Johnny Be Good Read online

  ‘Hey? Oh, yeah,’ he answers distractedly, lying back on his sunlounger.

  I want to ask him about the Asian girl, but he doesn’t appear to be in the mood to talk, so we soak up the sun’s rays in silence for a while. It’s boiling hot. A thought occurs to me.

  ‘Have you got suncream on?’ I ask.

  ‘Um…’

  ‘Johnny, you’re going to get burnt.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me,’ I say, reaching under my sunlounger and pulling my factor 30 out of my beach bag. I hold it out for him. ‘I don’t want you getting skin cancer.’

  ‘Do my back, then,’ he says, turning over.

  ‘Er, sure…’

  His back is warm and tanned, and he has a tattoo etched into his left shoulder blade. There’s a noticeable white line just below his swimming trunks and I try to get suncream as close to it as I can, without actually sticking my hand down the back of his pants. He wriggles and pulls his trunks down a little so I can get to his exposed bits. I quickly smooth suncream there and go to sit back down on my sunlounger.

  ‘Right, there you go.’

  ‘What about my front?’ he asks, turning over.

  ‘You’re perfectly capable of reaching your own chest.’

  ‘Bet you wouldn’t mind doing it if I was a member of Take That,’ he remarks.

  The thought makes me laugh loudly.

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ he asks, huffily.

  ‘Only if it was Jason Orange,’ I answer.

  ‘Which one’s he? The little short bastard?’

  ‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘Jason’s the…Oh, stop winding me up,’ I say when I see him smiling. ‘Put your bloody suncream on and stop moaning.’

  ‘How’s your hand? Is it any better?’ He reaches over and takes it once again.

  ‘Much better, thanks.’

  At that moment, Santiago appears from around the side of the house. I instinctively snatch my hand away and Santiago freezes.

  Johnny casually puts his sunglasses back on and continues to sunbathe.

  As Santiago approaches the pool, he gives me a sneaky, knowing look.

  ‘I hurt my hand,’ I explain, but somehow it sounds lame. He sets about taking the pool robot out, ignoring us.

  I lie back on my sunlounger and try not to let on how awkward I feel. Eventually Santiago finishes up and leaves for the day.

  It’s almost unbearably hot, now. I really want to go inside, but I don’t want to leave Johnny. I’m sure I’ll get burnt if I stay here much longer, though.

  ‘Wanna go to the Ivy with me tonight?’ he says out of the blue. I must look surprised because he adds, ‘I just really fancy one of their pizzas.’

  ‘At the Ivy? Won’t we get photographed there?’ I ask, heart pounding hard in my chest.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I can’t imagine Serengeti would be too pleased to see us splashed across the tabloids. Not that anyone would want to photograph me,’ I quickly add.

  ‘Who cares? It’s all bullshit.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll book a table.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Am I really going out for dinner with Johnny Jefferson?

  I hurry inside to call the restaurant before he changes his mind. The maître d’ assures me he’ll have a nice, romantic table waiting for us. I try to tell him that a romantic one won’t be necessary, but don’t want it to seem like I’m making a bigger deal out of it than it actually is.

  When I return outside, Johnny’s sunlounger’s empty. I assume he’ll be back soon, so carry on sunbathing, but when he doesn’t return, I decide to go and tell him what time I’ve made the reservation for.

  After living here for two weeks, I finally pluck up the courage to knock on his bedroom door.

  ‘Come in,’ he calls from somewhere inside. I tentatively obey.

  His room is enormous, and unlike the other bedrooms which look out over the trees in the back garden, Johnny’s room runs from the back to the front of the house, giving him a perfect, floor-to-ceiling vista of the city. Black and white photographs of famous rock icons–everyone from Jim Morrison to Mick Jagger–line the walls, and many of them are signed. An enormous bed is in the centre of the room.

  ‘Table booked?’ I turn around to see Johnny standing in the doorway of his en-suite, wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his slim waist.

  ‘Yes, for eight-thirty. Is that okay?’ I try to keep my voice stable.

  ‘Perfect,’ he answers.

  I look away from him and, for want of something better to say, comment on his amazing room.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Okay, then. I’d better go and get changed myself.’ I hurry out of the room and close the door behind me.

  Then I remember I meant to ask him about booking the car.

  Damn.

  I turn around and knock again. He opens the door this time. He’s still wet from the shower and I swear I can feel heat radiating out from his naked torso.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot to ask whether you want me to book Davey?’

  Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush, I tell myself as I feel my face heat up again. Bollocks.

  He looks amused. ‘Why don’t we go on the bike?’

  ‘The motorbike?’ I ask, stupidly. Of course the motorbike, Meg.

  ‘Yeah.’ He leans up against the doorframe. ‘Unless you’re worried it will mess up your hair,’ he says, wryly.

  ‘No, no, no, that’s fine!’ I say brightly and turn to walk down the landing towards my room.

  Bess is going to kill me!

  After about fifteen minutes spent deciding between two dresses it eventually dawns on me that a dress might not be such a good look on a motorbike. Flashing my knickers at waiting paps…That really would give Serengeti something to moan about.

  Yes. Serengeti, Meg. You remember her. Johnny’s girlfriend.

  God, I am being so stupid. As if he would ever bloody well fancy me in any case. I’m just his PA, for crying out loud.

  Right, I’m wearing jeans, and I’m not going to look like I’ve made too much of an effort.

  It’s amazing how much of an effort it takes to make it look like you haven’t made an effort, though, isn’t it?

  At eight o’clock I exit my room to see Johnny doing the same thing at the other end of the landing.

  ‘Am I alright in this?’ I ask, motioning to my outfit.

  ‘You’ll need a warmer jacket,’ he tells me.

  ‘I’m not sure if I’ve got one.’

  ‘Actually, I think there’s a spare in the garage.’

  There is. Riffling through a cupboard, he pulls out a helmet and a dark-brown leather jacket. I try the jacket on. It’s a snug fit. I wonder who it belonged to.

  Johnny is already wearing his biker gear and he mounts his bike, a shiny black beast of a machine. Pushing his blond hair back off his face, he tugs on his helmet, then he kicks down on a lever and the engine roars into life. He looks at me and pats the seat behind him with a glove-encased hand. I throw my leg over the back and climb on.

  ‘You alright?’ he shouts over the noise of the engine.

  ‘Yes!’ I shout back.

  He takes my damaged hand and wraps it around his waist. I jump because it hurts.

  ‘Sorry!’ he shouts.

  ‘It’s okay!’

  ‘Hold on tight!’

  Hold on tight…As if I have any choice in the matter. I feel like I’m gripping on for dear life as he shoots off down the road as though he’s just pressed a button to send us into light speed. I’m too terrified even to scream as he takes another corner.

  Actually, I take that back. Did that scream really just come from me? I swear I can feel his stomach muscles tighten as he laughs.

  As soon as we arrive at the Ivy, flashbulbs start to go off in our faces. Johnny hops off the bike and turns to help me, and I’m mortified as I take my helmet off to reveal that I’m not Serengeti, or indeed anyone fa
mous or worthy of being here with Johnny Jefferson. Johnny calmly takes my helmet from me and hands it and the bike’s keys to the waiting valet attendant. I try to smooth down my hair as best as I can, while the paparazzi snap away. I’d dearly love the ground to open up and swallow me.

  A picket fence fronts the outdoor terrace of the Ivy and the whole place is twinkling with fairy lights. We manoeuvre our way through the crammed tables to meet the maître d’, who takes my coat and leads us to a secluded, candlelit table inside. Johnny takes off his jacket and sits down.

  ‘Alright?’ he asks.

  ‘No!’ I all but hiss. ‘That was really embarrassing!’

  He chuckles. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  I open up a menu and bury my head in it, while he tucks into some freshly baked bread. My mind is racing and I can’t take in the words in front of me. Finally I give up and decide to get the same as him.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Johnny asks.

  ‘I don’t know, a Diet Coke?’

  ‘You can’t come to the Ivy and order a Diet Coke.’

  ‘Why not? You’re ordering a pizza.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, Meg. Let’s get a bottle of red.’

  ‘You’re driving.’ I state the obvious.

  ‘You can drive home,’ he says.

  ‘No! I can’t drive that!’ I splutter.

  He grins at me. ‘Joke, Meg. I won’t drink much, I promise. You can get hammered for both of us.’

  We place our order, the wine arrives and after a few mouthfuls I start to relax. I’m desperate for our conversation to flow, but I’m struggling to think of what to talk about. I settle on Christian.

  ‘Have you heard from Christian recently?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, he called this morning actually. Wanted to know if I got up to no good with a hot chick at the Mondrian.’

  I’m surprised. ‘How did he know you’d stayed there?’

  ‘It was on some tawdry website.’

  ‘Well, he should know you better than that,’ I graciously point out.

  ‘He does know me better than that. That’s why he wanted to check.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Pause. ‘So, did you…’

  ‘Of course not, chick.’ He looks at me like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. ‘I’m a good boy.’

  ‘Sure you are,’ I say, drily. ‘So back to Christian. Have you guys really known each other since childhood?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Wow. It must’ve been weird for him when you became famous.’

  He shrugs and leans back in his chair.

  I giggle. ‘I don’t know how I’d cope with seeing my best mate become a worldwide sex symbol…’

  He chuckles and reaches out to finger the stem of his wine glass. He’s not being very chatty.

  ‘It must be so nice, though, to have that sort of history with someone. Have you always been best mates?’

  He turns down his mouth and nods his head, then lifts up his wine glass and swirls the wine around. He takes a sip.

  He clearly doesn’t want to talk about Christian. I don’t know why.

  ‘Nice wine,’ I remark, changing the subject.

  ‘Yeah,’ he agrees. ‘So what about you?’ he asks. ‘Got any friends since childhood?’

  ‘Just one,’ I answer. ‘My friend, Bess. We met at secondary school, though, so I haven’t know her as long as you’ve known Christian.’

  ‘Tell me about your ex-boyfriend.’ He smirks.

  I smile and lean backwards in my chair. He leans forward and puts his elbows on the table.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why did you split up? Six months ago, was it?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I take a mouthful of wine.

  ‘Who called it off?’

  ‘It was kind of mutual.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ He grins. ‘You finished it, didn’t you?’

  I laugh, outraged. ‘No, it was mutual!’ I insist, and lean forward again, reaching for the bread. I can see he doesn’t believe me. ‘We just ended up being more like brother and sister,’ I explain.

  He looks at me, his green eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

  ‘It was mutual,’ I state again.

  ‘I can’t imagine any hot-blooded male having brotherly feelings towards you, Meg. Maybe he’s gay.’ He winks and pours us more wine.

  ‘Tom is not gay.’ I sigh. ‘He was a nice guy. He is a nice guy. We’re still friends,’ I tell him, determinedly.

  ‘Friends,’ he humphs. ‘Poor old Tom is probably just waiting on the sidelines, hoping you’ll take him back.’

  ‘Stop it!’ I laugh.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Just a baby. You need a real man,’ he jests.

  ‘I’m only twenty-four, remember.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I still don’t believe it.’

  I don’t answer, but inside I’m pleased.

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’ Johnny asks.

  ‘Just before I came over here,’ I reply. ‘I must give him a call to touch base soon.’

  ‘You tease,’ Johnny says.

  ‘I am not a tease! He doesn’t fancy me anymore!’ I insist.

  ‘Whatever you say, Nutmeg, whatever you say.’

  ‘Nutmeg?’

  ‘Yep, Nutmeg. It suits you. In fact, I think that’s what I’ll call you from now on.’

  ‘Shall I call you JJ, then?’ I hit back.

  ‘Not if you want me to answer.’

  I laugh. ‘Okay, enough about my love life. What about yours?’

  ‘I don’t talk about my love life, Nutmeg. You should know that. A celebrity like oneself should never divulge personal details.’

  ‘That’s so not fair.’

  ‘Life isn’t fair,’ he says, melodramatically and sits back to make room for the waiter who has just emerged with our food.

  Johnny sticks to his word about not drinking more than a couple of glasses, so by the time we finish our meal, I’m feeling quite warm and fuzzy.

  On our way out, I’m determined to see if I can spot any celebs.

  She looks a bit like…No.

  Is that? No.

  Wait! Yes! It is Ben Affleck!

  Before I can stop myself, I nudge Johnny eagerly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that Ben Affleck over there?’

  He peers through the crowded tables. ‘Uh-huh.’

  At that moment Ben glances up and sees Johnny. He lifts up his hand in recognition and Johnny does the same.

  The paparazzi are out in force as we walk down the steps, but this time I don’t care: the wine has tripled my confidence.

  One of the valet attendants brings the bike around and Johnny climbs on, pulling his helmet over his head. I do the same, then he kicks the bike into action and we roar off, flashbulbs popping in our faces. I actually find myself laughing.

  ‘What?’ He tilts his head back to hear me.

  ‘Nuts!’ I shout.

  He laughs and pulls up at a red light. I see a flash go off out of the corner of my eye and spy a photographer pointing his lens at us from a black people carrier.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ Johnny answers. ‘Hang on.’

  The light turns green and he speeds across the intersection, leaving the photographer standing. I hear the car wheels squeal as he sets off in pursuit of us. At the next intersection Johnny runs through an amber light. I look back to see the driver slam on his brakes. He skids halfway across the pedestrian crossing, but is fortunately clear of oncoming vehicles.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I screech.

  ‘Wanker!’ Johnny shouts. He takes a right at the next junction and heads down some quieter back streets, just to make sure we’ve lost him. It seems we have.

  I relax into him as he rides out of the city and joins the highway. I press my face into his leather jacket, the scent of it filling my nostrils. I wrap my arms tig
hter around his waist.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I shout.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ he shouts back.

  We take an exit and start winding up into the hills. A sign tells me we’re on Mulholland Drive, and then I look to my left and get a clear view of the city; the multicoloured lights sparkle in the darkness.

  After a while Johnny pulls up in a lay-by and kicks his bike stand down. He hops off and removes his helmet, hanging it over his handlebars. I swivel my legs across and he stands in front of me, smiling as he unbuckles my helmet. He puts his hands on my waist and helps me down, then steps over a low wall and climbs a few metres down the slope. There’s a big boulder off to one side and he sits down on it, patting the space beside him.

  We sit side by side in comfortable silence for a minute or so, staring down at the lights.

  ‘Sometimes I come up here to write,’ he says, eventually.

  ‘Do you?’ I ask. ‘Doesn’t anyone spot you?’

  ‘Not so far. It’s quite amazing,’ he comments.

  ‘How is the writing going?’ I ask.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Will you play me some of it sometime?’

  He glances across at me and I wonder if he’s going to make a crack about my taste in music, but he looks away again.

  ‘Maybe,’ he answers. ‘In fact I’ve been thinking we should get away. Go to Big Sur or somewhere, just take a break from the city. I need to put my head down and crack on with the writing now, and I can’t concentrate round here.’

  ‘Sure, okay.’ My voice is calm, but inside I feel a rush of excitement at the prospect of going away with him.

  ‘Maybe Christian would be up for coming over, too,’ he muses.

  ‘That’d be nice,’ I say. I’d really like to see him again. ‘Do you think he’ll bring his girlfriend?’ I ask.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Johnny’s tone hardens.

  ‘Why not?’ I press.

  He remains silent.

  ‘You’re a funny one,’ I say, smiling. ‘Why don’t you just tell me?’

  He sighs. Finally he glances sideways at me, studying my face. ‘Christian and I have a bit of bad blood when it comes to women.’

  ‘You didn’t shag one of his girlfriends, did you?’ I blurt out.

  Johnny doesn’t answer.

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he replies.

  ‘Bugger,’ I say, trying to play it down a little. ‘How did that happen?’