Johnny Be Good (20 page)

‘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.

‘Fuck knows. But he’d better get back quick. Terrence will go ape-shit if he has to cancel tomorrow’s concert.’

‘What makes you think he won’t turn up for that?’ I ask, scared. ‘I mean, why are you so worried? He’s probably just gone for a walk or something.’

‘TJ said he was acting funny earlier.’ Bill looks shifty.

‘What sort of funny?’ I ask. ‘Drugs funny?’

‘Possibly,’ Bill admits. ‘But fuck knows what he’s mixed to get himself into that state.’

‘What do you mean? What state?’ Now I’m seriously concerned.

‘He climbed over the railings of the hotel balcony and hung off, laughing his bleedin’ head off.’

‘Holy shit,’ I say. His suite is on the top floor.

‘What did he say to you again? When he called?’ Bill asks.

‘He just wanted me to come and meet him. He didn’t say where.’

The hotel phone rings and Bill snatches up the receiver.

‘Yes! Where? Where is that? Can you get us a car? Okay. We’ll be down right away.’

Bill hangs up and grabs his jacket. ‘He’s down by the river. Some paparazzi arsehole snapped him and alerted the hotel. He must be well and truly fucked up for that to have happened. Normally they’d just get their photo and piss off.’

As we drive through the streets of Paris in the rain in search of Johnny, I stare out of the window at the Eiffel Tower looming way up above the rooftops. The photographer said that he saw Johnny somewhere nearby, and we’re just hoping and praying he’ll still be there by the time we reach him.

‘As long as he hasn’t thrown himself into the bloody river,’ Bill mutters.

The comment makes me feel slightly hysterical. ‘Why would he do that? Why? Has he done anything like that before?’

‘Calm down, girlie!’ Bill snaps. ‘I don’t think he’s suicidal. But yes, he has been in the past.’

The tabloids had said he was screwed up after the band split, but I hadn’t realised it had been as bad as that. I feel like my intestines have tied themselves up into knots inside my stomach.

‘Why the hell didn’t you follow him?’ Bill angrily directs his question at two of Johnny’s security team, who we’ve brought with us.

‘He told us not to!’ one of them hotly responds.

We cross the river and drive along beside it in the direction of the Tower. I stare out of the window, desperately hoping to see Johnny, but fearing it’s a lost cause. He could be anywhere by now.

‘There he is!’ Bill suddenly shouts.

‘Where?’ I shout back.

‘There!’

I follow Bill’s finger to a crowd of people near a bridge. I can’t see Johnny, but I can see flashbulbs going off.

Using my A-Level French, I direct the driver to take us as close as he can, then we scramble out of the car and push our way through the hordes.

I freeze. Johnny has his left arm around a down-and-out youth. His other hand is clutching an empty bottle of whisky. He’s almost falling over, he’s laughing so hard.

‘Johnny!’ I yell.

‘Nutmeg!’ He looks obscenely delighted and stumbles towards me, dragging the youth with him. ‘Bill!’ he shouts, letting go of the guy and the whisky bottle, which smashes to smithereens on the ground. He opens his arms up wide to Bill who, along with the security guys, is trying unsuccessfully to disperse the people
who have gathered. Johnny turns back to me and smothers me in a hug, leaning his body weight into me so hard that I almost collapse. He reeks of a combination of booze, fags and vomit. Not a scent anyone will be wanting to bottle and turn into Johnny Jefferson-endorsed aftershave anytime soon.

‘Come on, let’s get you back to the hotel.’ I breathe through my mouth to avoid the stench, and try to drag him through the crowd. Many are still snapping away with their cameras. Johnny, wasted, is clearly a much bigger tourist attraction than the famous 300-metre-high structure towering above us.

‘Wait. Wait!’ Johnny pulls me back. ‘Come and meet my new friends.’ He spins around and grabs my hand, pulling me back in the direction of the bridge where there is a group of large boxes, some of which have been covered with plastic and old scraps of material. A homeless community appears to reside there.

‘Johnny, I don’t think we should.’ I tug back on his hand, trying to resist.

‘Shame on you, Nutmeg. They’re people too, you know.’ He cracks up laughing again. ‘Listen, Nutmeg, listen,’ he says, then shouts at the small group of destitute youths before him, ‘Say it! Say it!’

‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ one of them responds.

‘Listen, Nutmeg, listen to this. Say it again!’

‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ the same guy complies.

Johnny turns to me excitedly. ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ he shouts. ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ he shouts again.

Bill and the security team burst through the crowd at that point and drag him back towards the car.

‘Quick! Move!’ Bill yells at the driver.

‘
Vite! Dépêchez-vous!
’ I repeat his words in French.

Johnny winds down the window and sticks his head out.

‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ he shouts at the top of his voice. ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’