Johnny Be Good (24 page)

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ he promises.

‘Just don’t fall off the wagon again, that’s all the present I need.’

He grins at me. ‘You’re so cute, Nutmeg.’

I twirl some spaghetti around my fork and try not to drop any sauce on myself as I balance my plate on my lap.

‘This is really nice,’ I tell him. ‘Your mum taught you well.’

He smiles and stares into the fire.

‘What did Christian mean when he called you Johnny Sneeden?’ I ask cautiously.

It’s a while before he answers. ‘My mum’s surname was Sneeden. I changed my name to Jefferson when I went to live with my dad. That was his surname,’ he explains. ‘They never got married. Mum didn’t even put Dad’s name on my birth certificate.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, awkwardly. ‘Well, Jefferson does sound cooler…’

‘Mmm,’ he agrees, still staring into the flames.

‘You feel guilty about it.’ It’s not a question. ‘I’m sure she’d understand.’

He pushes his spaghetti around on his plate for a moment. ‘I’m not sure that she would.’

‘What was she like?’ I ask, tentatively.

‘I don’t really know. She was just my mum to me. I know that she loved me. I know it would hurt her to see me like this. She always told me not to end up like my dad.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Drink, drugs, women…’ He glances at me.

I don’t say anything.

‘Exactly,’ he says, putting his half-empty plate down beside him.

‘Why do you sleep with so many women?’ It’s out of my mouth before I can decide whether or not it’s a good idea to ask.

‘Why not?’ He shrugs.

I look away from him. ‘I just don’t know how you can do that.’

‘It’s just sex, Nutmeg.’ He glances at me.

‘But how can you detach yourself?’ I furrow my brow, not understanding.

‘Why? Can’t you?’ he asks, before casting his eyes to the heavens and adding, ‘Silly question.’

‘No, actually,’ I tell him anyway. ‘I like sex to mean something.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘You think I’m naive.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘You may as well have,’ I say.

‘Actually, I think you’re sweet.’ He continues, ‘I think you look at life through rose-tinted glasses.’

‘I’m not as innocent as I seem.’ I’m now a tad annoyed.

‘Okay…’ he says, crossing his legs in front of him and staring at the fire. He clearly doesn’t agree.

‘I’m not!’ I insist. ‘Anyway, this is not about me. I want to understand you.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’ I avert my gaze. ‘I just do. So how many women have you slept with?’

He chuckles. ‘Come on. I’m not answering that.’

‘Why not? Can’t you remember?’ I challenge him.

‘Actually, no,’ he says, flippantly. ‘But even if I could, I wouldn’t tell you.’

‘Well, can you tell me how many women you’ve had
meaningful
sex with?’

‘That’s easy. None.’

I look at him in disbelief. He meets my gaze quite calmly, before explaining. ‘You can’t have meaningful sex if you’ve never been in love, can you?’ He picks up the glass of water by his side and takes a sip, putting it back down with a look of distaste on his face. ‘God, I miss whisky.’

I ignore his comment. My jaw is still on the floor. ‘You’ve never been in love?’

‘No.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘You’ve been with all those women and you’ve never fallen for
any
of them?’

‘No.’

‘But what about Serengeti?’

‘No.’

‘What about…Christian’s girlfriend?’ I enquire, hesitantly.

‘No.’

‘Didn’t you even have a first love?’

‘No, Nutmeg, no, no, no!’ He throws his hands up in the air. ‘I have
never
been in love!’

‘Okay, okay!’ Pause. ‘That’s really sad.’

He laughs. ‘Jesus, girl, if I’m not sad about it, why should you be?’ He gets to his feet and bends over to pick up his plate from the floor before holding his hand down for mine. He takes them both through to the kitchen.

I can’t believe he’s never been in love. Maybe I can make him fall in love with me? Yes! That’s what I’ll do.

Ha!

He returns a moment later.

‘Hey, did you know it’s New Year’s Eve?’ I say, suddenly.

‘No shit?’

‘What shall we do?’

‘Get pissed? Joke. Shall we go into town?’ he suggests.

I shift, uncomfortably. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’ ‘Why not? Nutmeg, I’m not going to run into the nearest pub and do tequila shots.’

‘No, I know.’ I shrug.

‘You don’t know. But you’re going to have to trust me again sometime.’

I stay silent.

‘Maybe not tonight, though, hey?’ He goes over to the cupboard under the stairs. I sit there, feeling wretched. ‘What else is in here?’ He rummages around for a bit. ‘Only crappy coats?’

‘What are you looking for?’ I ask.

‘Don’t they have any board games or something?’ He spreads the contents of the cupboard on the floor.

‘Johnny!’ I laugh. ‘Stop making a mess! They’re not in there. They’re in the cupboard under the window.’

He goes to the cupboard in question and starts rooting around. ‘Ah, here they are.’ He pulls out a pile of old boxes.

‘Are you serious?’ I ask, in amazement. ‘Board games?’

‘Yeah. Why not?’

‘Didn’t figure you for a board games kind of guy.’

He takes no notice of me and studies the boxes, one by one.

‘Snakes and Ladders?’

‘What else is there?’

‘A jigsaw…’

‘Right.’

‘Trivial Pursuit?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Monopoly!’ he exclaims.

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I hate Monopoly.’

‘Why? What’s Monopoly ever done to you?’ he asks, placing the boxes on the table and pulling out a chair.

‘People get so bitter with Monopoly. I don’t enjoy winning and causing everyone else’s misery, and I dislike losing even more. All in all, it’s a lose-lose situation.’

He chuckles. ‘What do you reckon, then?’

‘Jigsaw? What’s it of?’

He holds up the box for me to see and raises his eyebrows. It’s a picture of a litter of multicoloured kittens in a basket.

I giggle and get up. ‘Perfect.’

‘Don’t you mean, puuurrrrrfect?’

‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

He chuckles and puts the other games back in the cupboard. I join him at the table and empty the jigsaw pieces out.

‘Right, first you’ve got to find the corners,’ Johnny directs me.

I have done a jigsaw before, but I keep quiet and humour him.

‘Now we need the edges,’ he says, once the corners are in place.

We work quietly for some time, handing each other pieces that we think might fit. Eventually I speak.

‘So, are you going to call Christian when you get back to LA?’

‘Mmm. Pass me that piece there.’

‘This one?’

‘Yep.’

I hand it to him and watch him try to press it in. It doesn’t fit. He discards it and continues hunting.

‘What are you looking for?’ I ask.

‘A nose,’ he tells me. He’s working on a ginger cat. ‘I will call Christian,’ he says, suddenly. ‘I don’t want to lose touch with him like last time. Anyway, he’s still got my biog to write.’ He tuts. ‘I dread to think what crap he’s currently spewing.’

‘I bet he’s annoyed at me for whisking you away like this.’ I also dread to think what Bill is going to do when he next sees me…

‘Whisking me away…’ He laughs. ‘Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about Bill, either,’ he says, as though reading my
mind. ‘I’ll tell him I’ll fire him if he gives you any grief. If he’s got any sense he’ll realise I couldn’t go on like that. I’m sure I was going down the same path as last time.’

We continue working until we’re down to the last few pieces of puzzle. One by one we slot them in. Johnny hands me the last piece.

‘Are you sure?’ I ask, grinning.

‘Yes,’ he replies, firmly.

I put it in place and push it gently in.

‘Aah,’ I sigh, happily. ‘There’s something very satisfying about that. It’s the board game equivalent of giving someone your last Rolo.’

Johnny grins and I think of Christian. He would love that reference.

‘Are you tired?’ I ask, as Johnny yawns, loudly. He nods, yawning again. He pushes back his chair noisily on the stone floor and gets to his feet. I do the same, only with more care so as to avoid replicating the sound of chalk screeching on a blackboard.

I glance down at my watch. ‘Hey, happy New Year!’ I exclaim. ‘It’s twelve-thirty. We missed the countdown!’

‘Aah, happy New Year, Nutmeg. He pulls me in for a hug. He’s so warm, I don’t want to let go. He releases me and holds me away from him, fondly smiling down at me for a moment.

‘You do realise we’re going to have to go into town to get another jigsaw now, don’t you?’

‘Tomorrow,’ I say. I want to trust him, but I’m scared. I don’t want to lose him again. In every sense of the word.

‘You can’t go out looking like that.’ I laugh. ‘It’s a small town. The people who
don’t
recognise you will think you’re bonkers.’

Johnny is wearing his leather trousers and a silver shirt. He’s also wearing his requisite shades.

‘Come on, then, stylist. What do you suggest?’

I climb back up the stairs and go into his room. I unpacked for him on our second day here, so I open a couple of drawers now and riffle through them. I know he has a sweatshirt in here somewhere, and I swear I brought some dark-blue denim jeans with us. I find what I’m looking for and pull out a T-shirt, too. It smells of cigarettes and wood-fire smoke.

He appears at the doorway, just as I’m about to put his T-shirt to my nose and breathe him in. How embarrassing it would have been if he’d seen me do that!

‘Right, here you go.’ I quickly get up and hand him his clothes. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. He’s standing between me and my escape route so I busy myself pretending to tidy his drawers. I look
around just as he’s tugging the shirt on over his head and catch a glimpse of his naked torso. Sigh.

I locate the car keys from inside my bumper packet of Smarties (‘Clever, Nutmeg, clever’) and we go out to the car.

It’s New Year’s Day and the little town is bustling with activity. We wander along the cobbled streets and peer into shop windows.

‘Do you want a sheepskin jacket for Christmas?’ Johnny asks.

I laugh. ‘No, thanks.’

‘A sheepskin rug?’

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘A sheepskin sheep?’

I giggle.

‘You’re tempted by the sheep, aren’t you?’ He grins.

‘I am kind of tempted, yeah.’

He starts to go inside.

‘No, Johnny, I’m only joking!’ I call after him.

‘You’re getting the sheep, Nutmeg,’ he calls back.

I quickly look around to make sure no one heard me call him Johnny. We’re trying to look inconspicuous. I persuaded him to leave his sunnies off and he’s wearing a woolly hat to cover up his hair. He stopped shaving about a week ago, so he’s actually got the start of what could be quite an impressive beard if he keeps it up. Not that anyone would expect Johnny Jefferson to be wandering around here, anyway.

Johnny comes back out with a brown paper bag and hands it to me.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he says, grinning.

‘Thank you,’ I reply, peering in and seeing the toy sheep. I giggle at the thought of what Kitty would say. Rod got her a car for Christmas last year.

There’s a brass band playing in the town square and we wander over there to listen to it.

‘Have you ever thought about putting a brass band on any of your songs?’ I ask Johnny.

‘No.’ He glances at me, amused.

‘What?’ I ask.

He looks away.

‘Look, just because I like Jessica Simpson, doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion,’ I tell him.

‘I didn’t say anything!’ He starts chuckling and I smack him on his thigh. He wraps his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. An old lady standing across from us smiles at me, warmly. To anyone else, we must look like young lovers. I suddenly, desperately, can’t bear the thought of ever leaving.

That night, as we’re sitting at the table working our way through another jigsaw puzzle, I stare across at Johnny. There’s an ache in my stomach sometimes when I look at him, and it’s there now. I rarely feel relaxed in his company.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asks after a moment. I realise I’m still watching him.

‘Nothing,’ I say, busying myself with the puzzle.

‘Not true, Nutmeg.’

‘It’s very quiet, isn’t it?’ I try to change the subject.

‘That it is.’

‘You haven’t played your guitar much since we’ve been here.’

‘I haven’t played it at all,’ he corrects me.

‘Why not?’

He shrugs. ‘Just haven’t really felt like it.’

I slump back in my seat. ‘I don’t want to go back to LA,’ I suddenly find myself telling him.

He mirrors my actions and leans back in his chair, staring across at me with a serious expression on his face.

I expect him to say something, to make a joke, anything, but he doesn’t. He locks eyes with me for a while, neither of us speaking. Finally he gets up.

‘I’m going outside to have a fag,’ he says, delving into his pocket. He shrugs on his jacket and walks out through the front door.

I get up, feeling sick and nervous and not quite understanding why. I go over to the hearth and start to tear pages out of one of the magazines we’ve already made our way through. I roll them up into balls and prop a couple of logs up against each other on top of them.

Johnny returns a moment later. He joins me at the hearth, adding another log and some kindling. Then he takes his lighter out of his pocket and holds the flame to the paper at the bottom.

‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ I ask.

‘Sure.’

I come back to find him leaning up against the sofa, staring at the fire. I hand him his mug. He takes it without saying anything and places it on the floor next to him. I sit down beside him and also gaze silently at the flames.

He rests his head back against the sofa and turns to look at me. I stare back into his eyes as butterflies swoop into my stomach and flit around the pain.

Staring at my lips, he reaches over and strokes my jaw. Then he slowly leans towards me and pulls me in for a long, slow kiss.

When he releases me, I feel drunk. He leans his head back against the sofa and looks at me.

I’m in shock. I can’t speak. Did that really just happen?

‘I want you,’ he says.

I don’t answer. I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong, that it will only come back to bite me in the future. I know I’ll probably lose my job. I know I’m one of many.

I know all that, but I can’t resist. Won’t resist. I lean into him and he cups my face with his hand and pulls me towards him, kissing me slowly at first and then more passionately. He grabs my waist and pulls me onto him, devouring me with his lips. I feel so giddy I could faint. He unbuttons my shirt and unclips my bra, then tugs his sweatshirt and T-shirt over his head in one go. I put my hands on his chest, then reach down to unbutton his jeans. He kisses me harder, rougher.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a condom. Again I think of the hundreds of other girls who have been here before me, but I don’t care. I just want him inside me, physically, because he’s already there emotionally.

We make love, there, in front of the fire, and afterwards, lying in the crook of his arm, I gently run my hand over his navel. My eye catches the tattooed inscription near his trouser-line and I lean down to read what it says.

I glance up at him.

‘Johnny Cash lyric,’ he explains, propping himself up on his elbows.

‘Did you get it done after your band split?’

‘About six months after, yeah.’

‘Was that your lowest point?’

He nods.

‘You wouldn’t ever hurt yourself now, would you, Johnny?’ I ask, fear rising up inside me at the thought of anything bad ever happening to him.

‘No.’ He shakes his head and reaches for his shirt, putting it on. Suddenly I feel overwhelmingly sad.

He stands up and pulls on his jeans, then he bends down and retrieves his boxer shorts, casually stuffing half of the fabric into his back pocket. He leaves his shoes in front of the fire.

‘I’m knackered,’ he tells me. ‘Going to hit the sack.’

‘Okay,’ I say, trying not to sound as upset as I feel.

I want him to invite me to go to bed with him, but I know he won’t.

That night I can’t sleep. I etch every single, minuscule detail into my memory for fear it will never happen again. I don’t want to forget.

The last time I look at my watch, it’s five o’clock in the morning. I must have dozed off after that, because when I wake up, bright winter sunlight is flooding through underneath my curtains.

I grab my watch and see that it’s ten o’clock. I leap out of bed and pull on some clothes, smoothing my hair down. I feel ill at the thought of what happened last night. Not the making love part, but going to bed alone afterwards. I dread to know what he must think of me.

I head out of my room and see that Johnny’s bedroom door is open and his bed is empty. I go downstairs and find he’s nowhere to be seen. A mild panic starts to build up inside me as I open the back door and hope to see him standing outside having a cigarette, but he’s not there. My head starts to throb as I imagine him driving off in the night while I was still asleep and drinking
himself into a stupor somewhere. I rush to the front of the house and look out; the car is still on the driveway. Pulling on my coat, I venture out of the house and down the garden. I hear him before I see him. He’s climbed to the top of the hill behind the house and is sitting on the grass, strumming on his guitar. I watch him for a moment, then decide to go back inside. It’s another hour before he returns and I still can’t rid myself of the nausea I feel inside.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, concerned.

‘I’m fine, Meg.’

Meg. He just called me Meg.

‘But it’s time to go back to LA,’ he says.