Johnny Be Good (22 page)

‘Meg, can you get me some fags?’ he asks me.

‘Piss off, you dickhead,’ Christian snaps. ‘Don’t act like this is nothing, because it’s not. This isn’t normal. You’re going to end up in a fucking state just like you did seven years ago.’

‘Oh, and you would know about that, would you?’ Johnny looks at him, angrily.

‘Hey, the fact that I wasn’t there is nobody’s fault but your own.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Johnny spits. ‘I know. If only I hadn’t slept with your fucking girlfriend. I know that’s why you never introduced me to Clare,’ Johnny adds, nonchalantly. ‘I would have fucked her, too.’

‘You son of a bitch,’ Christian says, stepping forward and then stopping. If looks could kill, Johnny would be dead right about now.

‘How dare you talk about my deceased mother like that?’ Johnny fakes melodrama.

‘Fuck you, you arsehole. Stop using your dead mum to get sympathy.’

‘Christian!’ I shout.

‘It’s true, Meg. He does it all the time.’

‘That’s enough,’ I say. ‘Cut it out, both of you.’

‘No, I will not cut it out,’ Christian snaps. ‘I
know
you, Johnny
Sneeden
. You’re a fucked-up son of a bitch. No disrespect to
MRS
Sneeden.’

Before I know what’s happening, Johnny is off the sofa and hurling himself at Christian.

‘STOP IT!’ I scream, as Johnny shoves Christian backwards into the coffee table. It cracks underneath his weight and cocaine dust flies everywhere. Christian is back up on his feet before I know it and he punches Johnny squarely in the face. Johnny stumbles backwards and swings at Christian. He misses. Christian grabs his coat, gives us both a glare that would stop traffic, and storms out of the hotel room. Johnny slumps down on the sofa. I go to his side. His nose is bleeding.

‘Oh, shit!’ I say, trying to take his hand away from his face so I can see if his nose is broken. I wouldn’t have a clue how to tell if it is, mind.

‘Hang on, I’ll get you some ice.’

There’s none in the tiny fridge so I call room service. Johnny reaches for the whisky bottle and takes a swig from it.

‘Johnny, please! You’ve had enough!’

‘Painkiller,’ he says to me, glumly.

‘Johnny, please,’ I say again. ‘You need help. You can’t meet the press in this state.’

‘I’m not going into fucking rehab. Rehab is for pussies.’

‘Come on, Johnny. You need a break from all this.’

‘I’m not going into fucking rehab,’ he repeats. ‘You can help me, Nutmeg. You always help me, Nutmeg.’ He holds out his hand and grabs mine, pulling me down onto the sofa and looking at me with sorrowful green eyes.

‘I can’t help you unless you help yourself,’ I say.

He snorts with laughter and I frown at him.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says, trying to be serious. ‘I can’t help you unless you help yourself!’ he mimics me, in much the same way Bill did when he called me prim and proper. It really rubs me up the wrong way.

‘Fine,’ I say, standing up.

And that’s when I spot the syringe.

‘Johnny, what the hell is that?’

He follows my stare. ‘Aw, Nutmeg,’ he says. ‘I haven’t used it.’

‘I can’t do this. I can’t do this, Johnny.’ The colour drains from my face as I back away.

‘No, wait!’ His tone is urgent. ‘Meg, I swear to you I haven’t used it. I’ve done everything else, but not that.’

‘So why do you have a syringe, Johnny?’ I don’t know if I believe him. ‘I have to go.’

‘Meg! Stop! I need you. Don’t leave me now. I’m sorry. I know you’re right. I do have a problem. This whole tour has been…I don’t know. I
do
want to sort myself out,’ he reiterates, looking at me seriously. ‘I’ll go cold turkey. Anything. But I’m not going into rehab.’

I know how Bill is going to react to my plan and I’m too much of a chicken to tell him face to face. I’ll call him once we’re on the road. But first I need to organise things, which means hiring a car, and calling my parents…

‘Dad, I need a favour.’

‘Sweetheart, we’ve just been talking about you. What’s going on with Johnny? Everywhere we look we see something awful about him…’

‘Dad, please. Johnny needs help. I’m going to help him.’

‘Is that Meg? Let me speak to her!’ I hear my mum demand in the background.

‘No, Cynthia, I’m dealing with this!’ my dad says, firmly.

‘Give me the bleedin’ phone!’ I hear a scuffle and then my mum comes on the line.

‘What are you doing? What’s going on?’

‘Mum, I was just talking to Dad.’

‘Your father’s otherwise indisposed. You can talk to me,’ Mum says.

I sigh. ‘Okay. I was wondering if I could borrow Gran’s house.’

‘What for?’ Mum demands.

‘I need to take Johnny there.’

‘That Johnny Jefferson is trouble! I knew he would be!’

‘Mum, you’d never even heard of him until I got this job.’

‘I had heard of him!’ She gets all uppity.

‘Whatever. He needs to get away.’

‘He needs to go to Alcoholics Anonymous, from the sounds of it.’

And Narcotics Anonymous, but I don’t tell her that.

‘He won’t go into rehab, Mum. He needs to recoup somewhere quiet. Can you help me or not?’

After they’ve told me they’ll let Gran’s neighbour know I’ll be collecting the spare set of keys, I head out of the hotel to collect the car. I’ve hired a Vauxhall Vectra. It’s a far cry from Johnny’s Bugatti Veyron, but it won’t draw attention to us, which is exactly what I’m after right now.

The hotel receptionist is surprised when I settle up the bill early, so we have to be quick about getting out of there in case she alerts any of the tour crew.

My phone buzzes on the way back up to the room. I’ve been ignoring calls all morning, but now I see from caller ID that this one is from Christian.

‘How is he?’ he asks.

‘He’s not going to make the wrap party tonight,’ I tell him, coming out of the lift and walking down the corridor.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s not well, Christian. He needs to get away.’

‘He needs to go into rehab, that’s what he needs.’

‘He won’t. I’ve already tried that.’ I reach Johnny’s room and wait outside.

‘Put him on. Let me speak to him.’

‘I’m sorry, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.’ Especially not to you.

‘He needs expert help, Meg,’ Christian says. ‘You can’t save him.’

‘That may be so, Christian. But I’m going to try.’

After we hang up, I switch my phone off. It can stay that way for the time being. I’ll call Bill later.

Bill is predictably furious. We’re already on the M1 going north, but I don’t tell him that. My parents are the only ones who know where we’re going and I’ve sworn them to secrecy.

Bill demands that we turn around and get our arses straight back to the hotel, but I steadfastly refuse.

‘There is no way he’s capable of talking to anyone from the press tonight, Bill.’ I glance across at Johnny in the passenger’s seat. He’s leaning up against the door, dark shades on. I think he’s asleep.

‘That’s not your call, girlie! Do you know what a fucking nightmare it will be for me to cancel everyone?’ he demands. ‘How many important people you’re going to piss off? How much this could affect press coverage and therefore album sales in the future?’

‘I’m sorry. But it can’t be helped.’ I keep my voice calm. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m driving. I shouldn’t be on the phone.’ I don’t tell him I’ve got my hands-free plugged in.

‘DON’T YOU BLOODY WELL HANG UP ON—’

I end the call and switch the phone off again. That’s more than enough negativity for now.

‘Pretty pissed off, hey?’ Johnny murmurs from beside me.

‘You could say that.’ I indicate to move back into the fast lane.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ Johnny says.

‘What? Thank fuck that he’s pissed off?’ I ask, confused.

‘No. Thank fuck you’ve speeded up. I could run quicker than this.’

I don’t laugh. I’m in no mood for his jokes.

‘Where are we actually going?’ he asks.

‘Scarborough. To my gran’s house.’

‘The one who died?’

‘Yes.’

‘Creepy.’ He shivers.

‘It’s not creepy!’ I snap.

‘Sorry.’ He’s contrite. ‘Is this the same gran who gave you that necklace?’

I’m surprised. Does he remember that from Serengeti’s premiere?

‘You know, the red sparkly one you wore to whatshername’s premiere?’ he continues, when I don’t answer.

‘Yes, I know the one you’re talking about. Yes, she is the one who gave it to me.’

The radio DJ starts to talk about a competition to win tickets to Johnny’s party tonight. Bill won’t have had time to inform the press, yet. He’s probably still thinking we’ll turn around and come back.

Johnny reaches over and switches the radio off.

‘Don’t need the reminder, sorry.’

He falls silent after that.

The further we drive from London, the more uneasy I become. What if Bill’s right? Am I putting Johnny’s career at risk by taking him away like this? What will his record company think of me? What the hell am I doing? Who do I think I am? I’m just a PA for
an architects’ firm, for crying out loud. What do I know about any of this?

I look across at Johnny. He’s twitching in his sleep. I turn my attention back to the road.

It’s Christmas Eve and it’s like a ghost town in Scarborough. All the lights along the shorefront have been switched off and there’s an eerie silence about the place. I start to dread going into my gran’s once warm and friendly house.

I take a left and wind up into the narrow roads towards the castle. Parking is a nightmare up here, so we’ll probably have to walk a little way. It’s a windy night, but thankfully it’s not raining, and at least we don’t have much luggage. I packed only our bare necessities, and Johnny brought his guitar, which I guess is a necessity to him. The hotel is holding onto the rest of our stuff.

We arrive at Gran’s house and sadness washes over me as I look up at the dark windows. I collect the keys from the neighbour’s and exchange condolences, while Johnny waits at the front door.

The house is still full of Gran’s things–Mum and Dad haven’t had a chance to come over and sort everything out yet–and it’s strange seeing her beloved photo frames above the fireplace, telling their own story of my family and its history.

‘Shall I take you to your room?’ I ask, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

‘Sure.’

We keep our coats on for the time being because the house is so cold. Johnny follows me up the narrow staircase. My gran should have three bedrooms, but one is more of a cluttered storeroom, so effectively she has only two. I’m not sure how I feel about sleeping in her bed, because my initial instinct is to put
Johnny in the spare room, but then it occurs to me he should really have the larger room.

‘Is this okay for you?’ I ask, surveying my gran’s small double bed. It’s still covered in her dark-green bedspread, although it’s not as pristinely made as it would be if she were still here. I try to suppress my grief. ‘Sorry, I know it’s not exactly what you’re used to…’

‘It’s fine,’ Johnny brushes me off, propping his guitar up against Gran’s wooden chest of drawers.

‘The heating will kick in soon,’ I reassure him.

‘Meg, it’s fine.’

‘Do you want to watch some TV? I can’t believe it’s Christmas Eve, can you?’ I try to sound light-hearted.

‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ he says.

A few minutes later he pokes his head around the door.

‘I’m just going to nip out.’

‘Why? Where are you going?’ I sit up in alarm.

‘Just going to pop to the pub.’

‘Johnny, what do you mean? You said you wouldn’t drink!’

‘Chill out, Nutmeg. I’m not going to drink. I need to get some fags.’

‘Okay,’ I say, hesitantly.

‘I never said I was quitting smoking,’ he points out.

‘No, I know. But maybe I’ll come with you?’ I start to get up. ‘Or I could go and get them for you myself?’

‘No, it’s fine. I won’t be long.’

‘Johnny, I think I should come. I really don’t want you slip up.’ I’m on the edge of my seat now.

‘Meg, no,’ he says, firmly. ‘If this is going to work, you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

The door slams behind him and I slump back on the sofa again. But I can’t concentrate. I feel anxious. If something happens to him here, I really am on my own. The thought scares me.

Half an hour later he still hasn’t returned, and I am going out of my mind with worry. I try to tell myself that it will be okay, that not much is open and he’s probably struggling to find cigarettes, but it’s little relief.

Another half an hour passes. Where is he? Maybe he’s lost.

But Scarborough isn’t a small town. If I go out there now, I could very well be searching for hours. I may never find him at all. Oh God, what if he falls off a cliff into the sea? I killed Johnny Jefferson! That’s what Bill would say. I’ll be hunted by mad fans for the rest of my life. I’ve got to do something.

I stand up and put my coat back on, having taken it off only a short while ago. Grabbing my purse and Gran’s keys, I walk to the door. But I stop short of actually leaving the house.

What if he’s just gone for a walk? What if he comes back when I’ve gone out? He won’t be able to get back inside. I’ll probably drive him to drink by doing that. He’ll have to go somewhere warm, like…a pub. Damn it.

I go back and perch on the sofa for another hour, after which I start to think I don’t have any other choice. I can’t ring around all the pubs and bars. What would I say? ‘Excuse me, is Johnny Jefferson–you know, the international rock star and multimillionaire, the one who’s just failed to show up at his own wrap party–yes,
him
–is he slumped in the corner somewhere? No? Never mind, I’ll try the next pub.’

Like that’s
really
not going to draw attention to us.

I have no choice. I’m going to have to go out and look for him myself.

The night is so dark and cold and I feel like my hands are going to freeze because I’ve left my gloves in Gran’s spare room. Too restless to go back, I plunge my hands into my coat pockets and set off down the narrow roads towards the shorefront. I’m sure I saw an open pub down there, and if I saw it, that means Johnny saw it. So much for trusting him.

He’s not in the first pub so I ask the landlord if he knows of another one open. He’s disgruntled that his pub isn’t good enough for me, so I tell him I’m looking for someone. There’s no sign of Johnny in the next pub, either, so I go through that rigmarole again and set off hoping it’ll be a case of third time lucky. I despise Johnny for making me walk into these pubs all alone and get stared at by dodgy old men, while I search them high and low. I suddenly realise I haven’t been looking in the gents and the thought slams into me that that’s probably where he is: kneeling in front of a toilet or laid out in his own vomit. Oh God, do I really have to go back to that first pub and ask the landlord to check for me?

I’m filled with dismay. I’ll just check this third pub and then I’ll retrace my steps.

I walk into the dark and dingy pub. The ceiling is stained yellow from cigarette smoke over the years, and the patterned red and black carpet feels soggy underfoot. I feel five sets of eyes on me as I look around the room.

‘Can I help you, love?’ the landlord calls.

‘No, thanks,’ I tell him, horribly aware of how out of place I seem here. ‘I’m just looking for someone.’

Johnny isn’t here so I go through a door at the back to a second room. It’s empty. I’m about to give up and return to the first pub when the landlord calls out again.

‘I think I know who you’re looking for.’ The old guys sitting at the bar, nursing their drinks, watch me with vague interest. ‘He left about ten minutes ago,’ the landlord continues.

‘Where did he go?’ I feel light-headed as adrenalin kicks in.

‘I don’t know. Had to ask him to leave,’ he says, ominously, and from his expression I suspect it was a forced exit.

‘Please don’t tell anyone he was here,’ I beg.

‘Why the bloody hell would I do that?’ he scoffs. ‘He’s not famous or anything, is he?’ He clocks my expression. ‘
Is
he?’ he asks, incredulously.

‘No, of course not!’ I shout, running out onto the street and looking left and right. I take a punt on right and hurry back towards the shorefront. I run down to the beach and peer through the darkness. The fairground rides off in the distance are deserted and the amusement arcades and ice-cream parlours have shut up shop for Christmas. Waves crash hard against the shore and it starts to rain. Could this night get any worse? No, don’t answer that.

And then I see him.

‘Johnny!’ I shout, but my voice is engulfed by the elements.

He’s zigzagging along the footpath above me. I run back up the steps and after him.

‘Johnny!’ I shout again. He slowly turns around and sees me, drunkenly wobbling on the spot. ‘Oh, what have you done?’ I despair.

‘Needed fags,’ he slurs, trying to suck the life out of one that became a butt long ago. ‘Won’t let you smoke indoors anymore. Fucking ridiculous.’

‘Come on.’ I take his arm.

It takes forever and I’m wet and freezing, but we finally make
it back to the house. I think of how Gran would roll over in her grave if she could see me like this. She was always very protective.

I start to doubt myself again. Am I crazy to think I can help him? Should I take him back to London?

No, Meg. Persevere.

I get him as far as the front room before he collapses, and I almost cry with frustration trying to get him out of his wet clothes. I put on the electric fire and grab some blankets from upstairs. There is no way I’m capable of getting him up there on my own. In fact, I know I’m going to have to rethink this plan altogether.