Johnny Be Good (19 page)

After Amsterdam comes Zurich, then it’s Milan followed by Rome. Each and every stadium is sold out as the European cities begin to melt into one.

I’m not really enjoying myself as much as I thought I would. The combination of travelling constantly and never really knowing where I am with Johnny is making me feel a little apprehensive.

Right now I’m backstage at the Vallehovin Stadium in Oslo. I look over at the table stocked full of drinks. I can’t believe how much alcohol has already been consumed on this tour and we haven’t even reached the halfway point. Johnny has been getting through increasing amounts of spirits every night. Earlier I voiced my concern to Bill, but he laughed me off.

‘This is nothing. You should’ve seen him seven years ago!’

‘I just don’t want a repeat of that,’ I said.

‘I just don’t want a repeat of that,’ he mimicked me. ‘Have a word with yourself, love. Listen to what you sound like, all prim and proper. I thought you were more worldly-wise than that when I hired you.’

I’ll keep my mouth shut in future.

Johnny strolls into the backstage area with his guitar.

‘There you are! What do you think to this?’

He’s been so upbeat these last few days–a complete contrast to how down he was at the start of the tour. Bill was right about that, at least.

He sits down next to me and starts to strum a few notes. ‘It’s a new intro to “What You Are”,’ he says.

‘What You Are’ is one of his greatest hits.

‘Why?’ I ask. I thought it sounded fine the way it was.

‘I’m bored with it.’

‘You’ve only been playing it for the last month!’ He rearranged it just before we came on tour.

‘Yes, and I’m bored with it,’ he says again, stressing each word to really drive home his point.

‘Okay, shoot,’ I say, not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm.

He starts to play, talking over the top to tell me what he’s planning. ‘And then the strings will come in here, and I’m not talking the little string section we bring on tour, I want a full-blown orchestra.’

‘You want
what
?’ Bill says, coming into the room.

‘Bill! There you are! Listen to this…’

He goes through the motions again with Bill.

‘Yeah, sounds good, Johnny boy, but we can’t bring a whole orchestra in this late in the tour.’

‘Yes, we can,’ Johnny replies, still strumming.

‘Where are we going to get one?’ Bill huffs.

‘That’s up to you,’ Johnny comments. ‘But I know you’ll manage. It’s what I pay you for,’ he adds, giving Bill a look.

‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do.’ Bill glares at me. ‘But Terrence is going to be pissed.’

Terrence is the tour manager, responsible for organising the whole shebang.

‘Don’t see, do it.’ Johnny’s tone is firm.

Bill stomps off. I’m impressed. And I’m delighted. Bill really annoyed me with that ‘prim and proper’ comment, so I’m glad he’s got his work cut out for him.

‘I think that sounds really good.’ I nod at Johnny’s guitar.

‘Cheers,’ he answers.

It’s a testament to how much power Johnny wields in the industry that Bill does manage to find a whole orchestra at this short notice. They’re flown in four days later when we’re in Copenhagen, with only a couple of days free to get up to scratch before we play at the Olympic Stadium in Munich. I’ve booked an out-of-use theatre for everyone to rehearse in, and I’m currently sitting halfway back in the seats with a magazine. But I’m not reading, I’m watching. Watching Johnny direct his usual band and backing singers, along with a brand-new orchestra.

Everyone should have had a couple of days’ rest between Copenhagen and Munich, and now they have to rehearse instead. But no one seems to mind. When Johnny is ‘up’ like this, it rubs off on everyone. Including me. I’m filled with a renewed sense of respect for him, for what he’s capable of. Which is why it hurts so much to witness the sort of thing I saw last night.

I was in his suite showing him some press cuttings when there was a knock at the door.

‘Housekeeping!’

‘Do you want me to ask them to come back later?’ I ask Johnny.

‘No, I could do with some more bubble bath.’

‘Bubble bath?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Come in!’ I call.

‘Housekeeping!’ Five more rapid knocks.

‘I said, come in!’

Knock, knock, knock!

‘That’s strange,’ I mumble. ‘Why doesn’t she have a key?’ I open the door. Standing there is a cute, petite brunette who looks to be in her late teens or early twenties.

‘Housekeeping?’ I ask. She’s dressed in a maid’s uniform, but her face is lit up with such excitement as she attempts to peer past me into the room that I become suspicious. I can’t believe she’s that thrilled about cleaning out somebody’s toilet.

‘Are you really from housekeeping?’ I ask, warily.

She nods, manically.

‘I don’t think so.’ I begin to shut the door.

‘Wait,’ Johnny says. ‘Let her in.’

He saunters to the door, leaning his right arm up against the doorframe.

‘Johnny Jefferson!’ the ‘maid’ says, delightedly.

‘Hi.’ He grins.

‘Johnny Jefferson!’ she says again. ‘I come in?’

‘That’s enough, now,’ I interrupt. ‘Thank you, you can leave.’ I try to shut the door but Johnny pushes it back open.

‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Nutmeg,’ he says, casting his eyes over the girl in the maid’s uniform. She’s smiling up at him, through lowered lashes.

‘I come in?’ she says again, this time more sexily.

Johnny pushes the door further back and steps aside for her.

‘Johnny!’ By now I’m cross, but that doesn’t stop the girl from wandering past me into the room.

‘That’ll be all, Meg.’ He dismisses me.

I stand there.

‘You don’t speak English, do you?’ Johnny asks the girl.

‘English?’ she says, in her strong Italian accent. ‘No. I no speak English.’

‘Just as well we don’t need to talk.’ He winks at me and closes the door, leaving me out in the corridor.

I’ll never get used to the groupies. Each time I witness him with other women, I feel like a part of me is being chipped away.

‘That’s sounding good, guys. Let’s take a break.’ Johnny bounds off the stage and jogs up the aisle. I sit up straighter in my seat.

‘Can you get me a sandwich or something?’ he asks me.

‘Sure.’ I grab my coat. ‘You want it back here?’

‘Yeah. I’m going to crack on. I think that riff needs something else there.’

He’s a hard worker, Johnny. I didn’t realise it at first, with all the late nights, booze and women, but he is.

I return shortly afterwards with a tuna and mayo roll for him.

‘Thanks,’ he says, taking a bite standing up. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small hip flask, opening it up and tipping it back into his mouth. ‘Damn. Out,’ he says, handing over the flask. ‘Can you top it up for me?’

‘Er, sure,’ I say, hesitantly. ‘What with?’

‘Whisky, what else?’ He gives me an amused look.

‘Do you want me to get you something else as well? Coke? Pepsi?’

‘Coke would be good.’ He grins at me, cheekily. I don’t get the joke for a moment and then it registers. He laughs when he sees my face. ‘No, chick, just the whisky would be good.’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Johnny, I’m a bit worried about how much you’re drin—’

‘Thanks.’ He cuts me off and nods at the flask in my hand.

I turn around and scuttle back up the aisle and out in search of a local off-licence. I knew I should have stocked up the theatre with the usual backstage food and drinks, but Johnny told me not to bother for rehearsals.

Two days later, I’m backstage at Munich’s Olympic Stadium when Johnny appears by my side. He looks even hotter than usual tonight.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, Nutmeg! This is going to be fucking awesome!’

He’s really hyper, bouncing up and down on the spot.

A roadie appears with his guitar, but it takes time to hook him up because Johnny won’t stay still.

The set is kicking off with ‘What You Are’, the newly arranged orchestral version, and I’m feeling on edge, even if he’s not. It was sounding great in rehearsals, but I bet it’s a whole different story when you’re playing to an 80,000-strong crowd.

‘Don’t look so nervous.’ He stands in front of me and puts his hands on my hips looking straight into my eyes. My heart flips as he studies my face momentarily and then grins at me. His eyes look funny. Kind of jittery. He’s obviously on a high, and it suddenly occurs to me it’s probably not a natural one.

‘Are you okay, Johnny?’ I ask again, this time more guardedly.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah! Chill out, girlfriend!’

He frenetically rubs my hips with his hands and then sniffs, before letting go and bouncing on the spot again.

‘Here we go.’ He looks out at the stage.

The orchestra start to play and Johnny’s band join in as the rearranged song makes its debut. Then Johnny’s out there, launching into the first verse, driving the crowd into a frenzy.

At moments like this, I’m struck with the realisation that I know this guy,
the
Johnny Jefferson.

I watch him caressing the microphone with his hands as the song quietens down just before the chorus kicks in. His guitar is hanging behind him on a strap and he swings it round and pounds on it as if his life depended on it. I watch, full of pride, and then I remember that jittery look in his eyes and a feeling of unease settles over me.

He’s even more hyper after the concert, and it’s the same at the next show in Nice and in the two days off before we play in Barcelona.

I reluctantly mention my concern to Bill.

‘And?’ he says.

‘What do you mean, “and”?’ I reply.

‘What’s the big deal? Haven’t we been through this with his drinking?’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I say with frustration. ‘And I don’t care if you think I’m prim and proper, I’m just worried about him, Bill.’

‘Christ Almighty, girl! Give it a rest. Anyway, what do you want me to do about it?’

‘I don’t know–stop him.’

‘Stop him?’ He laughs. ‘
Stop
him? How do you bloody well think I’m going to do that? He’s a big boy, you know, girlie. He’s not going to do what he’s told. Now run along and stop being a nuisance.’

Needless to say, Bill’s really starting to piss me off.

It’s early December by the time we reach Barcelona. It’s the
first of three Spanish dates, with the next stop being San Sebastian, followed by Madrid.

We’re staying in the city centre and we have the night off before the concert tomorrow night at Camp Nou. I decide to go for a walk, so rug up warm and head out of the hotel.

I’ve downloaded Johnny’s back catalogue onto my iPhone and have been steadily making my way through it. I haven’t told him–he’d probably make fun of me–but his music is really starting to grow on me. I put my headphones in now and listen to his voice as I walk around town. Gaudí’s Sagrada Família has been lit up with spotlights, and the enormous, ornate church looks spectacular in the dark night. My phone starts to ring as the music in my ears simultaneously dies down.

‘Hello?’

‘Meg, it’s your mother.’

‘Hi! How are you?’

‘Oh, not the best, dear.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’ I ask in alarm.

‘It’s your grandmother. I’m afraid she died this afternoon.’

Regret engulfs me. I loved my gran. I realise I haven’t even sent her a single letter since I’ve been in LA. I feel dreadful. I start to cry.

‘Meg, Meg, don’t cry, dear. She was so proud of you, you know.’

Which only makes me cry harder.

‘What happened?’

‘She’d been under the weather. She was in hospital. She fell asleep a few days ago and didn’t wake up.’

‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ I complain.

‘We didn’t want to bother you,’ Mum explains. ‘We know you’re busy—’

‘Mum! You should have told me! When’s the funeral?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’

We play in San Sebastian the day after tomorrow.

‘I know you won’t be able to make it,’ my mum continues.

‘What do you mean? I have to come!’

But even though I protest, I know that it would be incredibly difficult for me to leave the tour.

‘Meg,’ Mum chides, ‘it’s okay. She wouldn’t have wanted you to sacrifice your work. I know you have to be there for Johnny…’

I return to the hotel to wallow in my misery.

Oh, Gran…I feel terrible at the idea of missing her funeral. But the more I think about it, the more I realise it would be a nightmare for me to leave.

I should probably let Johnny know I won’t be joining him and the crew tonight. We were planning on going to a bar in the Gothic Quarter.

There’s loud music coming from his room and I don’t think he can hear me knocking, so I take out my purse and retrieve his spare electronic key card.

Opening the door, I walk into the suite and am instantly struck by the sight of Johnny hoovering up a line of white dust into his nose with a straw. A spaced-out-looking guy with greasy black hair and stubble is lounging back on the sofa beside him.

‘Want some?’ the guy shouts to me over the music. He leans forward and offers up a small, clear plastic bag.

‘NO!’ Johnny puts his hand on the guy’s chest and angrily pushes him back hard against the sofa.