Read My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend Online
Authors: Eleanor Wood
jackson_e_griffith
Chew, seriously – stop feeding the trolls. Just ignore this guy and he’ll go away.
seymour_brown
relax, dude . . . I know my reputation precedes me but it ain’t all true! I’m just hangin out. I don’t mean any harm. Peace –
JEG.
jackson_e_griffith
I can’t believe it. I literally cannot believe it. I am sitting on the sofa with my laptop, drinking Nesquik and eating a peanut-butter sandwich with the TV on –
the usual afternoon routine before my mum gets in from work – and suddenly the world has gone completely mental. This has got to be a joke.
I have just received an email from ‘Jackson Evan Griffith’, sent from his personal email address, no less. The guy who has been leaving comments on my blog and, according to the
stats, looking at it most days. It’s Jackson Griffith. It’s really him.
It even begins ‘Dear Tuesday’. It dawns on me that I now have Jackson Griffith’s personal email address.
I know how unlikely this sounds – and that I sound like a totally gullible fangirl – but, against all odds, I’m pretty sure it must be him. Not only because his style of
writing does actually sound like a Sour Apple song – and I should know because I’ve listened to them all enough times. Not only because he explains to me that he has just moved from New
York to LA, via hospitalization for ‘exhaustion’ – I know this is true, but then so does pretty much everyone who reads the tabloids and/or music websites. Not only because he has
sent me a list of random, personal facts about himself, like that his favourite fruits are bananas and avocados (‘they’re a fruit, you know!’ he tells me helpfully), he prefers
dogs to cats, drives an ancient blue Jeep, hates anchovies on pizzas and is currently reading
Infinite Jest
by Dave Foster Wallace.
No, I can be fairly certain that it’s him because of the slightly out-of-focus selfie attached. It is a bit grainy and obviously taken in a hurry, but it is most definitely Jackson
Griffith of Sour Apple. It’s a slightly different Jackson Griffith to the one I’m used to seeing in the papers, but this somehow makes it more authentic – he’s got a bit of
a beard and is wearing a burgundy beanie hat and a ratty old sweatshirt. He looks tired and a little bit baggy around the eyes – but he is half-smiling and still looks young for his age, even
though I know he is now twenty-three, no longer the teenage golden boy of pop music. In the background I can see an empty-looking room; an open laptop is resting on the wooden floorboards and
it’s displaying my blog.
In case I still didn’t believe him, he is holding an American driver’s licence, which even in the blurry photo I can make out is in the name ‘Jackson Evan Griffith’ and
bears a picture of him. A picture within a picture, as if he stretches into infinity.
Despite this exciting piece of evidence, my gaze is drawn first not to this important official document, but to the famous blue eyes, the sandy surfer-boy hair only half hidden by the hat, the
lanky build that’s easy to make out even in a head-and-shoulders shot, the mischievous look on his face . . . It’s a few minutes before I am able tear my eyes away and minimize the
window, going back to the email itself.
He goes on to say:
‘if you still don’t think that I am me, you can call my agent Sadie Steinbeck – I’m sure in this modern world you can look up all the details. I
don’t know why I care so much whether you believe me or not. I don’t usually go to this much effort where girls are concerned. Not being arrogant, but you don’t have to if
you’ve been in a famous band since you were eighteen years old. Anyway, for some reason, I do care. I guess it’s because I like your writing, and I think you’re funny and cute.
That’s pretty rare in my world these days.’
I have to deep breathe for a few minutes. My eyes start swimming as in a daze I see he’s signed it:
‘I hope I haven’t gone too far and freaked you out by getting in touch,
I was only playing, but I remain yours etc., JEG x’.
Slowly and carefully, I bite down on the side of my index finger as hard as I can, really sinking my teeth in until it hurts. Pulling away, I observe the deep purple-red tooth-marks and wipe off
the gross sheen of saliva. I suppose this is real then. I laugh out loud in the empty room.
I switch off the TV so that I can concentrate, and start typing a reply. My brain is spinning so fast that I can’t think my words through too carefully. I probably sound like a complete
moron, but I’m not going to start changing my style now that I know he’s a real pop star. Not only that, but a real pop star who I had a poster of on my bedroom wall when I was thirteen
years old.
I hurriedly finish up – not even thinking about how my spelling and grammar are doing with my wobbly hands – with:
‘I’ve got to be honest, I never expected Jackson
Griffith as a pen pal – but I’m seriously thrilled that you like my writing. Maybe I can send you some interview questions and we could do a special feature on my blog; bet it’s
always been your dream to appear on a random girl’s website with a readership of approximately four (five now, including you) – welcome to the big time. Anyway, got to go – this
peanut-butter sandwich isn’t going to eat itself, and I *do* have some glamorous English lit revision to do – but I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance or whatever. All very
best, Tuesday (yes, that is my real name!) Cooper. PS I don’t want to say ‘I love your work’ but, um, I really do – and my mum would kill me if I didn’t mention that
she does too. Seriously, thanks for getting in touch – means a lot. Txx.’
I hit send before I can think about the ramifications. As soon as I’ve done it, the voices of doubt start to creep in: mostly Seymour telling me that this is just some random nutter who
somehow Photoshopped a picture of the real Jackson Griffith – probably some obese middle-aged weirdo who lives with his mum in Bournemouth or something. It’s not only Seymour though
– I know that Nishi would be telling me to stop being an idiot. Probably in a much louder voice than Seymour’s.
So I distract myself with the obvious thing to do at this juncture. I start Googling Jackson Griffith. I look at pages and pages of photos of him – looking just like he does in the photo
that he sent especially to me; a bit glossier in his official promotional pictures; quite a lot messier in paparazzi snaps from the worst of the gossip magazines. Always, I have to admit, looking
unfairly, preternaturally gorgeous, in the way that only the famous and genetically blessed would be able to dream of.
Seeing multiple versions of his face actually makes this whole weird situation feel less rather than more real. He looks like another species. So I shut it down and go to his Wikipedia page to
remind me of the hard facts. Most of it is pretty familiar by now, to me as well as to so many other people.
Jackson Griffith was born in the prosperous town of New Canaan, Connecticut, the youngest son of an ex-model and a banker
– seems a most unfair advantage, that combination as a start, I reckon.
His parents divorced acrimoniously when he was eight years old; he grew up with his mother, Gill, and three sisters. Griffith was a prodigiously talented
guitarist from a young age. Despite a well-documented misspent youth, he excelled at the progressive private school he attended. He had in fact started at a prestigious Ivy League college to
study anthropology, before he dropped out after one semester as his band, Sour Apple – which he formed as a teenager with two school friends – had been offered a lucrative record
contract.
Sour Apple’s first album,
Come On Over (Please Leave Quietly)
, was a worldwide hit, due to a combination of their radio-friendly ‘bubble grunge’
sound and Griffith’s pin-up good looks. Sour Apple became an overnight success, gracing every magazine cover and touring the world. Griffith in particular became known as an erratic live
performer and an eccentric, if charming, interviewee. The band were noted for their relentless touring schedule, with some industry insiders questioning their management team’s judgement
in light of the band’s youth and naivety.
Amid an international tour that would last for more than three years in total, the band released their more experimental – and, many would say, patchy –
follow-up album,
Your Friends All Hate You And So Do I.
The album failed to fulfil expectations, despite reaching number one in Spain, France and Australia. However, Sour Apple were
still considered one of the biggest bands in the world. Griffith became well known for his party lifestyle and was a familiar fixture on the celebrity social circuit, often appearing
dishevelled and the subject of many rumours regarding his unhealthy lifestyle and turbulent love life. After being linked with many renowned beauties, he unexpectedly married the French model
Célia Le Masurier in a secret ceremony after a whirlwind romance. Griffith was quoted at the time of his marriage as saying his new wife had changed his life and rescued him ‘from
a path of self-destruction and shallowness’.
Following his marriage, Griffith retreated from the public eye. He moved to the French countryside with Le Masurier and announced that Sour Apple would be taking an
indefinite hiatus. For two years he remained quiet, apparently retired from public life and enjoying his new domestic idyll. At the age of twenty-two, he was – by choice – no longer
the new face on the music scene, though many new bands continued to name Sour Apple among their influences.
Jackson Griffith returned, unexpectedly, at the Glastonbury festival in the UK the following summer. Not listed on the official billing, he invaded the stage when old
friends, the seminal Liverpool band Creation, were playing the headlining set on the Pyramid Stage. He was spotted playing a tambourine, forgot the words to his own songs when Creation’s
Noel Moore tried to instigate a duet and fell off the stage after being booed and jeered by the crowd.
By all accounts a very public meltdown ensued. Griffith hit the party scene once again with a vengeance. This time around, many started to feel that his charming persona
and boyish good looks were wearing thin. Célia Le Masurier filed for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences, following only seventeen months of marriage. Griffith broke his wrist in
a late-night brawl and announced that he could no longer play music, so he would be going on tour with Creation, as their roadie. He became a regular fixture onstage, playing various toy
instruments and singing backing vocals. His physical deterioration was evident, with fans being shocked by his appearance. After a gig in Liverpool in February, he was rushed to hospital,
although the reasons for this remain unclear and rumours that he had died were confirmed to be an Internet hoax.
Upon discharge from hospital, he sold his flat in New York and checked into a controversial therapy programme in the Philippines. His agent, Sadie Steinbeck, released a
short statement stating that her client was seeking treatment for ‘exhaustion’, and asked for privacy at this very difficult time. When Griffith returned, he moved to Los Angeles,
where – at the time of writing – he is reported as living quietly and writing an acoustic solo album. He has not made an official public appearance since his disastrous visit to the
Glastonbury festival, and sightings of him these days remain rare and largely unconfirmed.
I’m scanning the references at the bottom – lots of them, slightly worryingly, are headlined things like ‘Jackson Griffith’s public meltdown: all the
details!’ and ‘Jackson Griffith denies going on a 48-hour drinking binge with Kate Moss and Cara Delevingne’.
‘Chew, what on earth are you doing sitting in there in the dark?’
My mum’s voice brings me back to the real world with such a bump that I literally jump out of my seat. My laptop goes crashing to the floor along with my still half-eaten sandwich. I
hadn’t even noticed that it had got dark. I forgot that I switched the TV off ages ago, and the room feels weirdly quiet.
‘Chew, sweetheart – are you all right?’ Mum asks in more concerned tones when no response is forthcoming.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I reply quickly, still all discombobulated and blinking as I emerge into the bright hallway. ‘I’m fine. Totally. Just . . . I had a really tiring day at
college today, and I think I actually dropped off for a minute there while I was in the middle of my revision. Crazy, I know.’
I follow her into the kitchen, where she takes off her jacket and dumps her briefcase on the table. I grab a glass and fill it from the tap, downing one and then another.
‘Oh, Chew,’ my mum says in genuine sympathy, laying a hand on my forehead. ‘You’ve always been such a hard worker. I hope you’re not overdoing it. I know how
stressful A levels are; I remember it well, even though it was back in the Dark Ages when I did mine. You just relax and I’ll cook dinner tonight.’
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so guilty. I’ve never had any reason to before. I hope it’s not a sign of things to come.
La Belle Epoch
Yeah, I got a B in French GCSE. What of it?
OK, French was compulsory up to Year Eleven in my school. But even if it wasn’t, I would have taken it anyway, because I like the idea of speaking French. I still
get a thrill from such sexy gems as ‘Où est la gare?’ or ‘J’ai dix-huit ans’. Impressive, non?
So I was basically hysterical with joy when – yes, in my trusty local chazza, of course – I found a double CD called
La Belle Epoque: EMI’s French
Girls 1965–1968
. It’s full of jaunty beats, 60s joie de vivre and girls called things like Michèle and Véronique.
It is thus my favourite new thing to play as I dance around my bedroom, wearing a beret and a stripy T-shirt, and wishing I could be a hot French chick. Meet you at
Café Rouge, yeah? It’s the closest I’ll ever get at this rate. Quel dommage.