‘How ’bout some bananas?’ he suggests. ‘Can never go wrong with a sweetie banana.’
‘Definitely,’ I agree. ‘And get some of those grape-flavoured chewy-looking things.’
As we continue along the pier, munching away, I muse, ‘I’ve never before met a guy who has as sweet a tooth as me.’
‘Fuck yeah, I have a sweetie age of about seven.’
‘Sweetie age?’ I look at him, inquisitively.
‘Yeah, you know, the sort of sweets you go for–who they’re mainly aimed at. This is little kids’ stuff.’ He lifts up the bag. ‘Terry’s Chocolate Orange I would say is a sweetie age of about thirty-five. And then you’ve got things like your After Eight Mints. We’re talking ninety plus.’
‘Well, I reckon I must have a sweetie age of about seven, too,’ I decide. ‘Maybe eight, because girls are more mature than boys.’
We reach the end of the pier as the sun starts to slide down
below the horizon. There’s a Mexican restaurant with an outdoor bar area, full of people.
Christian turns to me. ‘Shall we say bollocks to the posh bar and go in here instead?’
Soon we’re seated outside with frozen margaritas.
‘Cheers,’ Christian says, and we chink glasses.
‘How do you know Johnny?’ I ask, as Christian starts to devour the complimentary nachos.
‘We met at school, donkey’s years ago.’
‘Was that in Newcastle?’
‘Yeah. We lived on the same street, went to the same school. I’ve known him practically all my life.’
‘It’s so nice that you’re still mates after all this time.’
‘Mmm.’ Munch, munch, munch.
‘Johnny moved down to London eventually, didn’t he?’ I tuck my hair behind my ears and lean in.
‘After his mum died, yeah,’ Christian confirms. ‘We were thirteen.’
‘That must’ve been hard,’ I say.
‘Yeah. But when I went down to London for university we hooked up again. It was just like old times. Got a flat together. Then the band took off, and that’s it really.’
‘Wow. Must’ve been pretty mental to see that happen to your best mate.’
‘Yeah…Hey, shall we order some food?’ he asks, abruptly.
I pick up my menu, understanding that, for now at least, that’s enough about Christian and Johnny. I’m just deciding between a fajita and a burrito when the cool new iPhone that Johnny gave me when I started begins to ring.
‘Where are you?’ It’s Johnny and he doesn’t sound very happy.
‘Erm, Santa Monica?’ My feeble reply sounds like a question.
‘Where’s Christian?’ Johnny demands.
‘He’s right here.’
‘Put him on.’
I pass the phone over with a worried look. Christian seems unfazed.
‘Alright, mate?’ he says. ‘Ah, shit,’ he continues, rummaging around in his jeans and pulling out his mobile. ‘Got it on silent.’ He plunges the phone back into his pocket. ‘We were just about to order some food…’ Christian says, shortly followed by, ‘Oh, okay. Yeah, of course.’ He looks at me and pulls a face before Johnny fires his next question. ‘The Bug,’ Christian answers, then, ‘You said we could!’ Pause. ‘The Viceroy.’ Another pause. ‘Yeah, okay, we’ll head home now.’
‘Was he okay?’ I ask, hesitantly, when the call ends.
‘Yeah. Just miffed we’ve been gone so long.’
‘Eek! I don’t want to piss him off.’
‘You haven’t, don’t worry. Anyway, it’s me he’s annoyed at for taking his prized Bugatti.’ Christian grins, but I feel concerned. ‘Honestly, Meg, it’s fine. He didn’t say we couldn’t take it–it’s his own fault for not being more specific.’
I’m obviously not looking convinced because he adds, chuckling, ‘Seriously, he gets like this all the time. You just learn to ignore it.’
The waiter brings the bill over and Christian throws down a note, steadfastly refusing to let me go halves. Then we get up and make our way quietly back along the pier in the direction of the car.
The interviews have been organised, the guest list has been sorted and Samuel has just buzzed me to let me know Davey is on the driveway. I turn to Johnny.
‘You ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Johnny, Christian, Bill and I are all travelling together to the gig and I am
beyond
excited. This is the gig that everyone is talking about and I’m going to be there, right in the middle of the action. Okay, so I know my friends would whinge that this opportunity is entirely wasted on me but I don’t care. Woohoo!
Johnny was nowhere to be seen when we arrived home last night, and I was worried that I’d annoyed him. Today, though, he’s been in a great mood.
Before we’ve even passed through the property’s gates, Bill has delved into the car’s minibar. I prepare four glasses with ice while Bill reaches for the whisky. He pours generous servings into two of the glasses and hands one to Johnny.
‘You having whisky, Chris?’ he asks Christian.
‘I’ll have a beer.’
Bill passes Christian a bottle of Becks and turns to me.
‘What about you?’
‘Do you have any Baileys?’
He sniggers and looks at Johnny, who’s sitting opposite us, next to Christian. ‘Fuckin’ Baileys. Get this down ya, girl.’ He hands me a whisky and pours himself another one, before collapsing back in his seat. I sneakily pour Christian’s ice from his unused glass into mine in an attempt to water my drink down. Christian looks at me in amusement before raising his beer bottle.
‘Here’s to a good comeback gig, mate.’
‘Cheers,’ Johnny replies.
The Whisky is situated on the Sunset Strip and the queue is already snaking out and around the building regardless of the fact that the gig isn’t due to kick off for another couple of hours.
A group of girls near the front begin to scream hysterically as they spot the limo. The queue dissolves as people break away and run after the car. Their faces are actually quite terrifying as they bash on the windows, trying to get in. I glance at Johnny in alarm, but he seems completely unfazed by this attack of the zombies.
Davey drives on. ‘I think we’d better go round the block,’ he shouts from the front.
Bill sighs and looks at me. ‘You gonna call security and let them know we’re here, or what?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ I say, rummaging for my phone. It’s not like anyone has told me what to do in these circumstances, but I’ll know better next time. So much of it is a case of learning on the job.
A short while later, after the backstage entrance has been secured, Davey pulls up and we file out of the car. A crowd of about fifty people are waiting on the off chance that we come
through this way, but, boy, can they make some noise. Flailing hands try to get to Johnny despite the bulky security guards holding back the tide as we hurry into the venue. The door is secured behind us and a tall, blonde woman with an earpiece and a clipboard leads us to the backstage dressing area. I enter the room in a daze.
‘That was a bit mental, hey?’ Christian says.
‘Gonna be a good one.’ Bill claps his hands together in anticipation.
Johnny bounces on the spot energetically a few times.
‘You alright, Meg?’ he asks.
‘Fucking look at her, she can’t believe her eyes!’ Bill laughs. ‘I think she needs another drink.’
‘Yeah, I’m up for that,’ Johnny says and grabs a bottle of whisky from a tabletop which is bulging with booze and snacks. He cracks it open and swigs straight from the bottle before offering it to Christian with a grin. Christian passes it straight to Bill and gets himself a beer from a bucket of ice.
‘What’re you drinking, Meg?’ Christian asks me.
‘I’ll go for a beer, too.’ I figure it’d be preferable to more whisky.
‘You should crack open the champers, love,’ Bill suggests.
There’s an idea…
Hmm, little bit silly. The whisky and champagne have gone straight to my head and I feel tipsy. Well, okay, drunk. Johnny’s off doing an interview with
Rolling Stone
and Christian and I are lounging on a sofa. I think he’s a bit pissed, too. The room is bustling with the hip and fashionable. Some of the guys seem to be wearing even more make-up than the girls. I don’t know who these people are, but they’re all down on the list. Friends of the
band and Johnny, I presume. Christian has been telling me that the Whisky–actually called Whisky a Go Go–has played host to some of rock ’n’ roll’s most important bands, from The Doors, to Janis Joplin, Led Zeppelin and Nirvana. It’s smaller than I thought it would be. I guess I’m used to hearing about Johnny playing stadiums.
‘It’s the first time he’s played live in over a year,’ Christian says to me.
‘Is it?’ I’m distracted. Johnny has just entered the room. I watch as he’s greeted by cheers and a few slaps on the back before he finally materialises in front of us.
‘Come and watch from backstage,’ he says.
We follow him to the backstage area. A roadie rushes past with a mic stand and Johnny puts both his palms on my arms to manoeuvre me out of the way. His touch leaves my skin burning.
‘Nervous, mate?’ Christian asks him.
‘Nope,’ Johnny responds, shaking his head.
I haven’t seen him like this before: full of energy and verve.
He lights up a cigarette and I sneak a sideways peek at him.
‘So Meg,’ Johnny glances at me, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Would you rather be at a Kylie concert?’
I laugh a little too loudly. He grins at me. Oh God, I fancy him.
He throws his fag down on the floor and stamps on it.
‘Back in a sec,’ he says.
Christian closes the gap between us. I take a deep breath.
Ten minutes later Johnny still hasn’t returned and I can’t think straight. The lights on the stage have gone out and the girls in the audience have started to scream. The band files past us and take their positions. Then Johnny appears at my side, guitar hanging behind him.
I watch him in the darkness as a soundman hooks up an amp to his instrument and tells him he’s good to go.
‘Good luck, pal,’ Christian says.
‘Yeah, good luck,’ I echo.
‘Thanks, mate,’ he says to Christian. He looks down at me. ‘Cheers, chick.’
The noise from the crowd is deafening as Johnny bounds onstage and launches straight into one of his hits.
‘Wicked, isn’t it?’ Christian shouts above the music. ‘Getting to watch from so close?’
‘Amazing!’ I shout back.
The room is dark and grungy, smoke filling the air. The audience is made up of competition winners and press and I walk a few steps to my left so I can peek out at them. They’ve gone wild and are jumping up and down as one. Exhilaration soars through me as it finally sinks in. I am a lucky, lucky girl. I never want to stop working for Johnny. In fact, I’m going to work so hard for him he’s going to wonder how he ever did without me.
After two songs, my boss addresses the crowd. He tells them he’s going to quieten things down a little. The members of the band relinquish their instruments and leave the stage and a roadie brings Johnny a stool. He sits atop it and starts to strum his acoustic guitar. The audience falls silent. I immediately recognise the song as the same one he sang to me in the studio. His voice fills the room and I stare at him, willing him to look backstage at me.
‘Check this out,’ Christian says from beside me. He’s wandered over so he can see the audience, too.
‘Those lasses in the front row,’ he says, leaning his head in close to me and pointing.
I drag my eyes away from Johnny and follow Christian’s finger. I immediately spot who he’s talking about. There are two gorgeous girls in the middle at the front, staring up at Johnny, transfixed. One has long, dark wavy hair and is wearing a low-cut top to show off her ample cleavage, and the other is blonde with a pixie crop.
My eyes flit back to Johnny. He’s looking down as he strums his guitar. I feel a wave of relief, and then, all of a sudden, Johnny looks straight at the girls as he sings.
I feel a white spike of jealousy shoot through me as I look back at Johnny and see him raise one eyebrow at the girls. I can’t bear to think which one he’s most interested in. And then it occurs to me it’s probably both.
I turn to Christian and try to sound flippant. ‘Bet Johnny wouldn’t mind getting them in his McLaren F1.’
Christian laughs. ‘I was just thinking the same thing. Watch. That guy over there? I bet you a bag of sweets Johnny tells him to give those two slappers aftershow passes before the next song is out.’
‘That’s a bet I’m not sure I want to take,’ I respond, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach.
‘It’s only a bag of sweets, Meg. Let’s say Skittles, to be specific. And I’ll share ’em with you.’
‘Okay,’ I force a laugh. ‘You’re on.’
Sure enough, by the time the song is finished, I see Johnny nod at the roadie, who clocks the girls. The roadie beckons to a weedy-looking guy dressed in black and wearing an earpiece.
‘Watch! Watch!’ Christian nudges me.
A few seconds later the second guy makes his way through the gap between the stage and the crowd and discreetly hands the
girls passes. They smile demurely at Johnny, and my eyes dart back to him just in time to catch him wink at them.
I try to tell myself this is the reality check I need. I
know
Johnny shags groupies. And he’s probably been off doing drugs tonight as well.
He’s trouble with a capital T.
So why does he have to be so sexy?
‘Told you!’ Christian jovially elbows me in the ribs. ‘You owe me Skittles, girl!’
‘Yeah.’ I force a smile and watch the rest of the set with a lot less enthusiasm than I started out with.
The aftershow party is being held at the Standard Downtown, a hotel with a rooftop bar in downtown LA. Johnny is travelling there with the band in their minibus, so Christian, Bill and I arrive alone in the limo. Bill excuses himself immediately and goes to talk to a skinny dude who’s manically smoking a cigarette. Christian and I grab a couple of beers from a passing waitress who is dressed in a sexy red and white uniform with short shorts and looks like she should be on rollerskates.
We move out of the way of the lift, which continues to spew out partygoers, and head past the bar and up a few steps. It’s quieter around here. There’s a long swimming pool, lit up in the darkness, and we have a perfect view of the city’s tallest buildings. It’s not like New York, skyscraper upon skyscraper packed into the smallest square mileage, but it’s still an impressive sight. Considering the earthquakes LA is subjected to, it’s amazing they have any skyscrapers at all. There are a few strange-looking large, red, round fibreglass pods to the side of the pool, and as I watch a couple vacate one, I notice that the mattress they were lying on is undulating. I look at Christian excitedly and point.
‘Waterbeds!’
He laughs and leads the way. We slip off our shoes and he waits for me as I climb up through one of the four entrance holes onto the heaving mattress. I’m glad I’m wearing trousers and not a skirt because there is no gracious way to get onto this thing. I feel like I’m crawling through quicksand and start to giggle as I eventually give up and collapse onto my back.
‘Budge out the way, you silly girl!’ Christian pushes at my hip as he tries to get on. He doesn’t seem to have mastered the art of the waterbed either, and soon he’s collapsing in fits of laughter as well. I’m glad the music’s loud up here, because I don’t think the trendy types would find us very funny.
‘Oh, fuck, I’ve left our beers out there,’ Christian exclaims, and then has to go through the rigmarole of exiting the damn thing and getting back on again. I’m laughing even harder by this stage, and can barely hold up my hands to take the beers from him as he hobbles on his knees, trying not to spill any alcohol.
‘Take them, you wench!’
I grab the drinks just in time for him to collapse on his stomach in front of me. The water underneath us swells and falls with every movement.
‘I feel seasick,’ Christian moans, his face pressed into the white mattress.
‘I think it’s far more likely you feel pissed,’ I say.
He flips over onto his back and attempts to ease himself backwards.
‘What the hell are you doing now?’ I ask.
‘Trying to sit up.’
Eventually he makes it to one of the edges and squeezes himself rather unceremoniously up against the red fibreglass wall
surrounding us. It’s curved, so it forces his chin downwards until it’s practically resting on his chest. He doesn’t look very comfortable. I start to giggle again.
‘Whose bloody stupid idea was this?’ he asks, unimpressed. ‘I hope you’re happy with yourself, missy.’
I’m currently lying flat out on my back and it’s not easy to drink in this position. I prop my head up with one hand as the water moves beneath me. I’m not very comfortable either, but I’m buggered if I’m going to tell him that, so I take a swig of beer and try to look cool.
‘Happy there, are you?’ he asks, wryly.
‘Perfectly, thank you. How’s your neck?’
‘Really fucking uncomfortable.’
I tell him to stop moaning. He prods me in the ribs with a sock-encased toe and I squeal, which only makes him do it again.
‘Don’t! I’ll wet myself!’ I manage to spit out.
‘Oh, now that would be a really pretty sight.’ Christian laughs, but stops for a moment while I take a swig of beer. Then he prods me in the ribs again and I splutter as the beer goes down the wrong way. All this just makes him laugh harder.
‘You. Are. Such. A. Git,’ I manage to say, through coughing. I manoeuvre myself around so my feet are facing him, and kick him on his thigh with my right foot. He bats my foot away easily and glugs his beer down.
‘What’s going on here, hey?’ Johnny’s face appears at the side of the pod. ‘Playing footsies?’ He looks amused.
‘Hey, mate!’ Christian grabs my offending foot and holds it up and out of the way, forcing me to fall back on the mattress again. ‘She’s a kicker, this one, you’d better watch out.’
Tears have been streaming down my face and I quickly wipe
them away and study my fingers. Shit. They’re covered with wet mascara, which means my make-up is currently halfway down my face. As Christian releases my foot, I try to compose myself and clean away what I can as fast as possible.