Johnny Be Good (2 page)

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, compared 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 movement. 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 awkwardly 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 finding 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 sunlounger 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 shampoo 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.

Half an hour later Johnny Jefferson comes downstairs and finds me tapping my fingers on one of the two big desks in the office. I’m still feeling nervy, despite the tequila, and I’m not quite sure what to do next.

‘Table all booked?’ he asks, hooking his thumb casually into his jeans pocket. They’re the same ones he was wearing earlier, but he’s changed into a fitted cream shirt with silver pinstripe.

‘Yes, and champagne chilling on ice. I didn’t know if you wanted the car so I called Davey just in case. He’s waiting on the driveway.’

‘Cool.’ He nods. ‘Thought I’d have to take the bike.’

At least I got that right.

He stays standing in the doorway for a moment, staring at me, his hair still damp from the shower.

‘Right then, I’m off.’ He pats the palm of his hand on the door with an air of finality.

I try to resist asking, but can’t. ‘When will you be back?’

‘Tomorrow,’ he answers. ‘Probably.’

And then he’s gone. And suddenly the house feels very empty indeed.

Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.

Bollocks!

Bugger.

I do not fancy Johnny Jefferson.

I don’t.

I really, really don’t.

I’ve been telling myself this since I woke up at six o’clock this morning, unable to get Johnny frigging Jefferson out of my mind. He didn’t come home last night, and I didn’t sleep well. Even with damn jet lag I didn’t sleep well, because I was too busy listening for his footsteps on the landing. Now it’s three o’clock in the afternoon and I’m still waiting. Where the bloody hell is he?

Rosa says this is quite normal. ‘He’s a whirlwind, that boy,’ is her explanation. She obviously takes it all in her stride, but I’m going to find it hard to get used to.

I made an effort with my appearance today and everything. I even decided to wear high heels. I felt a bit silly at first, with the
office being at home and all, but I told myself I had to be professional.

Professional. What a joke. Yesterday he came home to find me lounging around by his fancy pool. Then I got tipsy on his tequila and told him I preferred Kylie’s songs to his. Excruciating is not the word.

And now, here I am at three o’clock in an empty house–well, Rosa’s in the kitchen and Sandy the maid is upstairs, and Ted, Samuel and Lewis, the burly security guards, are out and about somewhere, but they don’t count. I ask again, where the bloody hell is he?

This morning, after I woke up, I decided to keep my resolution and swim fifty laps in the pool. I only got to thirty-three before I felt knackered, but figured that was a good enough start. I went back upstairs, eyes and ears primed for anything resembling a rock star, and had a bath in the enormous, bubble-filled spa. Then I called my parents to let them know I’d arrived safely.

‘Barbara says Johnny Jefferson is a bit of a wild boy,’ Mum said after barely ten seconds of pleasantries. Barbara is one of my mum’s ex-pat bridge buddies. My parents are retired and live in the south of France.

‘What do you mean by wild boy?’ I’d replied, stalling for time. I had been hoping this topic of conversation wouldn’t come up.

‘Well, drink, drugs, women…That sort of thing. If I’d known any of this I wouldn’t have let you take the job.’

‘Mum,’ I said, ‘I’m twenty-four. In the nicest possible way, you couldn’t have stopped me. And anyway, you know me better than that. I’m not exactly going to turn into a junkie groupie.’

‘Whatever you say, dear. Now, have you called your sister yet?’

‘No, Mum. But I will.’

Bess was altogether more enthusiastic. In fact, my ears are still ringing from her screams.

‘I can’t believe you’re actually there! There! In Johnny Jefferson’s mansion! When can I come to visit?’

‘Soon, I hope.’

Squeal. ‘I can’t wait! So what does he look like? Is he as gorgeous in real life as he is in pictures?’

‘Even more so.’

‘
Really?
’ Another squeal. ‘Do you fancy him?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘You do! You do! I bloody knew you would!’

‘I do not! He’s my boss, for God’s sake. Don’t be ridiculous.’

Then she got frowned at for taking a personal call during work hours so we agreed to touch base on the weekend for a proper chat.

I unpacked after that and actually spent some time putting make-up on.

Not that I should have bloody well bothered.

And now I’m sitting here, behind this big desk, reading the manual left behind by Johnny’s last PA, a girl called Paola. It seems pretty straightforward. Book doctor’s appointments, manage finances and liaise with accountants, buy everything from shaving foam to zit cream, and obviously book flights, reserve tables and all that other stuff.

Earlier I managed to work out the voicemail system. I listened to the old outgoing message first and it was a bit weird hearing Paola’s efficient-sounding voice. She’s American. For some reason I assumed she was Italian. I recorded a new message and felt strangely jubilant until I played it back and heard how dreadful I sounded. So I recorded it again. And again, until eventually I gave up and decided to make do.

I also sent out a mass email introducing myself to Johnny and Paola’s contacts and my inbox has since been filling up with requests from journalists, business people and countless ‘friends’ requesting interviews and photoshoots and asking if their names can be put down on the guest list for next week’s comeback gig. I’ve been making a note of everything to run through with Johnny later.

I look at the time on my computer again. Three-fifteen. Hmm. Another message pops up so I click on it.

cpa…cpa…Oh! Celebrity Personal Assistant–dur! Exciting. I wonder who she works for?

I quickly reply that I
am
on MSN and we hook up to have a proper chat.

Rod Freemantle…I vaguely recognise the name, but can’t place him. Before I have a chance to reply she writes to me again.

I still can’t picture who she means. Again she hits me back before I can profess ignorance. She sends through a picture of a slightly balding, dark-haired man of about forty, with his arms
around two tall leggy blondes. He’s leering down at one of their cleavages.

Nice. I tell Kitty I recognise him, before asking if she’s one of the girls in the pic. She replies, ‘hell no,’ and sends through another picture. A gorgeous woman of, I’m guessing, about thirty, beams at the camera. Brilliant white teeth, dark ringletted hair, encased in an embrace with a tall, blond, good-looking man.

Holy shit, it’s Brad Pitt!

Speaking of fan mail…There are two giant postbags of it sitting next to my desk. I gaze down at it, mournfully. I’ve already calculated it’s going to take me about a week to sort through it all, let alone any more that comes in. And then there’s Johnny’s MySpace and Facebook pages to manage. Looks like a royal pain
in the arse to me. I avoided Facebook like the plague back in London because I knew I’d probably become addicted and would never get any work done.

Again I listen out for any sound of the rock star and recheck the time on my computer before looking back down at the fan mail. I guess I should get started on it.

The first letter I pull out of the bag nearest to me is pink and decorated with little red hearts.

‘This’, I’m presuming, refers to the woman in the enclosed photograph: a stunning brunette wearing black, lacy knickers, posing doggy-style on a red satin bed-sheet. Her pert arse is in the forefront of the picture, while she looks over her shoulder at the camera.

Charming. I return my attention to the letter.

Urgh.

I slam the photo down on the desk in disgust and reach for the Rolodex.

Anton Seacroid–accountant

Bill Blakeley–manager

Brad Pitt

Brad Pitt!
He’s here! He’s here, he’s here, he’s here! Who else, Tom Cruise? Oh my God, Tom Cruise
is
in here! Next to
Penelope Cruz, though. That’s a bit out of date, Paola, naughty, naughty. Not for the first time that day, I wonder who Paola was and why she left–before I come across Madonna’s name and my jaw hits the desk once more.

‘Perusing the Rolodex, hey?’

Johnny’s voice makes me jump out of my skin.

‘You scared the life out of me!’

He’s leaning on the doorframe, wearing the same outfit he had on last night. He looks rough and unshaven. Sigh…

‘Glad to see someone’s made a start on that.’ He gestures towards the fan mail. ‘It was the bane of Paola’s life,’ he says, adding, ‘well, except for me of course.’

He wanders into the room and stands by my desk. He picks up the photo and studies it with interest, then reaches for the letter.

‘You want me to reply to it?’ I ask, warily.

‘Hmm…’ He considers my question for a moment. ‘No, better not,’ he decides eventually, and puts the letter and photograph back down.

‘So, I’ve been reading this manual that Paola left,’ I tell him, trying to sound professional. ‘And I also have some photoshoot and interview requests for you.’

‘Mmmhmm.’

‘Oh, and some people want to be put on the guest list for next week.’

‘What’s happening next week?’ he asks.

I’m confused. ‘Your gig at the Whisky?’

‘Just checking,’ he says, straight-faced.

I look back down at the desk and shuffle some papers. Just because yesterday I didn’t know about your gig doesn’t mean I have a memory like a sieve, I think, annoyed.

‘Shall I take you through them now?’

‘Fuck, no. Later. I’m knackered.’

‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’

He pauses for a moment then pulls up a chair beside me. I freeze. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol, and I swear there’s a hint of Chanel N
^o
5 in there, too.

‘Yeah, actually. Check out Samson Sarky.’

I do as he says, logging onto the internet site for the camp celebrity gossip blogger.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ I ask.

‘Scroll down,’ he directs me.

I skip past scandalous stories about Britney Spears and Paris Hilton until he calls out, ‘Stop.’

‘Mandy Periwalker’s latest botched boob job?’ I ask, mouse hovering over the link for that story.

‘No, next one.’

I scan the headline: ‘While the cat’s away…’

Johnny takes a deep breath, because presumably the rumours
are
true.

Serengeti Knight: teen star turned sexy starlet. Tipped for big success this year having scored the leading role in a romantic comedy opposite the gorgeous Timothy Makkeinen. Bess and I have been dying to see the film ever since we saw the trailer a couple of months ago. Mr Makkeinen is hot with a capital H.

But enough about him…I’ve always liked Serengeti Knight. She’s talented
and
beautiful; the sort of girl you’d give anything to be. I religiously watched
Highlights & Lowlifes
in my teens, the television show that shot her to fame when she was just fourteen. That was nine years ago, but I still remember the rave reviews she received. She starred in the drama for five years, and the world watched her grow from an adolescent teen into a nineteen-year-old sex bomb. When the show was dropped by the TV channel, Serengeti disappeared off the scene for a year or so, before she started cropping up in indie films, building up her cred until finally she scored a couple of back-to-back supporting roles in big-budget blockbusters. This new film,
Just Juliet
, is her first major part, and the fact that she stars opposite Timothy Makkeinen should surely send her into the stardom stratosphere.