Johnny Be Good (17 page)

‘Are you cold?’ I ask.

He nods, quickly. ‘Can I get under the covers, too?’ he asks.

‘Oi, oi!’ Christian grins.

‘Fuck off, mate,’ Johnny replies.

‘Are your swimming trunks dry?’ I ask.

He nods.

‘Go on, then.’

Johnny jumps off the bed, strips out of his robe and climbs back in again.

‘That is so not fair,’ Christian says, shaking his head, unimpressed at the sight of us both, warm and dry under the covers.

I’m struck again by how different these two friends are. Johnny is so gorgeous, I wonder if it’s hard being friends with him. Christian’s not bad-looking, but he’s kind of ordinary. He doesn’t look like he’s ever seen the inside of a gym in his life, and he certainly hasn’t spent any time lying in the sun recently, judging by those pasty-coloured forearms. Bless him.

‘Are you sure you’re dry?’ I ask Johnny again, trying to sound
like I’m not in the least bit fazed about the fact that he’s moved quite a bit closer to me.

‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘Have a feel.’ He takes my hand and slips it under the covers to touch the fabric of his swimming trunks. I’m so taken aback that I don’t even register if they’re damp or not.

‘Jesus, mate!’ Christian shouts. ‘Get off her!’

Johnny laughs and lets go and I attempt to laugh too as I put my hand back up above the bedspread. I’m glad this room is lit by firelight; at least no one will notice me blushing.

Christian studies the two bags of Skittles I’ve bought him.

‘Tropical and Original,’ he muses. ‘Good choice, Megan.’

I laugh. ‘My name’s not Megan.’

‘It’s not Nutmeg, either,’ he says, ‘but you let him get away with it.’

I say nothing. Christian busies himself opening the packets. I feel Johnny edge a little closer to me in the bed. His warm arm brushes against mine, sending a shiver ricocheting through me.

Christian pours the sweets from the two bags out onto the bedspread in two neat little piles.

‘Strawberry,’ he notes, munching away.

‘Pass me one.’ I lean forward. He does.

‘Johnny?’ I ask. He shakes his head.

‘Johnny doesn’t
get
sweets,’ Christian says, rummaging around for a purple one.

‘I do,’ Johnny says.

‘Favourite confectionery?’ Christian challenges him.

Johnny considers this for a moment before answering, ‘After Eight Mints.’

This sends Christian into hysterics. ‘I forgot you loved those things. Man, your sweetie age is ninety. You are such a grandma.’

I suppress a giggle. ‘Favourite flavour?’ I ask Christian, not wanting to make fun of Johnny.

He calms down surprisingly quickly considering the mayhem, then answers, ‘In order of favourite to least favourite, I’d have to say…Okay, Original Skittles: grape, strawberry, lime, orange and lemon.’

‘Me too!’ I sit forward. ‘Well, maybe strawberry before grape, but close. What about Tropical?’

He picks one up and starts to chew. ‘I can’t work out the flavours for these ones.’

‘Give me the packet,’ I say.

‘That’s cheating!’ But he complies.

‘Kiwi lime, banana berry, what the hell is mango tangelo?’ I ask.

‘Fuck knows.’

‘Just do colours,’ I decide.

‘Right,’ he says, sampling each one. Johnny yawns beside me. ‘Yellow, blue, pink, green and orange.’

‘Let me have a go,’ I say. He passes me a handful.

‘Yeah,’ I say a minute later. ‘I’d have to agree. Banana first…’

I hear Johnny sigh behind me and realise we’re leaving him out.

‘Anyway, enough sweetie talk,’ I say, leaning back against my pillows again. My arm rubs hard against Johnny’s warm bicep–he appears to have moved in even closer. He wriggles a little to make room for me, but snuggles back in close. How strange.

Christian lies on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

‘Want a top-up?’ Johnny asks me quietly.

‘Sure.’ He pours in more fizzing champagne.

‘Yep!’ Christian enthuses, propping himself up slightly and offering up his glass.

‘So, mate,’ Johnny says. ‘How’s Clare?’

Christian looks down at his glass and takes a big gulp. ‘Wouldn’t know,’ he replies. ‘We split up.’

Johnny sits up straighter. ‘Have you?’

‘Yep.’ Christian hiccups.

‘Shit,’ Johnny says.

‘Yep.’ Christian hiccups again, then takes another gulp.

‘Why…How did that happen?’ Johnny asks.

His friend just shrugs.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ I say, gently, for want of something better to say.

‘Why? You never met her,’ Christian points out. ‘Nor, for that matter, did you,’ he says to Johnny.

Neither of us says anything. Christian laughs, awkwardly. ‘Ah, it was just one of those things,’ he explains. ‘Wasn’t meant to be.’ He hiccups again. ‘We should go to bed,’ he says to Johnny. ‘Let Meg get some sleep.’

‘Can’t I just sleep here?’ Johnny wriggles further down underneath the covers. His leg brushes mine.

‘No!’ Christian insists. ‘Get your arse out of poor Megan’s bed.’

I giggle. ‘My name’s not Megan!’ I tell him again.

‘Can I sleep here, Nutmeg?’ Johnny looks up at me pleadingly with his beautiful green eyes.

Oh my God, he is such a flirt. Is he like this with everyone? Probably.

‘No, you can’t,’ I tell him, laughing.

‘Please?’ He wriggles closer to me and drapes his leg over my leg under the covers. Christian leaps off the bed and pulls the covers back.

‘For fuck’s sake, mate, get off her!’

‘No!’ Johnny protests, jokingly.

Christian all but drags him out of the bed, while Johnny tries not to spill the remaining dregs in his champagne glass.

‘Apologise to your PA!’ Christian insists.

Johnny looks comically repentant.

‘Apologise, I said!’ Christian shouts again. I’m giggling now.

‘I’m cold,’ Johnny moans, hopping from foot to foot at the side of my bed, wearing nothing but swimming trunks. ‘Please can I get back in?’

‘No!’ Christian shouts. ‘Put your fucking robe on, you git.’

Johnny grudgingly puts it back on and looks mournfully at the space he’s just exited.

It’s funny how all of a sudden you can be struck with the absurdity of a situation. Johnny Jefferson wants to sleep in my bed. With me! How nuts is that?

Christian drags Johnny around to the other side of the bed in the direction of the door.

‘We’ll leave you in peace,’ he tells me, pushing Johnny out in front of him.

‘Okay. Night,’ I say, smiling.

‘Night night,’ Johnny calls from the doorway.

‘Oh.’ Christian comes back and sweeps the remaining Skittles off my bed and into his hands. He pulls out a few yellow ones and puts them on my bedside table.

‘Come on, then!’ Johnny calls from behind him.

‘I hope they’re banana and not lemon,’ he says.

‘I hope so too,’ I say, super-seriously.

‘Night.’ He smiles down at me and I up at him.

Johnny comes back into the room and tugs Christian away from the bed, pushing him out into the hall.

‘Bye, Nutmeg,’ he says, looking down at me.

‘Bye!’ I reply, cheerfully.

Then he bends down and gives me a kiss right on my lips, eyes twinkling as he turns and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.

‘I’m wasted!’ I hear Christian exclaim, as they set off down the steps outside my Tree House.

Shocked, I put my finger on the place where I can still feel Johnny’s lips, and lie there, unsmiling, looking at the leaves rustling in the moonlight through the window above my bed.

I knew Johnny was famous–of course I did–but it’s clear I’ve been living in a bubble for the last few months because this, my friends, is ridiculous.

We’re in Vienna to kick off the European leg of his tour, and the crowds that have gathered to see him arrive at the airport are nothing short of phenomenal. This is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before–and I would say ever will again, but no doubt it will be the same in the next city.

Johnny is big in America. He’s big everywhere in the world. But in Los Angeles, the general public are so much more accustomed to seeing major celebrities that they don’t tend to go completely and utterly bonkers on the street.

In Europe, though, it’s a different story. The flashbulbs going off are enough to blind me, and as for the screams, industrial earplugs wouldn’t help. I’m being thrust through the gangway by security guards who are three times my width. Johnny is up ahead, looking cool as a cucumber in Lapland with his dark shades and rock star swagger.

When I see him like this, I can scarcely believe I know him. It’s a reality check of the highest order. I see him at home, out by the pool with his guitar or in the kitchen in his boxer shorts, and then he’s just Johnny, a thirty-year-old bloke from Newcastle who happens to be my, albeit very attractive, boss.

He’s been distant with me since we got back from Big Sur a month and a half ago. My memory of the night that we were in the hot tub together has a strange surreal quality, and I remember the next night, the one when he kissed me goodnight, almost as though I’d imagined it.

The following day it had been business as usual. He was preoccupied with Christian and the book, and I cracked on with work. We left the day after. Davey came to collect me, and Johnny decided to head to San Francisco for a couple of days with Christian. It was a bizarre end to a bizarre stay, all in all. And when he came back it was like he was another person, professional and to the point. Very weird. I just put my head down and worked hard to help get things ready for the tour.

We’re staying in a five-star hotel in Vienna city centre. I’ve gone on ahead in another car to make sure the security team is in place and to ensure Johnny is able to go straight to his room. The location is supposed to be private, but that is an absolute joke. There must be at least two hundred fans waiting outside. They scream as we pull up. Johnny’s not even here so I can’t imagine the frenzy that will arise when he does appear. I call his security team to warn them and then go inside, but I know now we can’t stay here for long. I’ll need to find us another hotel and fast.

Security do their best to hold back the hordes when Johnny arrives ten minutes later, but I can see from inside that he’s getting bashed from all sides as fans reach out and try to grab a piece
of him, whether that be his hair, shades, T-shirt, anything. I watch and cringe, wanting to do something to help, but it’s impossible. He’s seriously pissed off by the time he reaches the lobby, which thankfully is secure.

‘We’re going to have to move to another hotel,’ he tells me.

‘I’ve already sorted it.’

He nods, curtly.

‘Come up to your room now, though,’ I say. ‘We can’t move yet without getting tailed.’

He follows me without speaking as I lead the way.

The screams down on the street below are deafening.

‘
Johnny
,
Johnny
,
JOHNNY!
’

The chanting gets louder and louder. They want to see their idol.

Johnny sits on the bed and puts his head in his hands. I’m worried about him.

There are too many people in the room. Hotel manager, wardrobe team, a couple of band members, Bill…Johnny gives me a pointed look so I politely gather together the overexcited crew and usher them towards the door. Bill looks irritated at the forced exit, but he must be familiar enough with Johnny to know that he needs some space.

I close the door behind them and turn to look at my boss.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods, but doesn’t speak. He’s been like this for weeks and I’m not quite sure what to do other than try to support him as best I can. He seems to have withdrawn into himself. I stupidly thought it might’ve been me, but that was arrogance of excruciating heights. I’m glad I never told anyone about what happened in Big Sur.

What happened in Big Sur. Ha! What a joke. Nothing happened, Meg, that’s the point.

Bess wanted all the juicy details, of which I told her there were none. She’s been distant with me, too. It’s hard with this confidentiality agreement. Bess doesn’t understand it, but I literally have my hands tied. Serengeti-gate was a nightmare. Bess wanted to know why Johnny and Serengeti had split up, but I couldn’t even skim the surface, let alone tell her about Johnny shagging that girl…Urgh. It still makes me feel ill. Anyway, Bess thinks I don’t trust her and there’s nothing I can do or say to make her think differently.

Kitty, at least, doesn’t question me. She doesn’t gossip about Rod, either. If one of us is down about work, it’s comforting to know the other understands without being forced to go into details.

My life in England now seems so very far away.

Behind me Johnny lies back on the bed, hands still covering his face. There’s such a stark difference to him here, now, compared to how he was with Christian talking about the private jet six weeks ago. He was so excited about the tour then. Now he seems almost numb to it. I wonder if he’s depressed. Is this what depression is like? I’ll talk to Bill, ask if this is normal for Johnny on tour. The last thing I want is for him to have another breakdown like the one he had years ago. That was well documented in the tabloids. I make a decision to call a doctor when we move to the next hotel.

‘Johnny?’ I say, quietly. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

He takes his hands off his face and tucks them behind his head, staring morosely at the ceiling.

‘Johnny?’

He shakes his head so slightly that it’s almost imperceptible.

Downstairs I hear a window smash. Johnny raises his head in alarm.

I quickly call security and discover that the fans have started lobbing stones at the windows. We’re on the top floor of this seven-storey building so they can’t throw as high as that, but as an attempt to rouse Johnny’s attention, they’ve succeeded. They want him to go to the window, to show his face, give them something to get properly hysterical over, but if he does there will be no stopping the frenzy outside. They’ll just want more.

‘We’ll get out of here tonight,’ I reassure him.

We’re backstage at Vienna’s Ernst Happel Stadium. The support act has finished and the lights have gone up on the 49,000-strong crowd. The venue is sold out and the atmosphere is electric.

Johnny is in his dressing room backstage with the door closed. I’m standing with Bill outside.

‘Does he always get like this when he goes on tour?’ I ask, worriedly.

‘Yeah, every time,’ Bill answers. ‘Don’t worry about it, girl, he’ll be fine. He always is. One concert in and he’ll be kicking down the door of the next venue.’

‘Are you sure I don’t need to call a doctor?’ I ask, for about the dozenth time.

‘Doctor schmockter,’ Bill brushes me off. ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous. I keep telling you there’s no need. Stop pestering me, girl!’ He cuffs me over the top of the head, good-naturedly.

‘I might just check on him,’ I say, tentatively, motioning towards the door.

‘Be off with you!’ Bill growls. ‘
I’ll
do it.’

I look at him, unsure for a moment, but he puts his hands firmly on my arms and marches me away from Johnny’s dressing-room door. It makes sense of course. Bill’s been on the scene for years; I’ve known Johnny only a few months.

‘Is he alright?’

I turn around to see a concerned-looking Christian. He’s here for the first few dates and then he has to go back to London, where he’ll hook up with us again to document some more action for his book.

‘Bill seems to think so.’

We wander to the communal backstage area, where I’m responsible for maintaining two large tables full of every kind of food and beverage you can think of. Christian homes straight in on a brightly coloured cereal packet.

‘Fruity Pebbles, Meg?’ He grins at me.

‘For you,’ I answer. ‘And I think you’ll find some Skittles over there.’ I point.

‘You’re a top PA,’ he says. ‘Much better than that Paola lass.’

I laugh. ‘I should bloody hope so. She lasted only eight months, didn’t she?’

‘Was that all?’ he asks, surprised. ‘Seemed like longer to me.’

‘Did you know her well?’ I’m still curious about her.

‘No.’ He shrugs and looks around. ‘Where
is
Johnny? He’s going to be on soon.’

Johnny’s core band members are lounging on sofas on the other side of the room. They’re all drinking beer and seem remarkably chirpy for a change.

‘Where the fuck is Johnny, man?’

TJ has shouted this question at Bill, who has just emerged from Johnny’s dressing room.

‘He’s coming, he’s coming,’ Bill reassures them.

‘Wonder what TJ’s real name is,’ I whisper to Christian.

‘Tom Jones,’ he answers.

‘No way!’

‘Yeah.’ He chuckles.

‘Bullshit.’

‘I’m being serious! TJ, man, what’s your real name?’ Christian calls across the room.

‘Fuck off,’ is TJ’s response.

Christian turns back to me. ‘I’m telling you, it’s Tom Jones.’

I’m laughing when Johnny saunters into the room. ‘What are you so happy about?’ he asks.

‘Hey, Johnny!’ TJ and the other members of Johnny’s band raise their beer bottles.

Johnny nods at them, then looks at me. ‘I would say that you’re excited about the gig, but it’s not exactly a Kylie concert, is it?’

‘This joke is wearing thin,’ I reply, and roll my eyes.

He wanders over to the table and cracks open a bottle of whisky, swigging straight from the neck of it.

‘Is he always like this when he goes on tour?’ I ask Christian, quietly. ‘Kind of all distant and unhappy?’

‘He doesn’t look like that to me.’ Christian nods in Johnny’s direction. I turn to see him and his band knock back a shot of tequila and crack up laughing as keyboardist Bri starts coughing his lungs up.

‘And another!’ TJ yells.

‘Christian! Come here!’ Johnny calls.

Christian looks at me and raises an eyebrow, then walks over to them. I busy myself tidying up the table because I haven’t been invited to join their ‘shot’ gang.

‘And another!’ I hear someone else shout, seconds later, followed by more guffawing.

By the time they make their way stagewards, Johnny and the band are decidedly jolly. So, for that matter, is Christian. He drapes his arm around my shoulders and marches me to the side of the stage. Johnny turns around and clocks us, unsmiling. He makes eye contact with me for a moment, then looks away again as a roadie fixes him up with his electric guitar.

I long for him to be the way he was with me before his Whisky comeback gig months ago. I long for him to be the way he was with me in Big Sur. I don’t know what’s changed in him since then, but I’m sad we’re not as close as we seemed to be getting. I’m trying not to dwell on it.

You can barely hear backstage because of the noise of the crowd–and that’s before the concert has even kicked off. They’re chanting, banging, and it’s like a tribal song as they wait for their hero to emerge.

Then the band walks on and starts to play and they go absolutely bonkers.

Johnny looks at Christian and grins.

‘Here we go.’

Spotlights turn the stage bright white and we can barely see him at first, but then we hear the crowd roar as he launches into one of his biggest hits. Christian grabs my arm and pulls me to the back. We can’t talk anymore because it’s deafening, so he just points at the audience. I look out to see tens of thousands of people jumping up and down as one. It’s a phenomenal sight, and right there in front of us, Johnny is strutting across the stage and belting out his songs into the mic.

Everything runs like clockwork back here and it’s a hive of
activity. Johnny’s same team of roadies have been with him for years and they would know exactly what they were doing even if they hadn’t been put through tour rehearsals in LA.

After the first few songs, Johnny bounds backstage, sweat dripping off him. One of his wardrobe girls passes him a towel and he mops his brow and runs it over his damp dark-blond hair. He yanks his black T-shirt over his head, torso rippling for a moment before he drags on a fresh shirt. He doesn’t speak to anyone; his mind is still onstage. He strides back out there again.

The cameras recording Johnny’s performance for the big TV screens pan the crowd. Christian and I watch as they zoom in on people declaring their love with banners. A girl sitting atop somebody’s shoulders tears her shirt open and reveals an enormous bouncing bosom.

‘Nice!’ I shout to Christian.

‘That’s nothing!’ he shouts back. ‘Wait till you see what goes on later!’

I soon find out what he means by that when we go to the communal backstage area after the concert. There are girls
everywhere
. Draping themselves over members of the band on the sofas, hanging by the booze table and eyeing up Mike, Johnny’s hot rhythm guitarist. I don’t know who they are or where they came from, but they’re making me feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Suddenly Johnny enters the room and everyone breaks into spontaneous applause. He walks straight to the booze table and cracks open a fresh bottle of whisky. A group of girls home in on him.

There’s one particularly pretty girl with long, wavy blonde hair and an impressive cleavage, and as the night wears on I watch, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach, as she becomes increasingly
flirtatious with Johnny. Right now, she has her hand on his chest and is saying something in his ear. He looks over at Christian, who is laughingly telling me about something he saw on TV recently. Johnny comes over.

‘Having fun?’ Christian asks him.