in the poster on my bedroom wall. On my wall he’s had a shave. And he isn’t wearing brown socks with holes in.

  I wait a moment for him to notice me but he doesn’t budge. Bravely, I walk right up to him. ‘I’m Rosie Buttery, your new next-door neighbour,’ I say. My legs are shaky and I hope he can’t tell. God knows why, but I’ve got a stupid urge to hum one of Fieldstar’s songs, which is playing over and over in my head.

  ‘Hi, Rosie, nice to meet you,’ says Rufus, who can’t ignore me now that I’m standing right in front of him. He puts down his Nunchuk and holds out his hand, palm upwards. He doesn’t introduce himself; it’s clear he assumes that everyone he meets already knows his name.

  I’m not sure if he wants to shake my hand or give me a high-five, so we end up doing this embarrassing kind of half clap, half holding hands thing. I blush even more. But it doesn’t seem to bother Rufus.

  ‘Um, er, so how are you?’ I ask. ‘Oh yeah, and welcome to our street.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Rufus, grinning. He doesn’t ask me anything, so I stand there like an idiot, waiting. I’ve always wondered if Rufus Justice is a stage name. Now, it’s the only thing I can think about – the rest of my brain is a giant void.‘So is Rufus Justice your real name?’ I blurt out.

  He smirks. ‘Yes, it’s one hundred per cent real. My parents are Mr and Mrs Justice. I was christened Rufus.’ He stares at me intensely. ‘Is Buttery your real name? Buttery! Surely not.’

  I turn even redder, if that’s possible. ‘Yeah, honestly. It’s a super-old English name from, like, when the Normans invaded in 1066. I googled it once. My family fought at the Battle of Hastings and everything.’

  ‘Oh, cool,’ says Rufus. His eyes twinkle and he grins naughtily, as if he’s just had the most incredible, original thought. ‘Hey,’ he says, pointing at me, ‘I can’t believe it’s not buttery!’ He laughs at his own joke.

  I’m not laughing. If your name is Buttery, you hear this type of thing all the time. But, as it’s the Rufus Justice, I smile and say, ‘Funny. Clever. Very good.’

  ‘Lucky your parents didn’t call you Marge … Hey, now I’m – no you’re – on a roll!’

  I’ve heard both of these before too. A million times. I force a smile. Dad always tells me that if you can’t beat them, you should join them. So I say, ‘Now, you’re spreading the joke a little thin,’ and giggle.

  He doesn’t get it, or maybe he just isn’t listening. ‘Well, I’d better get going Ms Buttery,’ he says.‘Things to do.’ He points in the direction of his Wii console.

  ‘Oh right, yes, sure.’ Is that it? I want to say, ‘Can I have your number?’ or,‘Maybe we could hang out,’like I would to any normal new friend or neighbour, but he’s a rock star, and it doesn’t seem appropriate. Instead I say, ‘Right, see you around,’ and, when he doesn’t move, I head into the hall to see myself out.

  The walls are still the same muddy colour that the Robsons painted them. Not a rock star’s style at all, I think. I’m already opening the front door when I have an idea. It’s a quite brilliant idea. Steeling myself, I turn around and walk straight back into the room I’ve just left. ‘Er, sorry to bother you,’ I mumble. Rufus is engrossed in his game, manically banging away on his games console. It’s a drumming game, and it’s very noisy. ‘Er, ahem,’ I say again, a little louder. I clear my throat. ‘Excuse me.’

  Rufus taps out a little drum roll, just like he does on stage, and turns to face me.‘Yes?’ he says. He looks mildly annoyed. ‘I was just winning there, although,’ he boasts, ‘I should do, given that I helped design the game.’

  ‘Wow!’ I splutter, remembering just how famous he is. He’s only the best drummer in the country. ‘Um, I’m sorry to bother you again. It’s just that I couldn’t help noticing your walls ... In case you wanted them painting. My dad’s a painter and decorator, you see, and he could give you a really good price, and he’s just next door …’

  ‘Yeah?’ says Rufus. ‘I have already got some quotes.’

  ‘I’m sure he could beat them all. He’s really cheap. And he’s really good, a proper artist. Plus he really likes Fieldstar. He could even paint in your logo if you want.’ I cringe. Maybe that was going a bit far.

  ‘I do need someone quickly,’ he says. He seems more interested now.‘To tell you the truth, the walls here make me want to puke. I was hoping to get it all done before I moved in, but what with the new album and everything … Anyway, tell him to pop over later and we’ll chat about it.’

  Dad is busy on another job but he’s always saying he can’t afford to turn down work, and I can usually twist him around my little finger.‘Cool,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  I give Rufus a little wave and practically skip into the hall. There’s no sign of Isabella, so I shout ‘Bye, then’ and let myself out. It’s only when I’ve shut the front door behind me that it strikes me I have completely forgotten about Charlie’s football. What a shame. Now I’ll have to go back and get it.

  Chapter 5

  Paint Pots and Uggs

  ‘Great news, Dad … I’ve, er, sort of said you’d paint Rufus’s house,’ I say, nervously, when I come back in. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Oh, and that you’d do it cheap. He wants you to go around with a quote.’

  ‘Ooh, yes,’ says Dad, without hesitation. It turns out I don’t have to do any twisting – of tales, arms, or around fingers – at all. Dad isn’t in the slightest bit angry. Quite the opposite. ‘I’d love to,’ he says. His other job is practically finished and he’s almost as keen as me to meet Rufus.

  ‘Working for a celebrity would be wonderful,’ he says. ‘My work could end up in one of those At Home With features in a magazine. And then, maybe, Mick Jagger will call on my services.’

  Mum always calls Dad a ‘great big stupid kid’ which I suppose he is. But Mum says it like it’s a bad thing, which it isn’t. Mum was born sensible, born boring, and I can’t believe she was ever a kid, let alone a teenager. She probably enjoyed doing her homework and sent herself to bed at nine p.m. with a mug of cocoa and a Latin textbook. How Mum and Dad ever got together is a mystery – and I’d prefer to keep it that way.

  ‘Great, Dad,’ I say. ‘I think he’ll like you.’

  When Dad returns from Rufus’s house, he looks triumphant. ‘I’m starting on Monday,’ he announces. ‘I’m going to decorate the whole of the downstairs. He loved all of my ideas.’

  Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘You mean you’re charging too little again? Underselling yourself?’

  ‘No,’ says Dad. ‘I just offered him a better price than his other quotes. Call it mates’ rates if you like.’ He winks at me.

  Mum frowns. ‘If he can afford that house at today’s prices he must be a millionaire,’ she says, exasperated. ‘He doesn’t need a discount. And, anyway, he’s not your mate. You’ve only met him once, about five minutes ago.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ mutters Dad under his breath. ‘Well, he might well become a mate. And he already is our next-door
neighbour. You never know when you’ll need somebody to watch the place or feed the cat when you’re on holiday.’

  ‘But we don’t have a cat,’ says Mum.

  ‘Technicality,’ says Dad. ‘We might have one, one day.’

  ‘I don’t want a cat, I want a dog!’ says Charlie. ‘Please can we get a dog?’

  Mum shakes her head, vigorously. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  ‘Pleeeeeeaaaase …’ cries Charlie.

  ‘No!’ says Mum. ‘And that’s the end of it.’

  Charlie sulks and pouts. ‘It’s not fair,’ he says, folding his arms.

  ‘Sorry, little fellow,’ says Dad. ‘But life’s not fair sometimes.’

  It’s Dad’s favourite saying. If life were fair, he often tells me, he’d have his paintings hanging in the Tate Modern and Arsenal would win the Premiership title every year.

  When I set off for school on Monday morning, I’m gutted I’m not going to work with Dad instead, to start the decorating at Rufus’s house. I’ve never had any desire to help him before but, suddenly, the idea of carrying buckets of water or helping to strip wallpaper seems strangely appealing.

  ‘I could be your assistant,’ I say. It’s the third time I’ve tried this ploy. ‘It would be good work experience. Don’t you think?’

  Dad shakes his head. He promises that I can come along after school for an hour, as long as I make myself useful and do my homework immediately afterwards. Sky, who is still a bit miffed I went and met Rufus without her, can come too, on condition that she also helps, and that we don’t bother Rufus. I also invite Vix, who says she might pop in, if she has the time.

  I can’t think – or talk – about anything else all day. ‘So what do you think I should wear?’ I ask Vix during lunch break. ‘I don’t want to get paint on any of my favourite clothes, but I can’t go round to Rufus’s house wearing my oldest jeans and a baggy top, can I? Especially not when Isabella is likely to walk in at any moment, looking chic and perfect.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Vix. She sounds exasperated. To be fair, I have asked her ten times already. ‘You’re going to help your dad paint, not going to a gig or a party. You always look nice, anyway.’

  Yeah, I know, but it’s Rufus Justice. I’ve seen a lovely painter’s smock in the market that would be perfect …’

  ‘He might not even be there.’

  ‘He will be,’ I say. He’d better be!

  I’m out of the school gates the second school ends, like a horse starting the Grand National, but with much glossier hair (I’ve been coating it with anti-frizz serum all day) and shorter legs. Vix can hardly keep up with me. ‘Slow down,’ she says. ‘I’m getting a stitch!’

  ‘Sorry, Vix. I’m just dying to talk to Rufus again. And I’ve got to go home, get changed, get over there, help Dad and do my homework, all before dinner. Are you sure you don’t want to come?’

  Vix sighs. All right, I’ll come for a few minutes. But I won’t stay. I’m not sure how Rufus will feel about having half the street in his house.’

  ‘He’s used to crowds. He’s a rock star, remember. Don’t be shy, Vix.’

  ‘I’m not shy.’

  It’s true, Vix isn’t shy – not once you get her talking. She’s just quieter than me, or Sky. Less excitable and more thoughtful. That’s one of the things that makes her such a good friend.

  Half an hour later, Sky, Vix and I are all standing on Rufus’s doorstep. I’m wearing my favourite skinny jeans and my birthday party top. It’s already decorated in paint-like daubs of colour, which will act like camouflage if I spill any actual paint on it. And, anyway, it’s time I bought a new one. Sky is in a clingy jersey dress, while Vix has turned up in her sensible school clothes, which annoys me a little bit, although I don’t say anything. It’s just that I don’t want Rufus to think of us as silly schoolkids.

  ‘Here goes, then,’ I say, my finger on the doorbell. The butterflies in my tummy aren’t quite as frantic as last time but I feel shaky at the thought of seeing Rufus again. Sky can hardly contain herself. She’s hopping from foot to foot like a toddler who needs the toilet.

  The door opens. It’s Dad. Sky looks disappointed.

  ‘Hello, girls,’ he says. ‘Welcome to Chez Rufus.’ He leads us into the hall. The entire downstairs of the house is covered with dust sheets, and there are paint pots, brushes and rollers everywhere. ‘There’s not much for you to do today,’ he says. ‘You can help me test out some colours on the wall. See what works best.’ He checks out our outfits and smirks. ‘OK, girls, I’ve got some overalls you can wear to protect your clothes.’

  We hear someone padding down the stairs, and Rufus appears. He’s wearing his dressing gown – at four p.m. –and Ugg boots, which looks ridiculous. ‘Everything all right, Bob?’ he asks. Bob? Nobody calls my dad Bob. He’s always Robert, or Robbie, if you’re Grandma.

  Dad nods. ‘It’s all going swimmingly, Rufus.’ He gestures to us. ‘I’d like you to meet my little team of helpers. My daughter Rosie, you’ve met. These are her friends, Sky and Victoria. They also live on this street.’

  Sky gawks at Rufus, open–mouthed. Vix holds out her hand, and Rufus shakes it. ‘It’s Vix,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘Nice to meet you both,’ he says. He winks at me and my tummy does a little somersault. ‘Right, I’ll let you all get on. Have fun, girls.’Then he pads back upstairs again.

  ‘You can close your mouth now, Sky,’ I say. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘That really was Rufus Justice.

  He’s even more gorgeous in the flesh.’

  Apart from the Uggs, I think.

  Isabella comes out of the kitchen and pops her head around the door.‘Vood you girls like some dreenks?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Sky, gazing up at her in awe. ‘I’ve got a really dry mouth.’

  ‘Hey, let me help you,’says Vix. She follows Isabella into the kitchen.

  About ten minutes later, Vix comes back in, carrying a tray of glasses filled with orange squash and ice cubes. ‘I think I’m going to head home now,’ she says.

  ‘Already? You were ages,’ I say. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Talking to Isabella.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m surprised. ‘What about?’

  ‘She’s from the Czech Republic. Remember, I went there on holiday, last year? We were talking about what a beautiful city Prague is, and she was telling me all these places to go, the ones that tourists don’t know about.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘And she was telling me about her work. It was interesting.’

  ‘Is she a model? I guess she must be.’

  ‘No, she hates that – everyone always assumes she is. She’s training to be a teacher. She came over here to learn English and got a job as an au pair for someone Rufus knows. That’s how she met him.’

  ‘I didn’t realise.’

  Vix shrugs.‘She’s really nice, actually. You should talk to her.’

  ‘Sure,’ I tell her. But I’d much rather talk to Rufus. If I get the chance.

  Chapter 6

  An Exciting Proposition

  Over the next two weeks, I spend at least an hour at Rufus’s house every afternoon, and sometimes a couple of hours at the weekend too. Each day, before my eyes, the house is transforming into a pad fit for a rock star, with shiny cream paintwork (some of it, mine), polished floorboards and plush carpets.

  I’m surprised at how well Dad and Rufus get on. Surprised and, if I’m honest, a bit jealous. Rufus is always popping in to chat – he doesn’t seem to do much when he’s at home – but instead of talking to me, he talks to Dad. They share so many interests: art and old cars and music. Rufus likes bands from the Seventies, from way before he was born, the bands that Dad’s always trying to get me to listen to. Maybe I should look past the flares and the silly hairstyles and give them a chance.

  It’s quite difficult to talk to Rufus. We don’t have much in common, apart from the
fact we both like talking about Rufus Justice. I’m beginning to think he doesn’t find me very interesting. He treats me like his kid sister, teasing me and even calling me ‘Butterbean’ (cringe) or worse,‘Kiddo’, which is not how I want to be thought of at all. Not by anyone, but especially not by him. Of course, I don’t tell anybody else this. At school, everyone thinks that Rufus and I are practically best mates. I’ve got a long list of people who want his autograph, which is kind of embarrassing, and even the girls who barely spoke to me before suddenly want to be my friend. People keep asking me for juicy gossip about him too. I always tell them it wouldn’t be fair to reveal his secrets but the truth is, I don’t know any! Not unless you count the fact he wears Uggs around the house, and that he loves watching stupid quiz programmes on TV. Yes, the biggest surprise about Rufus is that he’s turned out to be quite the nerd.

  By the end of term, the work is almost finished. There’s very little for me to do now, except watch paint dry. Literally. Still, I keep coming round. I can’t keep away because I like being part of Rufus’s world, even if I’m not really his friend, and I still haven’t met the other band members. Plus, I’m angling for tickets to some of the summer festivals. Fieldstar is playing them all this year. Maybe, if I’m really, really good, Mum and Dad will let me go to one of them.

  On the very last Saturday of the job, Sky comes with me to see how great the house is looking now. Every room, including the hall, has been plastered, papered and painted and Dad is just applying the finishing touches, adding a fresh coat of paint here, or a brushstroke there. Soon it will be time to hang up the pictures and the mirrors and to put the furniture back. Then Rufus will be able to bring his Wii downstairs again and perch on his favourite sofa, and I won’t have any more reasons to come around. Not unless I’m invited, that is.

  ‘Wow, it looks great,’ says Sky.‘You wouldn’t recognise the place from when you started.’

  ‘I know,’ I agree. ‘If the Robsons came in the front door now, they’d think they’d got the wrong house.’