Baby Be Mine (51 page)

I kick off my shoes and throw myself onto the enormous bed, laughing as I look up at the ceiling.

If only Bess could see this place . . . It’s such a far cry from our dingy flatshare back home. It’s getting on for midnight now in England and she will have hit the sack long ago, sleeping off her hangover before work tomorrow. I decide to send her a text to wake up to in the morning. I climb off the bed, smiling at the feel ing of the thick white shagpile carpet between my toes, and grab my phone from my bag.

Actually, I think I’ll send her a picture. I slide open the camera lens instead, snapping the massive room with the (now slightly crumpled) bed in the middle. I punch out a message:

Check out my bedroom! Haven
’
t met him yet but house is amazing! Wish you were here x

She is going to die when she sees the outside view. I’ll have to send her that tomorrow.

I decide to unpack later and instead go and see Rosa downstairs. I find her in the kitchen, frying chicken, peppers and onions in a pan.

‘Hey there! I was just preparing you a quesadilla. You must be starving.’

‘Can I help?’ I ask.

‘No, no, no!’ She shoos me away, minutes later delivering the finished product, cheese oozing out of the edges of the triangular-cut tortillas. She’s right: I am starving.

‘I would offer to make you a margarita, but I think you just need feeding up, judging by the state of those skinny arms.’ She laughs and pulls up a chair.

My arms
are
skinny compared to hers. In fact, every part of me is skinny compared to Rosa. She’s like a big Mexican momma away from home.

‘Where do you live, then?’ I ask, and discover that home is an hour’s drive away, where she has three teenage sons, one ten-year old daughter, and a husband who works like mad but loves her like crazy from the way she smiles when she speaks of him. It’s a long way for her to travel, but she adores working for Johnny. Her only regret is that she’s not often there to see him tuck into the meals she leaves for him. And it breaks her heart when she comes in the next morning and finds the food still in the refrigerator.

‘You have got to make that boy eat!’ she insists to me now. ‘Johnny don’t eat enough.’

Hearing her speak about ‘Johnny’ is strange. I keep thinking of him as ‘Johnny Jefferson’, but soon he’ll just be Johnny to me as well.

I do already feel like I know him, though. It’s impossible to live in the UK without knowing about Johnny Jefferson, and after a lunch break of Googling him when I worked at Marie’s, I now know even more.

His mother died when he was thirteen so he moved from Newcastle to live with his father in London. He dropped out of school to concentrate on his music and formed a band in his late teens. They signed a record contract and were global superstars by the time Johnny was twenty. But he spiralled out of control at the age of twenty-three when the band broke up, before coming back almost two years later as a solo artist. Now thirty, he’s one of the most successful rock stars in the world. Of course there are still rumours of his dodgy lifestyle. Drink, drugs, sex – you name it, Johnny’s probably done it. I don’t mind the odd drink, and I’m not a prude, even if I have had only three serious boyfriends, but I’m really not into the drug scene, and I’ve never been attracted to bad boys.

Rosa heads off at six-thirty and urges me to get outside by the pool. Ten minutes later I’m on the terrace, clad in the black bikini that I bought for my recent holiday in Italy with Bess. The sun is still baking hot so I stand on the steps in the shallow end and tilt my head back up to catch the rays. The glittering blue water is cool, but not cold, and I don’t flinch as I immerse myself fully. I swim a few laps and decide then and there to swim fifty every morning. I did so much walking in London that keeping fit was effortless, but everybody drives cars here so I might need to work at it.

After a while I climb out and spread my towel on the hot paving stones beside the pool, forgoing the sunloungers so I can trail my fingers in the water. My hangover is long gone, and I lie there feeling blissfully happy, listening to the sound of the water filtering through the swimming pool and the cicadas chirping in the undergrowth. High overhead a distant aeroplane leaves a long white streak in the cloudless sky and out of the corner of my eye I can see little black birds swoop down to drink from the pool. I begin to feel dozy.

‘Is this what I pay you for?’

I jolt awake to find a dark figure hovering above me, cutting out my sun. I’m so shocked I almost fall in the pool.

‘Whoa, shit!’

I rummage around to try to pull my towel out from under my bum so I can cover myself up, but it drops in the water.

‘Bollocks!’

I hastily scramble to my feet, realising all I’ve done in the last few seconds is curse at my new boss.

‘Sorry,’ I blurt. His eyes graze over my body and I feel like he’s undressing me. Which isn’t that difficult, because I’ve barely got anything on as it is. I cross my arms in front of my chest, desperately wanting to retrieve my soaking towel from the pool. Unfortunately, though, that would involve bending over, which is not something I feel comfortable doing right now. I look up.

He’s actually quite tall – about six foot two, I estimate, com pared to my five-foot-seven-inch frame – and is wearing skinny black jeans and a black T-shirt with a silver metal-studded belt. His dirty blond hair falls messily around his chin and his green eyes, with the light of the swimming pool reflected in them, look almost luminous.

Christ, he
is
gorgeous. Even more so in real life than in pictures.

‘Sorry,’ I say again, and his mouth curls up slightly as he reaches down behind me to drag my sopping-wet towel out of the pool. I instinctively want to step away from him, but the only way is backwards and into the water, and I think I’ve made enough of a tit of myself as it is. He straightens himself back up and wrings the towel out, muscles on his bare arms flexing with the move ment. I notice his famous tattoos and can’t help but feel on edge.

I remember my sarong is hanging on one of the sunloungers behind him, but he makes no attempt to move for me as I awk wardly sidestep him before hurrying over to grab it. I quickly tie the still-way-too-small green piece of material around my waist.

‘Meg, right?’ he says.

‘Yes, hi,’ I reply, watching him while shading my eyes from the sun as he rolls the wet towel up into a ball and aims it at a basket six metres away. It goes straight in. ‘And you, er, obviously, are Johnny Jefferson.’

He turns back to me. ‘Johnny will do.’ I note that he has a few freckles across his nose that I’ve never noticed in photographs.

‘I was just, um, taking a break,’ I stutter.

‘So I figured,’ he replies.

‘I didn’t think you’d be back until tomorrow.’

‘I figured that also.’ He raises an eyebrow and delves into his jeans pocket, pulling out a crumpled cigarette packet. Sitting down on one of the sunloungers, he lights up and casually pats the space next to him, but with the way my heart is beating, I figure I’d be safer on the sunlounger opposite instead.

‘So, Meg . . .’ he says, taking a long drag and looking across at me.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you smoke?’ he asks, not offering me a cigarette.

‘No.’

‘Good.’

Hypocrite. I think it, but I don’t have the guts to say it.

‘How old are you?’ he asks.

‘Twenty-four,’ I reply.

‘You look older.’

‘Do I?’

He flicks his ash into a two-foot-high stainless-steel ashtray and narrows his eyes at me. ‘There’s a lot of pressure with this job, you know.’

Oh, okay, not really a compliment, more a concern.

‘I can handle it.’ I try to inject some confidence into my voice.

‘Bill and Wendel seem to think so.’ He sounds quite American, which is surprising considering he spent the first twenty-five years of his life in England. ‘Got a boyfriend?’ he asks.

Hey, hang on a second . . . ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Don’t get touchy,’ he says, looking amused. ‘I just want to know what the chances are of you getting homesick and buggering off back to Old Blighty.’
Now
he sounds English...

His stare is making me feel uncomfortable so I hold his gaze for only a couple of seconds. He remains silent and I sure as hell don’t know what to say to him.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

Question? What question? Oh, boyfriend question . . . I’m find ing it difficult to focus.

‘No, I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Why not?’ he bats back immediately, before taking another long drag on his cigarette.

‘Er, well, I did have one but we broke up six months ago. Why?’

He grins, stubbing out his fag. ‘Just curious.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Want a drink?’

I stand up quickly. ‘I’ll get it.’

He gives me a wry look over his shoulder as he wanders over to the other side of the terrace where there’s an outdoor bar area. ‘Chill out, chick, I’m perfectly capable of getting myself a drink. What are you having?’

I opt for a Diet Coke.

He returns with two large whiskies on the rocks and hands one over. I look down at it and back up at him. His expression is blank. Did he hear me?

‘Um . . .’ I say, but the next thing I know he’s dragging his T-shirt over his head. Oh my God, I don’t know where to look. I take a large gulp of whisky as he stretches out on a sunlounger.

Right then and there, the ridiculousness of the situation hits me. This is nuts. Johnny Jefferson –
the
Johnny Jefferson! – is here in front of me, so close that I could actually reach out and touch him. I could tweak his nipple, for crying out loud! Imagine if I sent Bess a picture of
this
view. A small snort escapes me at the thought.

‘You alright?’ He glances over at me.

‘Yes,’ I answer. But, embarrassingly, I start to giggle.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing,’ I quickly reply, but inside my head my mind is going into overdrive . . .

Nothing? A week ago I was working in an architects’ studio in London and now I’m in LA, in a rock star mansion, sitting on a sunlounger next to a half-naked rock star! If that’s not surreal, I don’t know what is.

He knocks back his whisky in one and I hold out my hand for the glass.

‘Another?’

He hesitates for a moment before offering it up. ‘Why not.’

About time I start doing my job. I get up and hurry to the bar area, finishing the rest of my drink. I survey the bottles in the cupboard under the bar, searching for the whisky. I spot a can of Diet Coke and consider switching but think better of it. What I need right now is some Dutch courage. And a few shots of tequila wouldn’t go amiss . . . Ooh, there
is
a bottle of tequila in here, actually. I glance over at Johnny Jefferson, sprawled out on a sun-lounger and facing away from me, oblivious to my beverage dilemma.

No, Meg, no. No tequila for you.

Oh, bugger it, I’ll just have one.

I take a quick swig from the bottle and almost spit the booze back out as it sears the back of my throat. I desperately,
desperately
want to cough. Instead I swallow furiously and choke back the tears.

I need water. Water!

Or perhaps another swig of tequila would help?

Oddly, it does.

‘You know what you’re doing over there?’ Johnny calls out.

Whoops, I’ve been ages.

‘Yes, just coming!’

I approach the sunloungers, trying not to get distracted by the sight in front of me.

‘Cheers.’ Johnny chinks my glass and takes a gulp as I sit down.

His chest is toned and smooth and he has a dark tan. There’s a tattoo of some writing right across his trouser line. I can’t read what it says, but
phwoar
. . .

Oi! Focus, Meg, focus!

‘So Rosa said you were away on a writing trip?’

‘Yeah. Trying to get everything together for next week.’

‘What’s happening next week?’ I ask.

He looks a little surprised. ‘The Whisky?’ he replies.

‘More whisky?’ I ask. Jesus, he really
does
have a drink problem.

‘No,
the
Whisky,’ he says.

‘I don’t understand.’ I look at him blankly.

‘Girl,’ he says, ‘don’t tell me you don’t know about my comeback gig at the Whisky – you know, the
venue
?’

‘No, sorry, I don’t.’ My face heats up. ‘Should I have heard about it?’

He laughs in disbelief.

‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘but I don’t really know much about you.’

And then I begin to ramble like a lunatic . . .

‘I mean, I’m not really a fan.’

Shut up, Meg.

‘I don’t mind some of your songs but, well, you know, I kind of prefer Kylie, to be honest.’

Why the bloody hell did I admit
that
?

‘But at least you haven’t ended up with a mad stalker,’ I continue. ‘I could know anything and everything there is to know about you. I could know your favourite colour, the brand of sham poo you use . . .’

Christ Almighty, ZIP IT! Nope. It just gets worse . . .

‘At least I’m not a star-fucker.’

ARGH!

‘I should hope not, Meg,’ he says, stubbing out his second cigarette in five minutes. ‘That would be going above and beyond the call of duty.’

‘Another drink?’ I offer weakly, the reality of everything I’ve just said starting to sink in. I’m going to lose my job. I’m going to lose my job before it’s even started.

‘Nah, I’ve got to shoot off.’ He stands up. ‘I’m going to hook up with some pals in town. Ring the Viper Room and reserve us a table for eight.’

‘Sure. Er, where . . .’

‘In the Rolodex in the office. You’ll find all the numbers you’ll need in there.’

‘Is that eight people or eight p.m.?’

‘Eight people. Get them to hold the table. I don’t know what time we’ll be there.’

So I’m still employed, then? I get up hastily and take his empty glass from him, unable to meet his eyes. I turn away and notice in the reflection of the glass window that he’s watching his new PA’s departing derrière as she makes her way inside to the office.