Johnny Be Good (29 page)

All I have to do is throw the odd item back into my dishevelled-looking suitcase and zip it up again, so I’m able to move in on my next day off. Bess is sorry to see me go.

‘No! Do you have to move out?’

‘I can’t carry on sleeping on your sofa forever…’

‘Yes, you can. Anyway, it’s half your sofa, remember,’ she whines.

‘Bess, you can have it,’ I say, generously, then laugh. We actually found it on the side of the road a year and a half ago. It was in pretty good nick.

‘Bloody North Londoner,’ she mutters, before giving me a big, cuddly hug and grudgingly promising she’ll come and see me soon.

Christian cooks us Mexican fajitas on the night I move in, and it reminds me of Rosa and the meal she made me on the first night I stayed at Johnny’s.

‘What are you thinking?’ Christian asks, so I tell him.

‘What do you think Johnny will say when he finds out I’ve moved in with you?’ I ask.

‘Don’t have to tell him if you don’t want. He’s only ever been to my place once, anyway.’

I don’t say anything. I don’t want Christian to know I
want
Johnny to know where I am.

The phone rings, so Christian excuses himself and gets up to answer it. He takes the phone through to the living room and collapses down on the sofa, crossing his legs up on the coffee table. It’s his mum, from what I can gather.

‘Sorry about that,’ he says, when he returns to the table. ‘My mum’s freaking out about my brother’s wedding.’

‘Anton, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why’s your mum freaking out?’

‘Just the usual wedding crap. People haven’t RSVP-ed, the cake maker has gone out of business, Vanessa’s dress isn’t ready yet…’

‘Vanessa?’

‘My brother’s fiancée,’ Christian explains.

‘When’s the wedding?’

‘In a couple of weeks.’

‘Are you his Best Man?’

‘No, I’m not, actually. Cheeky git has asked a mate from university. He doesn’t want any other groomsmen.’

‘Oh. Are you disappointed?’

‘Nah. Bloody thankful I don’t have to do a speech, actually. I’ll be able to get hammered instead.’

He sighs and leans back in his chair, rubbing his stomach.

‘That was really nice.’ I get up and start to clear the table. ‘You’re a good cook.’

‘Not as good as Rosa,’ he says, getting up. ‘But I’m not too bad.’

‘Could Clare cook?’ I ask, following him into the kitchen.

‘Yeah, but she was only into vegetarian rubbish. So I had to fend for myself,’ he adds, melodramatically.

‘How long did you live together?’ I ask, as he starts to load the dishwasher. I hunt out clingfilm and cover the salsa and sour cream bowls with it.

‘Couple of years? Something like that.’

Christian groans and rolls his eyes. ‘That’s the other thing my mum was stressing out about. Me not having a date to take to the wedding.’

‘You don’t have to have a date!’ I exclaim.

‘According to my mum I do.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ I say, jokingly.

His eyes light up. ‘Would you?’

‘Er…’ I wasn’t expecting that. ‘I guess I could.’

‘That would be brilliant!’ he enthuses.

‘I won’t have to pretend I’m your girlfriend or anything, though, will I?’

He chuckles. ‘No, don’t worry about that. Mum’s just worried about the seating plan. But she’ll be delighted to meet you at last,’ he adds.

‘At last?’ I query.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well, I told her about you.’

‘Did you?’ I ask, gleefully. ‘Why?’

‘Just said you were keeping me company in LA. She still gets a bit worried about Johnny’s influence on me. Never forgave him after the whole shagging-my-girlfriend malarkey.’

I chew on my bottom lip.

‘Anyway, that would be brilliant. Thanks for that!’ he continues, rinsing out a sponge and taking it to the table. I follow him.

‘No worries. Now I just need to find a dress.’

‘That one you wore to whatshisname’s party in the hills would be fine.’

‘What one? The blue one?’

‘Yeah. That was really nice.’ He pauses wiping over the table and glances up at me.

‘Thanks,’ I say, surprised. ‘But any excuse to go shopping, hey? In fact, I might pop up to Hampstead in the morning and have a look around.’

He’s so sweet to me. So thoughtful. I watch him go back into the modern open-plan kitchen and rinse the sponge out again, before wiping over the countertops. He’s wearing a black, long-sleeved T-shirt and dark-blue jeans, and maybe it’s just the colour, but I swear he’s slimmer than I remembered him.

I wonder if Kitty was right about him. Liking me, I mean.

Kitty! Christ. I keep meaning to check my emails, but I haven’t been near a computer for weeks and I left my iPhone in Johnny’s office. I didn’t feel right about keeping it.

‘Hey, would you mind if I borrowed your computer to check my emails?’ I ask Christian.

‘Sure,’ he says, and leads the way upstairs to his office. He opens up his laptop and logs in, then moves aside for me.

I pull up his chair and sit down, logging onto Hotmail. But there’s nothing there. Only junk mail. I remember I never actually gave Kitty my personal email address, only my work one. I take a deep breath and start to type out a message. Explaining why I quit is going to be difficult. She’ll definitely think something dodgy has gone on, especially considering it’s taken me so long to write to her. I apologise for not getting in touch sooner, and then gloss over the details as much as I can, saying I missed
London and wanted to get back here. She’ll know there’s more to it than that; I just hope our mutual understanding of confidentiality clauses prevents her from prying too much.

I borrow Christian’s computer again the next day to see if she’s replied. She has.

Argh!

I scan the email, looking for another mention of Johnny, but there is none, just some news about Rod’s latest film deal, a recent premiere Kitty went to and the dress she bought on Melrose Avenue yesterday. I pause for a moment and check my feelings. Nothing. I don’t miss LA. Even walking around Hampstead this morning in the rain didn’t make me miss LA. I’m glad to be home.

‘Hey,’ Christian says, coming into the office.

‘Sorry, do you need to use your laptop?’ I ask, getting up.

‘No, no, stay where you are. I just need to get my manuscript.’ He lifts a thick wad of A4 paper off the top of a filing cabinet.

‘Ooh.’ I open my eyes wide. ‘Is that your book?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, looking down at it.

‘The finished version?’

‘Yep. Well, almost. I’m just having a last read-through.’

‘Wow,’ I say.

‘Do you…’ he starts.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you want to have a look?’ he asks, tentatively.

‘I would love to! Are you sure?’

‘Um, not really,’ he admits, with a half-hearted chuckle. ‘But yeah, go on, tell me what you think.’

I hold out my hands for the weighty manuscript and look down.

Johnny Be Good
The Official Johnny Jefferson Biography
by Christian Pettersson

‘Cool! I like the title…’

‘Thanks. My brother came up with it.’

‘Anton?’

‘No, Joel.’

‘I hope you bought him a nice present to say thank you.’

‘I’m going to!’ He throws his hands up in the air. ‘Jeez, you’re as bad as my mother.’

I laugh. ‘Where’s your surname from?’ I saw it on the business card he gave me months ago, but didn’t really take it in.

‘Sweden,’ he says.

‘Really?’ I realise I don’t know that much about Christian.

‘Yeah. It’s where my dad’s from.’

‘You don’t look very Swedish…’

‘What, blond hair, blue eyes kind of thing?’ He laughs. ‘That is such a cliché, Megan. But you’re right, anyway. I take after my mum.’

‘Can you speak any Swedish?’ I ask, intrigued.

‘Bilingual.’

‘No shit?’

‘No shit,’ he confirms.

‘That’s brilliant! Oh, I wish my parents had brought me up to be bilingual!’

‘Where are they from?’ he asks.

‘England,’ I say.

He laughs. ‘Nutcase.’

For a minuscule moment there, I thought he was going to call me Nutmeg.

‘Anyway,’ I stand up. ‘I’ve got to get ready for work. Can I read this later?’ I hold up the manuscript.

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave it in your room.’

It’s after midnight by the time I get home and, as promised,
Johnny Be Good
is waiting for me on top of my bed. I eye it as I get ready, and then finally, exhausted, I climb under the covers and pick up the first few pages. I’ll just read one chapter for now.

Hours later, I haven’t been able to tear my eyes away. They’re red and sore, but I cannot put this book down for the life of me. Reading about Johnny in such detail…The groupies, the drugs, the gigs…And then there’s the personal side to him. The deeper side. His talent for music. His presence when he walks into a room.

As promised, there’s no mention of our liaison, but Christian has written about me, and it’s the weirdest thing, reading about
myself in the third person. I’m not in the book much, but I do feature as Johnny’s PA–and more importantly, his friend.

Tears well up in my eyes as I gently place the last page down on top of the stack. I miss him so much. Will I ever see him again? Face to face? Or am I destined to read about him in the press forever, like all of his other fans? I can’t bear the thought of it. I can’t.

‘You may now kiss the bride…’

Everyone breaks into spontaneous applause and I look at Christian and beam. I love a wedding.

‘I am so sorry,’ he whispers in my ear a short while later, during a reading by one of Anton’s colleagues.

‘Don’t worry about it! I keep telling you it’s fine.’

‘I swear I told my mum we’re not together. She obviously doesn’t believe me.’

I laugh again. Poor Christian. We turned up at his parents’ house this morning to discover his mum had put us in his old room. Together. Christian had told me he’d sleep on the sofa, but it turns out his uncle is also staying at the house. And his Swedish cousins. There are five of them.

‘I should have insisted on going to a hotel,’ he moans.

‘You did try,’ I reassure him. ‘But if I remember that phone call correctly, she wasn’t going to be swayed. It’s fine!’ I whack him on his leg. ‘Not like we haven’t shared a bed before, is it?’

‘True,’ he concedes.

I like Christian’s family. They’re good fun. The Swedish contingent is particularly hilarious. His dad is currently knocking back red wine like it’s going out of fashion, his face as pink as a prawn, and his hair as yellow as the sun. Anton and Joel are the same. As for Christian, I see what he means when he says he takes after his mum. She’s tall and attractive, with black curly hair and dark-brown eyes. She reminds me a little of a gypsy, but I’m not about to tell Christian that, even if I do mean it as a compliment.

‘What was Johnny’s mum like?’ I ask, out of the blue.

‘Tall, skinny, blonde. And very warm and friendly. She and my mum were good friends, actually.’

‘So she knew Johnny when he was a boy?’

‘When he was just plain old Johnny Sneeden, yes.’ Christian smiles.

‘What does she think about the way he’s turned out?’

Christian’s lower lip turns down and he shrugs. ‘Okay, I guess.’

‘Does she think his mum would be disappointed?’

‘Nah. His mum loved him to death. She would have been proud of him for sure.’

‘Johnny doesn’t seem to think so,’ I say, sadly.

‘I know.’ Christian leans back against a wall and stares out at the dance floor.

‘I got fuck-all sleep with that racket going on. What about you?’ Christian asks me the following morning, when we’re lying side by side in bed. His dad and the Swedish army drank most of the night away downstairs in the living room.

‘Your dad puts even Johnny to shame,’ I say, then giggle nervously as I wait for Christian’s reaction. But he just laughs.

‘Do you fancy a cuppa?’

‘I don’t know if I dare.’ I remind him of the time he told me his mum’s kitchen was his mum’s kitchen and no one else was allowed in it.

‘She’ll be down there by now, anyway. Has probably laid out a right old spread to try to impress you.’

‘She doesn’t really think we’re together, does she?’ I ask again.

‘I honestly think she does. Especially after this.’ He motions to the double bed we’re sleeping in. ‘Make the most of it. Her homemade fruit toast is a dream. If she’s trying to keep up appearances, she will have made some. Come on, let’s go.’

‘I can’t go downstairs in my PJs!’

‘Yeah, you can. You look fine. Come on.’

I follow him, reluctantly.

The smell of freshly baked bread hits my nostrils the second we exit Christian’s bedroom. I look at him with delight. ‘Mmm!’

‘Wait till you try it,’ he says.

‘Good morning!’ his mum chirps. I don’t think she drank much last night. His dad, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Megan?’

‘Yes, please,’ I answer.

‘It’s just Meg, Mum,’ Christian tells her.

‘Well, you call her Megan,’ she replies, defensively.

‘Only for a joke.’

‘What’s funny about that?’ she asks.

Christian turns to me. ‘I don’t suppose anything is funny about it, actually. Why
do
I call you Megan?’

‘I dunno.’ I shrug.

‘Meg it is, then. Mum, get us some fruit toast, pllleeeaaasssssee!’ He sounds like a little boy. In fact, I can just picture a young Johnny sitting at the table beside him.

‘Oh, you…’ she scoffs, but puts four slices in the toaster regardless. ‘So Megan–Meg,’ she corrects herself, ‘what do you do now? Christian says you’re no longer working for Johnny, is that right?’

‘That’s right. I’m waitressing at a private members’ club at the moment.’

‘Mmmhmm. And what was it like, working with wee Johnny?’

I try not to smile at the use of ‘wee’. Johnny is anything but.

‘It was good,’ I say.

‘Mum, don’t pry,’ Christian warns.

‘What? She can tell me if she wants to!’

‘She doesn’t want to, Mum,’ he says. ‘She’s just being polite.’

‘You’re not just being polite, are you, Megan? Meg?’

‘Um, no?’ I try.

‘So when did you two meet?’ she asks us both, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the change of subject until I realise which path she’s going down.

Christian casts his eyes upwards. ‘Mum! Cut it out. Meg and I are not going out together!’

She sniffs. ‘Well, I think you make a lovely couple.’

As February turns into March and the daylight hours gradually become longer, I settle back into London life with a sense of calm. I love living with Christian. He’s so lovely, so relaxed. We eat together whenever work allows, and we like nothing more than going down to our local and sitting at a corner booth, catching up over a couple of pints. In fact, as time goes on, we become even
more like boyfriend and girlfriend. Without the sex, obviously. Although I have thought about it. The more I get to know him, the more attractive Christian becomes. And he is a nice guy, the type of guy I normally go for. But I still can’t get Johnny out of my head.

Even now I’m avoiding reading any press about him. And I haven’t seen Isla at the members’ club since the time she asked me to go and work for her. Kitty tells me she’s fled back to LA, broken-hearted. Rumours are rife that she found Will with another man. I don’t know whether or not I believe it.

Kitty keeps me up to date with all the LA gossip. I’d almost rather she didn’t, but there’s not a lot I can say without her getting suspicious about Johnny all over again. Luckily she says very little about him. If he’s still with Lola, the press haven’t picked up on it.

One late afternoon, I’m sitting at home watching TV after working the morning shift, when there’s a knock on the door. We rarely have visitors, but have been known to hear from the odd salesman, so I’m tempted to ignore it completely. The knock comes again, this time more frantically. I get to my feet, annoyed at having my
Richard & Judy
viewing session interrupted, and go to answer it.

Peering through the peep-hole, I swear my heart stops momentarily when I see Johnny standing there.

‘Quick! Open up!’ he urges, behind the closed door.

I do as he says. It’s only when I close the door behind him that he jolts in shock and stares at me.

‘Meg?’ His tone is guarded, almost as if he thinks he’s seeing things.

‘Hi, Johnny.’ I pray my voice won’t shake.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.

‘I live here.’

‘You
live
here?’ he asks, in astonishment. ‘What, with
Christian
?’

‘Yeah.’ I laugh at the look on his face. ‘Not like
that
, you moron. As friends.’

‘Oh.’ The relief on his face is palpable. Which is nice.

‘Christian’s not here,’ I say. ‘He’s up in Manchester on an assignment.’

‘Oh, right. Can I?’ He motions towards the kitchen.

‘Sure, of course.’ I lead the way. ‘Do you want a tea or coffee?’

‘What else have you got?’

I look at him, patiently. ‘What are you after? Booze cabinet’s over there.’ I point. I’m sure Christian won’t mind if Johnny helps himself. I get out a glass and put a couple of chunks of ice in it. I know Johnny will opt for the whisky, and this is the way he likes it best. I hand him the glass so he can pour the caramel-coloured liquid into it himself.

‘Cheers, Nutmeg,’ he says, casually. I jump at the sound of my nickname and he looks up at me. It just rolled off the tip of his tongue, but I can see now that even he found it weird.

He waits in the corner of the kitchen while I make a cup of tea. I’m nervous, but I’m trying not to show it. I don’t know what to say.

‘I thought I was being tailed.’ He speaks eventually, explaining why he turned up at the door in a panic.

‘What, by the press?’

‘Paps, yeah.’

‘What are you doing in the UK?’ I ask.

‘Dad’s wedding.’

‘So soon?’

‘Mmm.’

‘When is it?’ I lead the way to the sofas and mute the sound on the TV.

‘Actually, I might go outside for a cigarette,’ he says. ‘Come chat to me?’

It’s cold outside, so I grab my coat and pull my gloves out of my pockets, sliding them on. We sit on the bench at the end of the garden and Johnny lights up. To my surprise, he offers me his cigarette packet.

‘You don’t smoke, do you?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say, waving them away. How strange.

He pushes them back into his pocket and takes a long drag, staring back at the house. I pull my knees up in front of me and wrap my arms around them, trying to keep warm.

‘So when is your dad’s wedding?’ I ask again.

‘This weekend just gone.’

‘Was it okay?’

‘Bit strange,’ he admits.

‘In what way?’

‘Ah, just…’ He glances at me, those green eyes sending a shockwave through my system. ‘Felt a bit on show.’ He flicks his ash onto the muddy garden bed.

‘Was it a big wedding?’

He laughs, hollowly, before answering. ‘Yes. Turns out Shelley–my dad’s woman–has a lot of
friends
…’ The way he says ‘friends’ implies he means anything but.

‘All there to see you, hey?’

‘Mmm,’ he answers, wryly.

He glances at me again. My arms are still wrapped around my knees. ‘You cold?’

I nod. He pats the bench space next to him, so I edge a bit closer. He puts his whisky in his other hand, along with his cigarette, and puts his now-free arm around my shoulder. He rubs my arm with his hand, vigorously.

‘Brr, Nutmeg, it is a bit cold, isn’t it?’

My stomach is tying itself up into knots and I’m anything but comfortable. I try to steel myself. ‘Shall we go inside?’ I ask, glancing at him, but we’re so close I have to look away again.

‘Sure,’ he says, removing his arm and stubbing his fag out on the ground.

Calm down, Meg, calm down, I tell myself as I lead the way back indoors. I look up to see Johnny watching my face in the reflection of the French doors and am reminded of the time in LA when I first met him. I reach for the handle to open the door.

We take off our shoes because they’re muddy and then Johnny takes a detour via the booze cabinet.

‘Are you still working at that members’ club?’ he asks, joining me on the sofa in the living room.

‘Yep,’ I reply.

‘Didn’t take Isla up on her offer of a job, then?’ He raises one eyebrow at me.

‘No.’ I look away at the TV. It still has the sound turned down, but I can see they’re doing a feature on weddings.

‘Huh. That looks a bit like Vanessa’s dress,’ I comment out loud.

‘Vanessa?’

‘Anton’s fiancée. Well, wife now.’

‘Anton? Oh! Christian’s brother. Fuck!’ he exclaims. ‘I forgot to send a card.’

‘You can still send one now,’ I suggest.

‘Yeah, I suppose I could. Don’t have his address, though.’

‘Send it to his parents’ place. Do you have that one?’

‘Somewhere, yeah.’

‘Want me to get it for you?’

‘Could you?’ He smiles, sheepishly.

I go upstairs to the office, returning a minute later with the address written down on a piece of paper.

‘Thanks,’ he says, looking down at it for a moment.

‘Have you got a new PA?’ I ask, convinced he’s thinking about how I used to do this sort of thing for him all the time.

‘No.’ He shakes his head.

Ha!

‘When do you think Christian will be back?’ he asks.

I look at my watch. ‘I don’t know. I think he said he was catching the seven o’clock train so could be another hour or two yet.’

He gets to his feet and folds the piece of paper up, stuffing it into his back pocket. ‘I should probably head off, then,’ he says, retrieving his shoes from inside the French doors.

I get up, too, and walk him towards the door. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Soho Hotel.’

‘Just around the corner from where I work,’ I say in surprise.

‘I know.’

We look at each other for a moment.

‘Want me to call a car for you?’ I ask, feeling awkward.

He chuckles. ‘No, it’s alright, N—Meg. I’ll catch a cab out on the main road.’ He opens the door and looks out.

‘All clear?’ I ask.

‘I think so. See ya, then.’

‘Bye.’

I watch as he makes his way up the narrow steps from Christian’s private entrance to the street above. He looks left and right and then glances down at me and raises his hand in a half-wave, before stepping out of sight. I close the door, feeling empty inside.