Johnny Be Good (3 page)

So she’s seeing Johnny. Talk about Hollywood power couple. I’m starting to feel a little sick. Who could compete with Serengeti Knight?

Meg! Did you just use the word ‘compete’? As if!

I sneak a sideways glance at him. He’s peering closely at the computer screen, dark-blond hair partly obscuring his face. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top and I catch a glimpse of his tanned chest. I shudder and tear my eyes away as I recall the sight of him half-naked in the hot afternoon sun yesterday.

‘Scroll down,’ he orders me again.

He reads the rest of the piece, but it doesn’t really say much more apart from touching on Serengeti’s whereabouts. She’s in Las Vegas, publicising her film, and apparently was shocked and disturbed when she heard about Johnny’s supposed infidelity.

He slumps back in his chair.

‘Would flowers help?’ I suggest, tentatively.

His laugh is laced with sarcasm. ‘I don’t do flowers, chick. You need to know that.’

I feel my face turn red.

‘Oh, that’s right, you don’t know anything about me,’ he says, coolly. ‘You’re not a star-fucker, right?’

‘No,’ I bite back. ‘But I know where to find one for you if you want.’ I prod the photo of the brunette in lacy underwear, irritation searing through me.

He throws his head back and laughs, the first genuine laugh I’ve heard from him since we met. I look at him, defiantly, still annoyed by the fact that he keeps reducing me to a blushing fool.

‘Tempting,’ he says, ‘but I think I’m in enough trouble as it is.’ He grins. ‘Better go call her.’ He stands up and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a mobile phone. ‘Phone ran out of juice last night and she’s probably left me a dozen voicemails. You got the charger?’

‘Erm…’ I open desk drawers and hurriedly search through them. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Feeling useless, I flick through the manual. Where the hell would Paola have left a charger?

‘Sorry.’ I glance up at his face, which is now a picture of impatience. ‘You wouldn’t have any idea where it would be?’

‘No,’ he says, shortly.

I get up and go to the other desk, again opening drawers and riffling through them, my head buzzing with adrenalin.

Calm down, Meg, it’s only a bleeding phone charger, for goodness’ sake.

A thought suddenly occurs to me. ‘Hang on, haven’t you charged your phone since Paola left?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, brow furrowing as he racks his brain for a moment. ‘Bedside table,’ he informs me and promptly leaves the room.

Bedside bloody table, I mutter inwardly, and set about tidying six now very disorganised drawers.

A couple of hours later I’m still in the office and Johnny hasn’t reappeared. Rosa pops her head around the door.

‘I’m off, honey. I’ve left you a couple of pizzas in the fridge.’

‘Lovely, thanks!’

‘Did I hear Johnny come home?’ she asks.

‘Yes, a couple of hours ago. He went upstairs to call Serengeti.’

‘Aah,’ Rosa says, knowingly. I wonder how much attention she pays to the gossip-mongers.

‘Have you met her?’ I ask, referring to the actress.

‘Oh, yes, she’s been here a few times.’

I nod, wanting to find out more, but sensing it’s not really the done thing to pry.

‘Well, then, honey, I’ll be off. See you in the morning.’

‘Bye, Rosa. Thanks again!’

I call it quits for the day soon after that, and head out of the office. I stand at the foot of the stairs for a moment, listening for Johnny, but can’t hear anything. I wonder if I should go upstairs and ask him if he wants any pizza. Should I? Oh, I don’t know. I stand there for a moment, wavering. I probably should. I walk up a couple of steps, then pause and go back down again. No, I don’t want to bother him. He’ll come down if he’s hungry.

I go into the kitchen and turn on the oven, taking the pizzas out of the fridge. Rosa has made one with chicken, green peppers and red onion on what looks like a barbeque sauce, and another with buffalo mozzarella, tomatoes and basil. I wonder which one
Johnny would prefer. Is he a vegetarian? I doubt it. But I can’t be sure. Did it say anything like that in the manual?

I go to the foot of the stairs again and listen. No sound. This is ridiculous. I walk up the stairs with determination and turn left at the top, but get five paces towards his room and cop out. I meekly return downstairs and look in the fridge to see if there’s anything else I could eat to save me making a decision.

I suppose I could just have a jacket potato. I’m not really much of a cook. In fact, maybe I should just go up to my room and use the kitchenette there. I don’t want to be in his way.

Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll leave the oven on in case he wants the pizzas. Or maybe I should put them in for him?

I run my hands through my hair with frustration. I’m too tired for this. I’ll wait another half an hour and see if he reappears.

An hour and forty minutes later, I’ve been upstairs to my room and back downstairs to the kitchen about a dozen times. And I’m still no closer to making a decision.

I know it sounds like I’m being a nutcase. After all, it’s not exactly a critical question: to eat pizza or not to eat pizza?

Right, that’s it. I’m cooking them.

I open the oven and put them inside. A few seconds later I change my mind and take them back out.

‘What are you doing?’

Oh, here we go again. Meg looks like idiot in front of new boss. I turn around and plaster a smile on my face.

‘Nothing. I was just cooking some pizzas that Rosa left.’

‘Or not cooking them, as the case may be,’ Johnny says, nodding to the pizzas on the countertop.

I laugh, embarrassed, and pick up the baking tray they’re resting on and slide them back into the oven.

‘You want one?’ I figure it’s best to skip over any details that make me look like a moron.

‘Sure. What have we got?’

I tell him the options.

‘Halves?’ he asks.

Johnny suggests we eat out on the terrace, and a short while later I head out there with our dinner. He’s sitting on one of the sunloungers, strumming an acoustic guitar. I hold my breath when I realise he’s singing, too. He has the most beautiful voice: deep and melodic. I know he can belt them out when he wants to, but here and now he’s singing slowly, softly. I’m rooted to the spot.

He sees me and stops, resting his guitar next to the sunlounger and looking up at me with those piercing green eyes. Butterflies swoop into my stomach.

‘Is that one of your new ones?’ I try to keep my voice even as I stand in front of him with two very large plates.

‘No, Meg, that one’s by The Smiths.’

‘Oh, I was gonna say, why don’t you look around you, misery guts, haven’t you already got enough?’ I try to cover up my ignorance.

He chuckles. ‘I don’t think that sentiment occurred to Morrissey.’

‘What’s that old git got to do with it?’

‘He was the lead singer of The Smiths, Meg. Jesus, you really don’t know anything about music, do you?’

‘I know that The Spice Girls sold more albums than you when they were at their prime. And that was before they re-formed.’

He shakes his head at me in wonder. ‘How the hell did you ever come to work for me?’

‘Funny you should say that,’ I say. ‘I was talking to Rod Freemantle’s PA earlier—’

‘Talking?’

‘Well, MSN-ing. Anyway, I was talking to her–Kitty, her name is–and she said it took a month for you to replace Paola.’

‘Yep,’ he says, getting up and heading to the far right of the terrace where there’s a polished-concrete table with bench seating. I follow him.

‘Red wine okay?’ he asks, going to the outdoor bar.

‘Cool,’ I say, placing the pizzas on the table. He brings the wine over, along with a couple of glasses and a bottle opener.

‘So why
did
Paola leave?’ I ask, going to sit down.

‘Sit there,’ he says, indicating where with the bottle opener. ‘See the view.’

I do as he says while he opens the bottle and slides along beside me. I edge away from him a little.

‘I’m not going to bite.’ He gives me a sidelong glance and pours a couple of glasses of red. We eat in silence for a short while, looking down at the view. The smog has lifted and the sky is changing colour from blue to orange as the sun sets before us.

He still hasn’t answered my question.

‘So, Paola…’ I try again.

He takes a large mouthful of pizza.

Oh, I give up. And now I seem to have lost my appetite. Eating pizza is the last thing I feel like doing in front of Johnny Jefferson.

‘You done?’ he asks, as he finishes his third slice.

‘Yes, thanks.’ I push my plate away.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his fags, tapping the filter end of one on the tabletop before lighting it. He swivels to face me, resting his knee casually on the bench seat. I glance at him nervously.

‘You seem tense,’ he says.

‘I’m not tense,’ I lie.

He raises one eyebrow and flicks his ash onto his plate. Yuck. I get up and go to the bar area, bringing back a glass ashtray I spotted in there yesterday. He flicks his ash in it and grins at me. I look away.

‘You are definitely tense, chick.’

‘I’m not tense,’ I deny again, this time a little irritably.

He chuckles softly and slides the ashtray closer to him. I notice his fingertips are rough and calloused, I guess from playing his guitar.

‘So what did you get up to today?’ he asks.

‘Um, just sent out some emails introducing myself. Little bit of fan mail, that sort of thing. And I have a bunch of interview and photoshoot requests which we must go through.’

‘You’ve already told me that.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘S’okay.’

We fall silent again. I reach for my wine and take a sip.

I wish I didn’t feel so jittery. I’m usually quite composed. I sit up straighter with determination.

‘Did you get hold of Serengeti?’ I ask.

‘Yeah.’ Pause. ‘She’s cool.’

‘Glad to hear it. I really liked her in
Highlights & Lowlifes
,’ I reveal.

‘She’ll be delighted to hear it,’ he says, knocking back half a
glass of red wine in one gulp and glugging some more into his glass. ‘Top-up?’ he offers.

‘Thanks.’ I slide him my glass. ‘Have you seen her new movie yet?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Going to the premiere on Thursday.’

‘Wow! That must be so cool!’

‘I’ll get you a ticket. You can come, if you like.’

‘
Really?
’ I practically squeal.

‘Of course,’ he calmly confirms.

‘I wonder if Kitty’s going?’ I think aloud.

‘Who’s Kitty?’

‘Rod Freemantle’s PA,’ I answer.

‘Aah, yeah. The one you were MSN-ing earlier.’

I try again. ‘You never answered my question about Paola. Why did she leave?’

Johnny shrugs. ‘Just wasn’t for her, I guess. You’re a nosey little thing,’ he says, tapping another fag out onto the table.

I don’t reply, instead just swirl my wine around in my glass as though I haven’t heard him.

‘I wanted a Brit,’ he explains.

‘Someone from Britain?’

‘That’s what “a Brit” means, yeah.’

‘Why?’ I ask, undeterred by his sarcasm.

I don’t think he’s going to answer for a moment, but then he speaks.

‘Ah, you know…I kinda miss the UK. Nice to have a little piece of it here. Not that I’m calling you a piece,’ he adds quickly.

I laugh. ‘Do you get home very often?’

‘Not often enough,’ he replies.

‘Why is that?’

‘It’s a bit of a marathon to organise these days. And the tabloids over there are fucking awful. They won’t leave you alone.’

‘It must be hard,’ I muse.

‘Can’t really complain. Not when I’ve got all this.’ He motions around him.

‘It must still be hard, though.’

He shrugs.

‘Do many friends from home come to visit?’ I ask.

‘Sometimes, yeah. In fact, my mate Christian is coming this weekend.’

‘Really? In time for the gig?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That’ll be nice.’

Silence. I wish I could think of something more interesting to say.

He takes a long drag and then stubs out his half-finished cigarette, getting up from the table.

‘I’m going to hit the town,’ he tells me.

‘Oh, okay.’ I get up and start to clear the plates. ‘Do you want me to reserve a table for you anywhere? Call Davey?’

‘Nah. Just going to play it by ear,’ he calls as he reaches the sunlounger and picks up his guitar, swinging it over his shoulder. ‘Catch you later.’

‘Okay, bye!’ I reply, cheerfully.

As soon as he goes inside and slides the glass door shut behind him, I slump back down on the bench and take a deep breath.

I’m in trouble. I haven’t had a crush like this since I was fifteen and in love with my French tutor. He was divine: young–must’ve been mid-twenties–dark-haired, olive-skinned and devastatingly
good-looking. My parents wanted me to take extra lessons because they were considering moving the whole family to France. As it was, they stayed in the UK until I went to university and then retired to Provence, but the lessons paid off anyway. I got an A. Amazing what a crush can do in terms of motivation.

I still remember staring into his dark-brown eyes across the table…Mr Dubois. I don’t know what his first name was. Funny how it just never occurred to me to ask.

I wonder what he’s doing now? He was such a nice man.

Nice men…Unlike countless other women out there, I’ve never really gone for bad boys. Take my ex-boyfriend, Tom, for example. He was lovely and we’re still friends. No one could believe it when we broke up six months ago. We got on so well, but we just kind of fell out of love with each other and were more like brother and sister towards the end.

But I digress. My problem now is with Johnny Jefferson. My boss. And I don’t quite know what to do about it.