Johnny Be Good (31 page)

As predicted, the judge remands Johnny to rehab for six weeks. The press are all over the story like a rash, and I can’t go anywhere without hearing or seeing something about Johnny Jefferson.

He got into trouble for breaking the terms of his bail and fleeing the country for a couple of days. The judge let him off lightly because his dad, of all people, swore an affidavit to say he’d been poorly. He said Johnny had flown over in a panic to see him.

No one knows it was actually me he came to see.

I don’t tell Bess about Johnny’s visit. And I don’t tell Christian he kissed me, either. I just try not to talk about it. Or think about it. But the latter is easier said than done.

Late at night his words haunt me.

He won’t come back for me. He just won’t. He was drunk. He was angry. He was reacting to a situation he couldn’t control.

He didn’t mean it.

Work is really starting to get to me. I want a new challenge, but I’m not quite sure what. Even now I’m not ready to be someone else’s PA. I’m still considering the idea of going travelling. Christian hates it when I bring it up.

‘Don’t go travelling.’

‘Why not?’ I ask.

‘I’d miss you.’

‘Come too!’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have to work.’

He’s not lying. His publisher is so happy with Johnny’s biography that he’s been given a two-book deal–to write fiction, this time.

Christian is ecstatic. It’s what he’s always wanted.

The day Johnny is allowed out of rehab, I’m glued to the TV like the rest of the world.

I watch him walk out of the centre in his dark glasses and silver shirt, looking forever the rock star. He climbs into a car, which I suddenly recognise as Davey’s. I feel a pang as I watch him drive Johnny away.

Christian has decided it might be for the best if he speaks to Johnny about his rehab experience on the phone instead of in person. He thinks it might be too soon after what happened. He’s probably right.

The footage of Johnny walking out of the centre is being replayed
on the television. They’ve got some commentator talking about it, claiming to be an expert about what Johnny is going through.

I fold my arms tight across my chest. I hope he’s okay.

Christian is upstairs, watching the footage in the office. He needs peace and quiet to concentrate and make notes.

I need peace and quiet to think.

The phone rings, making me jump.

‘Hello?’

‘Meg, it’s Bess. Are you watching it?’

‘Yep.’ I cast a glance at the TV.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Okay, I think.’

‘Do you reckon it will last?’ she asks.

‘I doubt it. He’ll be back to his old ways before long.’

‘Bloody good publicity for his new single, though, hey?’

‘That’s for sure.’

They’ve been playing Johnny’s new single on the radio for a few weeks now. It’s tipped to go straight to Number One.

‘Well, I just wanted to check you’re okay,’ Bess says.

‘Thanks. I am,’ I tell her.

But as the days pass by, I feel increasingly on edge.

Christian keeps asking me what I’m thinking and why I’m so quiet, and I have to lie and tell him I’ve got a stomach ache or period pains or something. He buys it, most of the time, but I usually have to offer up more cuddles to put his mind at rest.

Do I
want
Johnny to come back for me? I’m happy with Christian. Do I
want
to feel confused all over again?

But I
am
confused. I’m always confused. It’s out of my hands, now, anyway.

I put make-up on every day, just in case. It’s stupid, I know, but
I want to look my best in case he comes. You know, for when I turn him down again.

One afternoon I arrive back at the flat after working the morning shift. I’ve walked down the narrow outdoor stairs and have my keys in the front door before I see him. He’s standing in the far corner behind me, out of sight of anyone walking above on the street.

‘Jesus!’ I squeal. ‘You scared the life out of me!’

‘Shh,’ he says, approaching slowly. ‘Can I come in?’

I can tell immediately that he’s sober. I feel light-headed. He follows me inside.

‘Christian’s not here,’ I say, leading the way through to the kitchen.

‘I know,’ he replies. ‘I called him earlier.’

‘Oh. Okay. Do you want a tea or coffee?’ I ask, half expecting him to opt for whisky instead.

‘Tea would be good.’

‘It worked, then?’

‘Rehab?’ he asks. ‘Yeah.’

‘Not going to relapse?’

‘I hope not,’ he says. ‘But every day as it comes.’

I nod and turn away to get a couple of mugs.

‘Thanks,’ he says, as I hand over his tea and he hesitantly takes a sip.

I watch him. ‘What are you doing here, Johnny?’ I ask, finally.

‘I said I’d come back for you.’

My heart beats so loud I worry it might pierce my eardrums.

‘I told you, I’m with Christian.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ he answers, indifferently.

I stare at him, frustrated.

‘You know it would never work, don’t you?’

‘Why not?’ he asks.

‘We’re not suited to each other,’ I say. ‘Lola’s more your type.’ I shoot him a loaded look.

‘No, she’s not,’ he says.

‘Whatever happened with her?’ I can’t help but ask.

‘Nothing after that night.’ He puts his mug down on the countertop.

I don’t know whether or not I believe him. The crazy part of me wants to.

But there was still that night. Still all the other women who have been there before me–and since. I’d always wonder if he was comparing me…How I measured up…I don’t think I could handle that.

And is he even capable of being faithful? I’d love to believe he is, that I would be enough for him, but I haven’t been so far, and the memory of Lola and all the other girls is still so raw. It’s a hopeless situation.

‘What do you want?’ I ask again. Be specific this time.

‘I want you to come back to LA with me.’ He folds his arms.

‘I can’t go back to LA with you.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to be your PA again!’ I raise my voice.

‘I don’t want you to be my PA again, either. I’ve got a perfectly good one as it is, thanks.’

I look at him in surprise. ‘What do you want, then?’

‘I want you to come back to LA with me as my
girlfriend
, Meg. Come and live with me.’

Thoughts rush through my head. Red carpets…Glitterati…Everything and anything I could ever want.

Except Christian. I want Christian.

He may not be a world-famous rock star. He may not have the female population of the world falling at his feet. But he cares for me. He’s a good guy. The type of guy I’ve always gone for–at least, before I met Johnny. But I’m still the same person I was back then. Despite the world I’ve been living in–drink, drugs, sex–I haven’t changed. And neither has Christian.

I
do
love him. I love him so much.

‘I can’t.’ I turn to Johnny, resolute.

He nods. ‘I just want you to think about it.’

His words do something to calm me, bizarrely. I sigh. ‘Okay.’

‘Cool.’ He picks up his mug again.

‘You seem different,’ I say, carefully.

‘I am different.’

‘But you’re still happy to steal your best friend’s girl?’

‘I’m not happy about it,’ he replies, nonchalantly. ‘I’ve never been happy about it. But you were my girl first.’

He meets my eyes quite calmly. God knows how. I feel anything but calm.

‘I like your new single,’ I say, trying to keep the conversation light.

‘Thanks. I hope you like the next one more.’

‘Why?’ I ask, intrigued.

‘I wrote it for you.’

I look at him in amazement. ‘You wrote it for me? When?’

‘Up in the Dales. I started it then,’ he says. ‘Finished it when we got back. It’s the second single released off the new album.’

I’m stunned. ‘When is it coming out?’

‘In a couple of months,’ he says. ‘But you can hear it tomorrow if you come back to LA with me.’

‘I can’t come back to LA with you,’ I tell him again. ‘Will you stick around for a bit?’ I ask, glancing down at my uniform. ‘I might go and get changed.’

‘Sure,’ he says.

I walk upstairs and go into my bedroom. I can’t focus. My head is a jumble of thoughts.

I pull some jeans and a shirt out of my wardrobe. I’m just sliding my arms into the shirt when I hear a noise behind me.

‘Johnny, what are you doing here?’ I exclaim, wrapping the shirt around my chest.

‘You’re not sleeping in Christian’s bedroom, then?’ He gives me a wry look.

‘Yes, I am,’ I reply. ‘But I keep my clothes in here.’

He walks towards me.

‘Don’t,’ I say.

He reaches me, his stare intense.

‘Don’t,’ I say again, putting my hand on his chest to stop him coming any closer. My knees feel weak.

He takes another step, pressing my hand hard into his chest. I freeze, barely able to breathe. And then he’s kissing me.

My willpower is shot. I kiss him back.

He pulls my shirt off my body, caresses my breasts, runs his hands down my back…His touch becomes more urgent, more frenzied, as he pushes me down on the bed and kisses my neck. I reach down to unbutton his jeans, Christian far from my mind. Right now it’s just Johnny.

I’m addicted to him. And no rehab centre is the world is going to be able to cure me.

Afterwards I lie on the bed beside him, a film of perspiration covering my body. I look up at the ceiling, at the frosted green-
glass lampshade that Christian bought me weeks ago in Camden Market.

Guilt washes over me.

Oh God, what have I done?

I get up and pull my clothes on. Johnny props himself up on his elbows and watches me. I don’t look at him.

‘You’d better go,’ I tell him, once I’m dressed.

‘Meg…’ he says, gently.

‘You need to go,’ I repeat, more forcefully. ‘Christian will be home soon.’

He collapses back on my bed and looks up at me, sadly. ‘You’re not coming to LA, then?’

I stare down at Johnny and shake my head, slowly. ‘I can’t. I can’t do that to him.’

‘What about me?’ he asks.

‘What about you? You’ll be okay,’ I tell him. ‘You always are.’

He gets out of bed. ‘I’ll give you three months,’ he says, tugging his jeans on.

‘Three months?’ I look at him, perplexed.

‘That’s how long I’ll wait for you.’

A lump forms in my throat and I bite back tears.

‘But no longer, Nutmeg. After that, I’m letting you go.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay.’

I’m in the kitchen, staring out of the window at the garden. The leaves are just starting to turn. Christian is in the living room, working on his book. He’s listening to his iPod, lost in another world, another place.

A song comes on the radio. It’s been at Number One for a month. I listen for a moment, right up until the point the brass band kicks in and Johnny’s voice soars into the chorus. Then I lean over and turn the radio off.

I trace my fingertips across my tummy and whisper, ‘That’s Mummy’s song.’

He can’t hear, yet. And I know in my heart it’s a ‘he’.

I just don’t know who he’s going to look like.

First of all I really want to thank everyone who read my debut novel,
Lucy In The Sky
. I was blown away by the sheer number of people who went to the trouble of reading it–not least my husband’s amazing 91-year-old grandma–and your enthusiasm, encouragement and feedback have meant more to me than anything.

Thank you to the brilliant Suzanne Baboneau, who is the loveliest editor I could ever wish for. I adore working with you. Thank you to Nigel Stoneman–you definitely are the best in the business, mate. And thank you to everyone else at Simon & Schuster for really getting behind me and my books. I sincerely appreciate all your hard work.

Many thanks to Helen Brookes, Angela Mash, Miranda Ramsay and Lauren Libin (the quintessential Facebook nut) for their suggestions and help with various forms of research.

Thank you to the mothers of (in order of appearance) Louie, Ash, Aidan, Zoe, Tahlia and Millie, for never failing to ask at our weekly catch-up sessions how the writing was going.

And thank you–always–to Bridie Tonkin and Naomi Dean for their continued love and support.

MASSIVE thanks to my brother Kerrin Schuppan, who came up with the title for
Johnny
as well as
Lucy
–I owe you big time. Now, bro, can you start thinking about the next one? It’s about…Oh, I’ll tell you later.

Thank you to my parents, Vern & Jenny Schuppan, for going above and beyond in so many ways I would have to write another book if I were to list them all here. (But Mum, this time make people buy their
own
books, otherwise you’ll need to take out a second mortgage…)

And thank you–so much–to my husband, Greg Toon, who has now read TWO chick-lit books for me and has been such an incredible sounding board for every part of this novel-writing lark. Thank you for the ideas, design input, constructive criticism and all your advice. You have always believed in me and I couldn’t have done it without you.

But most of all, thank you to my son, Indy, for sleeping just enough hours in the day in his first few months of life to enable me to finish my book. Love you, little one.