Johnny Be Good Read online

  ‘Johnny Jefferson!’ she says again. ‘I come in?’

  ‘That’s enough, now,’ I interrupt. ‘Thank you, you can leave.’ I try to shut the door but Johnny pushes it back open.

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Nutmeg,’ he says, casting his eyes over the girl in the maid’s uniform. She’s smiling up at him, through lowered lashes.

  ‘I come in?’ she says again, this time more sexily.

  Johnny pushes the door further back and steps aside for her.

  ‘Johnny!’ By now I’m cross, but that doesn’t stop the girl from wandering past me into the room.

  ‘That’ll be all, Meg.’ He dismisses me.

  I stand there.

  ‘You don’t speak English, do you?’ Johnny asks the girl.

  ‘English?’ she says, in her strong Italian accent. ‘No. I no speak English.’

  ‘Just as well we don’t need to talk.’ He winks at me and closes the door, leaving me out in the corridor.

  I’ll never get used to the groupies. Each time I witness him with other women, I feel like a part of me is being chipped away.

  ‘That’s sounding good, guys. Let’s take a break.’ Johnny bounds off the stage and jogs up the aisle. I sit up straighter in my seat.

  ‘Can you get me a sandwich or something?’ he asks me.

  ‘Sure.’ I grab my coat. ‘You want it back here?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m going to crack on. I think that riff needs something else there.’

  He’s a hard worker, Johnny. I didn’t realise it at first, with all the late nights, booze and women, but he is.

  I return shortly afterwards with a tuna and mayo roll for him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, taking a bite standing up. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small hip flask, opening it up and tipping it back into his mouth. ‘Damn. Out,’ he says, handing over the flask. ‘Can you top it up for me?’

  ‘Er, sure,’ I say, hesitantly. ‘What with?’

  ‘Whisky, what else?’ He gives me an amused look.

  ‘Do you want me to get you something else as well? Coke? Pepsi?’

  ‘Coke would be good.’ He grins at me, cheekily. I don’t get the joke for a moment and then it registers. He laughs when he sees my face. ‘No, chick, just the whisky would be good.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Johnny, I’m a bit worried about how much you’re drin—’

  ‘Thanks.’ He cuts me off and nods at the flask in my hand.

  I turn around and scuttle back up the aisle and out in search of a local off-licence. I knew I should have stocked up the theatre with the usual backstage food and drinks, but Johnny told me not to bother for rehearsals.

  Two days later, I’m backstage at Munich’s Olympic Stadium when Johnny appears by my side. He looks even hotter than usual tonight.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, Nutmeg! This is going to be fucking awesome!’

  He’s really hyper, bouncing up and down on the spot.

  A roadie appears with his guitar, but it takes time to hook him up because Johnny won’t stay still.

  The set is kicking off with ‘What You Are’, the newly arranged orchestral version, and I’m feeling on edge, even if he’s not. It was sounding great in rehearsals, but I bet it’s a whole different story when you’re playing to an 80,000-strong crowd.

  ‘Don’t look so nervous.’ He stands in front of me and puts his hands on my hips looking straight into my eyes. My heart flips as he studies my face momentarily and then grins at me. His eyes look funny. Kind of jittery. He’s obviously on a high, and it suddenly occurs to me it’s probably not a natural one.

  ‘Are you okay, Johnny?’ I ask again, this time more guardedly.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah! Chill out, girlfriend!’

  He frenetically rubs my hips with his hands and then sniffs, before letting go and bouncing on the spot again.

  ‘Here we go.’ He looks out at the stage.

  The orchestra start to play and Johnny’s band join in as the rearranged song makes its debut. Then Johnny’s out there, launching into the first verse, driving the crowd into a frenzy.

  At moments like this, I’m struck with the realisation that I know this guy, the Johnny Jefferson.

  I watch him caressing the microphone with his hands as the song quietens down just before the chorus kicks in. His guitar is hanging behind him on a strap and he swings it round and pounds on it as if his life depended on it. I watch, full of pride, and then I remember that jittery look in his eyes and a feeling of unease settles over me.

  He’s even more hyper after the concert, and it’s the same at the next show in Nice and in the two days off before we play in Barcelona.

  I reluctantly mention my concern to Bill.

  ‘And?’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean, “and”?’ I reply.

  ‘What’s the big deal? Haven’t we been through this with his drinking?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I say with frustration. ‘And I don’t care if you think I’m prim and proper, I’m just worried about him, Bill.’

  ‘Christ Almighty, girl! Give it a rest. Anyway, what do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know–stop him.’

  ‘Stop him?’ He laughs. ‘Stop him? How do you bloody well think I’m going to do that? He’s a big boy, you know, girlie. He’s not going to do what he’s told. Now run along and stop being a nuisance.’

  Needless to say, Bill’s really starting to piss me off.

  It’s early December by the time we reach Barcelona. It’s the first of three Spanish dates, with the next stop being San Sebastian, followed by Madrid.

  We’re staying in the city centre and we have the night off before the concert tomorrow night at Camp Nou. I decide to go for a walk, so rug up warm and head out of the hotel.

  I’ve downloaded Johnny’s back catalogue onto my iPhone and have been steadily making my way through it. I haven’t told him–he’d probably make fun of me–but his music is really starting to grow on me. I put my headphones in now and listen to his voice as I walk around town. Gaudí’s Sagrada Família has been lit up with spotlights, and the enormous, ornate church looks spectacular in the dark night. My phone starts to ring as the music in my ears simultaneously dies down.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Meg, it’s your mother.’

  ‘Hi! How are you?’

  ‘Oh, not the best, dear.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ I ask in alarm.

  ‘It’s your grandmother. I’m afraid she died this afternoon.’

  Regret engulfs me. I loved my gran. I realise I haven’t even sent her a single letter since I’ve been in LA. I feel dreadful. I start to cry.

  ‘Meg, Meg, don’t cry, dear. She was so proud of you, you know.’

  Which only makes me cry harder.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She’d been under the weather. She was in hospital. She fell asleep a few days ago and didn’t wake up.’

  ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ I complain.

  ‘We didn’t want to bother you,’ Mum explains. ‘We know you’re busy—’

  ‘Mum! You should have told me! When’s the funeral?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  We play in San Sebastian the day after tomorrow.

  ‘I know you won’t be able to make it,’ my mum continues.

  ‘What do you mean? I have to come!’

  But even though I protest, I know that it would be incredibly difficult for me to leave the tour.

  ‘Meg,’ Mum chides, ‘it’s okay. She wouldn’t have wanted you to sacrifice your work. I know you have to be there for Johnny…’

  I return to the hotel to wallow in my misery.

  Oh, Gran…I feel terrible at the idea of missing her funeral. But the more I think about it, the more I realise it would be a nightmare for me to leave.

  I should probably let Johnny know I won
’t be joining him and the crew tonight. We were planning on going to a bar in the Gothic Quarter.

  There’s loud music coming from his room and I don’t think he can hear me knocking, so I take out my purse and retrieve his spare electronic key card.

  Opening the door, I walk into the suite and am instantly struck by the sight of Johnny hoovering up a line of white dust into his nose with a straw. A spaced-out-looking guy with greasy black hair and stubble is lounging back on the sofa beside him.

  ‘Want some?’ the guy shouts to me over the music. He leans forward and offers up a small, clear plastic bag.

  ‘NO!’ Johnny puts his hand on the guy’s chest and angrily pushes him back hard against the sofa.

  ‘Whoa!’ the guy says.

  ‘She’s not into that shit,’ Johnny snaps, pointing a remote control at the stereo and turning the music down.

  ‘Okay, okay, man.’ The guy leans forward again and starts to unhurriedly pack away into a leather pouch the silver straw Johnny has just used.

  I stand there for a moment, not quite sure what to say or do. I want to turn and run but, remembering Bill’s patronising words, I try to stay calm.

  ‘Johnny, I wanted to tell you…’

  It’s hard to keep my concentration and not look at the white lines of powder on the coffee table in front of me. The greasy-haired guy is really putting me off, too, just by his mere presence.

  ‘I wanted to say…’

  Johnny is still looking furious. I don’t know whether he’s mad at me for seeing him snort cocaine, or his mate for offering me some.

  ‘I can’t come to the bar tonight,’ I manage to spit out.

  ‘Why not?’ he asks, his green eyes penetrating my dark ones.

  ‘My…my…I’ve had some bad news,’ I stutter. ‘Personal stuff. Okay?’ I must look desperate. I really want to leave the room now.

  ‘Meg. Meg!’ he calls, as I start to back away.

  ‘I have to go…’

  He blocks me off at the door.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He’s looking down at me intently, his hand on the door. I look away. ‘Hey! Nutmeg! Look at me!’ he demands. ‘What is it?’

  Apart from seeing the man I have feelings for get wasted every night, come on to groupies and do drugs, you mean?

  I have an overwhelming urge to cry again, not just for my gran, but for myself. The last few months have been so intense. I constantly feel confused. Johnny is lovely to me one day, detached and horrible the next. I keep telling myself that this silly crush on him will go away, that it’s not serious, but every time I see him flirting with girls backstage I feel like he’s causing me physical pain. There’s an ache inside me right now as I look up at him.

  He puts his hand roughly on my arm. ‘Nutmeg, what’s wrong?’ he demands again.

  Then he sniffs. It brings me down to earth with a bump.

  ‘It’s my grandmother,’ I tell him. ‘She passed away this afternoon. I’m just a bit upset about it, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No. I just need some time alone.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ He lets go of my arm, leaving it cold. ‘When’s the funeral?’ he asks.

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’ I quickly tell him that I won’t be going.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  I put my hand on the door handle and look at him, waiting for him to step aside. He does. Then I open the door and walk out into the bright corridor.

  By the time we reach Paris, just over a week later, Johnny’s behaviour has taken a distinct downturn. A couple of days ago, after we’d played in Madrid, I went into his room to wake him up. He was out cold. There were two girls in his bed, also out cold, and puke in one corner on the floor. The room stank. He’d made me promise the previous afternoon to get him out of bed at ten o’clock so he could check out an art gallery in town which closed at midday.

  I stood there at the foot of his bed for a minute with my heart pounding before I went back to my room and called him instead. The phone rang out three times before he groggily picked up.

  ‘What you wake me for?’

  ‘You said you wanted to go to that gallery today…’

  ‘No.’ He grunted. ‘Rather sleep.’

  I didn’t see him at all that day. I called him twice more, but each time he told me he needed to sleep.

  Now we’re in Paris and he’s hyper again. We’re playing two concerts here at the Stade de France–the first was last night, the next is tomorrow night–and after that we’re heading back across the Channel to do Manchester, Newcastle, Glasgow, Dublin, Cardiff and London.

  We’re staying in a beautiful, old, five-star hotel near the Champs-Élysées, and I have the night off before tomorrow’s concert. My parents have travelled up from Grasse in the south to have dinner with me at the Pompidou Centre. My mum is telling me about my grandmother’s funeral.

  ‘Did Susan and Tony go?’ Tony is my sister’s husband.

  ‘Of course,’ Mum says, before realising that might sound slightly insensitive considering I didn’t make it.

  ‘Bet she was pissed off with me for not going,’ I grumble, looking out of the window at the city of Paris stretched out below us. It’s a wet and windy night, but I can just make out the Eiffel Tower off in the distance.

  ‘She said you haven’t spoken to her in months.’ Mum’s voice is stern.

  Dad fingers the glass vase holding a single long-stemmed rose in the middle of the table. He hates domestics and there are usually several where my sister and I are concerned.

  ‘I thought you said you were going to call her?’ Mum continues.

  ‘Yeah, well, she never called me,’ I whinge.

  ‘You’re as bad as each other,’ my mum decides, ending the conversation by picking up her menu and burying her head in it.

  ‘Did anyone say anything about me not being there?’ I persist, hoping in some way to alleviate some of my guilt, but realising it will probably have the opposite effect.

  ‘Everyone understood.’ Mum tries to reassure me. It doesn’t work. I moodily study my menu.

  ‘This restaurant is rather fancy, isn’t it?’ Dad attempts to change the subject.

  I glance around the room at the giant, rounded aluminium structures. They’re like something out of another world, silver on the outside and glowing different colours within. The one closest to us is yellow inside and is hosting a table full of happy diners drinking large glasses of wine.

  ‘What’s going to happen to her house?’ I focus my attention back on Gran.

  ‘We’re going to rent it out,’ Dad tells me.

  I don’t really like the idea of other people staying in my gran’s home. I tell my parents as much.

  ‘Well, how would you feel if we sold it?’ Dad asks, as the waiter appears with our drinks.

  ‘Worse,’ I admit.

  ‘Exactly. Your mother and I were even thinking we might want to live there one day.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m pleasantly surprised at the thought of them moving back to England. I disregard the fact that I might be in America.

  My phone rings, interrupting our discussion.

  ‘Hello? Meg Stiles?’

  ‘NUTMEG! Where the fuck are you?’

  It’s Johnny, and it sounds like he’s wasted.

  ‘I’m having dinner with my parents.’ I try to sound calm. ‘I told you that.’

  ‘Get your arse down here, man, we’re having a wicked time!’

  ‘Where’s “here”, Johnny?’ I go along with it.

  ‘Where the fuck are we?’ I hear Johnny shout. He comes back to me a second later. ‘I don’t know where the fuck we are.’ Then he cracks up laughing.

  ‘Johnny!’ I raise my voice. ‘Are you okay? Do you need me to send a car?’

  ‘No, Nutmeg, we’ll be fine. We’ll be FINE!’ He cracks up laughing again and hangs up.

  I stare down at my phone. />
  ‘Is everything okay?’ Mum asks, tentatively.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, determinedly.

  We place our food order, but I’m preoccupied now. When my phone rings I jump, even though I was half expecting it.

  ‘Meg, it’s Bill. Where are you, girlie?’

  ‘At the Pompidou Centre. I’m with my parents in the restaurant.’

  ‘I think you should get back here sharpish. Johnny’s gone AWOL.’

  ‘What do you mean? He just called me.’

  ‘He called you?’ Bill sounds surprised.

  ‘Yes. Just a little while ago.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He wanted me to meet up with him. But he couldn’t tell me where he was.’

  I glance at my parents across the glass table. They look worried.

  ‘Well, he’s not answering his phone, now,’ Bill says.

  ‘Let me give it a go.’

  ‘He’s not going to answer it any more if you call than if I call!’ Bill snaps.

  ‘Just let me try it. If he doesn’t, I’ll come back to the hotel,’ I insist, ending the call.

  I dial Johnny’s number. It rings and rings. Come on, Johnny, pick up. As Bill predicted, he doesn’t.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Johnny’s disappeared,’ I tell her, getting to my feet.

  ‘Do you really have to go?’ Dad looks disappointed.

  ‘I should,’ I say, pushing in my chair. ‘Johnny’s manager wants me back at the hotel.’

  ‘You haven’t even eaten!’ Mum points out, frustrated.

  ‘I’m sorry, but this is just the way it is.’

  And the way it is, is a bloody nightmare.

  ‘Perhaps we can have a coffee tomorrow?’ I suggest, kissing them goodbye.

  I wind my way back through the tables and aluminium pods in the restaurant and back down several sets of escalators. Crossing the square to the main road, I hail a cab and head back to the hotel. I go up to Bill’s room where I discover there’s still no sign of Johnny. I’ve tried calling him a dozen times on the way back here, but each time it went straight through to answerphone. Earlier it just rang and rang, which means that it’s probably run out of battery. Either that, or something might have happened to it. Or to Johnny. I shudder at the thought.

  ‘Where do you think he could have gone?’ I ask Bill.