Johnny Be Good Page 8

  It’s seven forty-five and Rosa’s not here yet. In fact, it’s strange to find Johnny in the kitchen at this hour.

  ‘Just a coffee would be good.’

  ‘Band coming over again today?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, any minute. Meg, bring the coffee up. I’m going to get cracking.’

  ‘He’s in a bad mood,’ a happily-munching Christian muses as Johnny exits the kitchen. He reaches for his notepad and starts to scribble.

  Five minutes later I take Johnny’s coffee upstairs to the studio, black, no sugar, just how I know he likes it.

  ‘Cheers, babe,’ he says, taking it from me. He eyes me up and down. I’m still wearing my bathrobe.

  ‘Sorry, I’ll go and get changed. I’ve just been for a swim,’ I explain, feeling jittery.

  ‘Aah. Got that skimpy little bikini on under there, hey?’ He raises one eyebrow at me. The buzzer goes and I start. Johnny chuckles softly as I leave the room.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Christian calls up the stairs to me.

  ‘Thanks.’ I hurriedly make my way to the safety of my bedroom.

  A couple of hours tick by and the phone is ringing off the hook in the office. I catch sight of Rosa passing by outside with a tray and pluck some courage from God knows where.

  ‘Rosa, I’ll take that up for you,’ I call. ‘I need to chat to Johnny about a couple of things anyway.’

  Christian is still sitting at the mixing desk, although the only dial he’s touching is the volume. He gets up quickly to hold back the door as I budge it open with my left shoulder.

  Johnny looks annoyed behind the glass. He nods at me, acknowledging my presence, and swings his guitar off his shoulder. The band stay behind the glass as Johnny enters the room.

  ‘I’m fed up with this,’ he growls as he grabs his mug of coffee. ‘Want to take that in to them?’ he says to me, so I pick up the tray and go through to the band. I get a couple of grunts but no actual thank yous.

  ‘I think it’s sounding good,’ Christian is saying as I return to the mixing room.

  ‘It sounds like shit,’ Johnny snaps. Christian reaches for his notepad.

  ‘Don’t piss me off,’ Johnny warns.

  ‘What, you want to censor me?’ Christian asks with a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘No! Oh, for fuck’s sake. I can’t concentrate!’

  I stand awkwardly by the door, my own notepad in hand. Johnny notices me suddenly.

  ‘Do you want something, Meg?’

  ‘Erm, I really need an answer about those interviews.’

  ‘What interviews?’

  ‘You know, the ones I’ve mentioned to you a couple of times.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Well, Rolling Stone want to speak to you backstage, just before you go on. A journalist from the NME is in town and he’s coming to the gig, wondering if he can—’

  He interrupts. ‘You sort it. You decide.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. I’ll have to ask Bill. I don’t know Johnny well enough yet to know what is the right thing to do. It’s a bit bloody stressful, to be honest.

  Christian is still writing on his pad.

  ‘Mate, will you cut that out?’ Johnny says.

  ‘Look!’ Christian responds, angrily. ‘What do you want me to do, write your fucking biography or kiss your arse?’

  Johnny looks furious for a moment, but then his face relaxes.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just feeling a bit harassed with all this.’ He runs his hand through his hair and looks in at his band.

  ‘Yeah, I know, mate.’ Christian’s voice softens too. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  I’m still standing awkwardly by the door, not sure whether to stay or leave.

  ‘No, you’re alright. And Meg,’ he says to me, ‘sorry for snapping at you. Speak to Bill. He’ll know what to do about the interviews.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Hey,’ Johnny says, suddenly, ‘why don’t you two take the afternoon off? Go somewhere, down to Santa Monica or something. You’ve got enough of me being in a foul mood for the book, haven’t you, Christian?’ He smiles, weakly.

  ‘Er, yeah,’ Christian says, considering the suggestion. ‘That’s not a bad idea. You up for that, Meg?’

  ‘Um…’ I don’t really want to leave the house while Johnny’s in it, but it would be a shame to pass up a sightseeing opportunity.

  ‘Go on,’ Christian urges.

  ‘Okay, but I’d better ring Bill first and get back to these journalists.’

  ‘Cool!’ Christian enthuses. Johnny heads back into the glass room. ‘Hey, mate,’ Christian calls after him. ‘Can we take a car?’

  Johnny waves his hand, distractedly. ‘Sure, sure, whatever.’

  Christian gives me a look of unadulterated excitement and pushes me out of the room. ‘Quick! Before he changes his mind.’

  I don’t know what all the fuss is about until forty minutes later when I arrive at the bottom of the stairs to see Christian still looking like a kid who’s about to go to Disneyland.

  ‘Come on, come on!’

  I can’t help but laugh as I follow him outside to the garage.

  Christian waves at one of the security guards–I think it’s Lewis–who comes over to the garage and types in an eight-digit security code.

  ‘Keys are in the cars. Have a good day,’ Lewis says, ushering us inside with brusque authority.

  ‘Are they always that cool about letting people take Johnny’s cars?’

  ‘No. I arranged it with Lewis a little while ago. Johnny’s let me use them before.’

  Christian flicks a switch inside the garage and the large white room is illuminated. Lined up in front of us are six differently coloured cars, gleaming in the overhead lights. There are a couple of motorcycles at the end.

  ‘What do you reckon, Meg? Which one shall we go for?’

  ‘I don’t know. The blue one?’

  He laughs. ‘You can’t just say the blue one.’

  ‘The red one, then?’

  ‘Meg! That’s practically blasphemy. Stop talking in colours.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know that much about cars.’

  ‘Right, then, you’re going to have to learn, otherwise this will be a totally wasted experience for you. Come on.’ He beckons me to follow him and we head over to the first car on the left. It’s sleek, shiny and charcoal grey.

  ‘This is a Mercedes Gullwing. It’s a 1950s classic car. The doors lift out to the sides, so it looks a bit like a seagull–hence the name Gullwing.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say, peering in at the red-leather interior.

  He moves on to the next one. It’s electric blue.

  ‘And this is a Porsche 911 turbo. Good run-around, every day kinda car. Only costs around £110,000.’

  ‘Sorry, did you just say only?’ I ask, taken aback. I can’t believe Johnny said I can drive this one.

  ‘Those two at the end will set you back more than a million bucks.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Hang on, we’ll get to them in a minute,’ he says moving along to the next one. It’s silver.

  ‘Here you’ve got another Porsche, but this is a Carrera GT. It’s one of the fastest cars Porsche ever produced.’

  ‘Nice,’ I admit.

  The next car is red.

  ‘Ferrari Enzo. They only built four hundred and you had to be invited to buy one. Johnny was one of the lucky few.’

  ‘Wicked!’

  ‘Don’t make up your mind yet,’ he tells me, sternly, moving on to the penultimate vehicle. It’s black.

  ‘Now, this sexy little beast is a McLaren F1. It was the fastest production car ever built for a while.’

  ‘Oh, I like it…’

  ‘Yeah, it’s also Johnny’s favourite because it’s got three seats.’ I look at him inquisitively. ‘Good for pulling two groupies when he’s in that sort of mood,’ Christian explains.

  On sec
ond thoughts, I don’t like it very much at all.

  ‘The seats are tiny,’ I point out, trying to sound nonchalant.

  ‘That’s the way he likes his girls,’ is Christian’s reply.

  ‘So what about this one?’ I hurry on to the silver and cream creation at the end.

  ‘Now this is a Bugatti Veyron. It is currently the world’s fastest supercar. Nought to sixty in three seconds, and it changes shape to reach its top speed. Johnny bought it only six months ago.’

  The reverence with which he speaks is quite amusing.

  ‘Let’s take it!’ I decide.

  ‘Why? Why do you want to go for this one?’

  Oh bugger, now he’s challenging me. ‘Well, you just implied it was the best. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he concedes. ‘But I want you to fully appreciate why. Have a look inside,’ he encourages, opening the passenger door.

  ‘It is really nice,’ I tell him, before realising that won’t quite suffice. ‘I like the dash,’ I improvise. ‘I bet that looks amazing when it’s all lit up.’

  That seems to do the trick. Christian leaps into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asks. I solemnly nod that I am. He turns the ignition on and presses a switch to start the engine. The car roars into life. ‘Listen to that,’ he says, opening his eyes and looking across at me.

  ‘Wow.’ Okay, it does sound pretty impressive, but I’m not going to climax or anything. ‘Ooh, look,’ I say, pointing at the lights on the dashboard.

  Christian smiles and leans back in his seat, listening for a minute.

  ‘Are we off, then?’ I press.

  ‘So you definitely, definitely want to take the Bug, right?’ He looks across at me.

  ‘Bug? Oh, Bugatti. Yes. The Bug is clearly the cream of the crop.’

  That seems to settle it once and for all. He adjusts his seat and mirrors, puts his belt on, and gently eases the car out of the garage.

  ‘THIS SPEED LIMIT IS REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING!’ he shouts to me, fifteen minutes later. We’re on the freeway, heading towards Santa Monica. ‘I REALLY WANT TO GIVE IT SOME WELLY!’

  I give him my best sympathetic look but don’t attempt to compete with the noise of the engine.

  The ocean stretches out in front of us, clear and blue, the afternoon sun hitting it and sending up billions of glittering sparks. We pull up at the super-swish Viceroy hotel, which Christian thinks is the safest option for local valet parking.

  ‘We should go for a drink at the poolside bar later,’ he tells me. ‘It’s really nice in there.’

  It’s not as hot now as it has been, although I’m sure the cool breeze from the ocean has a lot to do with that. We wander along the dusty pavement in the direction of the water.

  Santa Monica beach is long with boardwalks running through white-as-snow sand. Palm trees line the pavement at the highest point of the beach, and off in the distance there’s a pier with a Ferris wheel. Christian moves me out of the way of a passing rollerblader and I look back to see six more coming. We approach a skates-for-hire shop, and I’m kind of tempted even though I can’t skate for buggery. It just seems like an appropriate thing to do.

  ‘Fuck off, you’re not going to get me on those things,’ Christian says when I suggest it. ‘I’ll have a go on that, though.’ He points to an area called ‘The Original Muscle Beach’, according to a sign. It looks like an adult-sized kids’ playground.

  ‘Go on, then,’ I say, smiling.

  We take off our shoes and step onto the warm sand, which is packed with sunbathers. To our left a group of super-fit people are playing volleyball and I also spot a couple of lifeguard watch towers. It’s like we’re on the set of Baywatch or something. Except I’m distinctly lacking in the boob department, and Christian’s not exactly the Hoff in his prime, either. He launches himself at the rings and starts to swing from one to another. He gets to four in and then stops, hanging there, panting. He looks so ridiculous I start to laugh.

  A large, muscular man with an orange tan and oily limbs stands by, watching as Christian attempts another couple of rings. It soon becomes clear he’s waiting for Christian to get off, so I go to the end and start to offer encouragement.

  ‘Come on, Christian, you can do it!’ I shout, enthusiastically. He swings a couple more.

  ‘Come on, boy, come on!’ I shout again, this time patting my knees like he’s a dog. He doesn’t look very amused, but he makes it to the end eventually.

  ‘Fuck me, that was hard,’ he pants, doubled over, as he glances back to see Oily Man swing along all of the rings in five seconds flat. He flashes me a cheeky grin and I start to giggle.

  ‘Wanna go on the Ferris wheel?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah!’

  He does have a lovely smile.

  The Ferris wheel is followed quickly by the rollercoaster, but Christian refuses to go on the old-fashioned carousel. ‘Do I look like a little girl to you?’

  ‘No, but you do eat kiddie cereal.’

  It’s remarkable how relaxed I feel in Christian’s company, considering we’ve only just met. I wonder if he has a girlfriend?

  He’d be an ideal boyfriend. Not for me. For Bess. Or Kitty. Someone, anyway. It would be a shame to waste him.

  As the afternoon wears on and the sun starts to dip in the sky and cast shadows over the footprints in the sand, we wander along the pier towards the end. There’s a mobile candy shop along the way and my sweet tooth gets the better of me, so I pull on Christian’s T-shirt to get him to stop. His eyes widen in wonder as we stand and survey row upon row of brightly coloured sweets. He hastily grabs a plastic bag and passes it to me, hanging on to the scoop himself. I point at some soft mini watermelons and he digs in while I hold the bag open in front of him.

  ‘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.

  Chapter 8

  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!