Baby Be Mine (19 page)

It smells of flowers, here. Jasmine and roses and lavender. Grasse is the perfume capital of the world, and it’s beautiful. I only wish I could enjoy it under better circumstances.

Barney and I have been here for three weeks. Last week, he took his first steps. I felt like both Christian
and
Johnny should have been there, but at least my parents were here to share the moment – even if it was a touch bittersweet.

Barney loves having his doting grandparents around. It’s nice to have their company – and their help – but it’s also harder in some ways. I feel a bit useless when I’m not running my own household. That sounds very Women’s Institute, but it’s true. Plus, I have far too much time on my hands to reflect on the mess I’ve made of things.

I’ve had no contact with Christian. He doesn’t answer my calls. I’ve only tried him three times, but I daren’t call him again. I can’t bear to endure the torture of an endlessly ringing phone.

True to his word, Johnny calls me soon after we arrive in Grasse. He makes arrangements to come and visit us in the middle of August. My parents are horrified to hear that he’s planning on staying in a hotel.

‘He can stay here,’ my mum insists.

‘No!’ I hastily brush her off.

‘What, is our house not good enough for him? Not five-star enough?’ Dad chips in.

‘It’s not that,’ I reply.

‘What is it, then?’ Mum asks sarkily.

‘I don’t know . . .’ I respond. ‘What if people realised he was here?’

‘People are far more likely to recognise him if he stays in a hotel,’ Mum points out.

‘Not if Lena manages to secure all the rooms.’

‘Oh, well, if he’s got a whole hotel to himself . . . Who’d want to stay in a measly four-bedroom house?’ Dad snipes.

‘Who’s Lena?’ Mum asks.

‘His PA,’ I say as an aside, then to Dad: ‘It’s not like that.’

‘His PA?’ Dad changes the subject. ‘Is he having it off with her, too?’

‘No, Dad!’ I cry. ‘She’s married!’

‘Didn’t stop him when Christian was around.’

‘Christian and I weren’t married.’ I try to stay cool.

‘You may as well have been,’ Dad says gruffly. ‘Christian was his best friend. If he does that to his best friend, why wouldn’t he start on another man’s wife?’

‘This is why I don’t want him here!’ I finally erupt. ‘You two! All you’d do is nit-pick at him the whole time. It’s embarrassing!’

There go my gold stars for good behaviour.

‘Oh, dear,’ Mum says, entirely unimpressed. My dad humphs.

I close my eyes for a few seconds and open them again. ‘I’m sorry. You’ll see enough of him when he’s here. I’m sure we’ll hang out at the house rather than risk being seen around town.’

That seems to pacify them somewhat. God knows why – it’s not like they’re big Johnny Jefferson fans.

I turn to my dad, all of a sudden overcome with the need to explain something. ‘What you said . . . about Johnny stealing his best friend’s girl . . . Johnny and I were together first.’ It feels important that my parents know this. ‘So you could say that Christian stole me from him,’ I add stupidly.

‘Is that true?’ Mum’s eyes widen.

‘Well, not strictly speaking,’ I backtrack. Got a bit carried away. ‘We weren’t actually together when Christian and I . . . Oh, maybe I don’t want to talk about this, after all.’

‘Why not? I think we should know the whole shebang,’ Mum says indignantly.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, I moan inside my head. ‘I fell for Johnny, he apparently fell for me, but was scared of commitment . . .’ That’s the diplomatic way of saying that he came onto women right in front of me and shagged someone I really, really didn’t want him to shag. Even now I wince at the memory. I continue, ‘I quit my job as his PA, stayed friends with Christian, got together with Christian, then Johnny came back for me.’

My parents lean forward in anticipation.

‘Johnny came back for you? What happened next?’ Mum pries, addicted to this unexpected gossip fix.

I sigh. ‘Johnny and I . . . you know . . .’ I give them a look and they shift in their seats. I cannot believe I’m telling them this. ‘He wanted me to go back to LA to live with him—’

‘Really
?’ Mum interrupts.

‘Well, why wouldn’t he?’ Dad says, puffed up full of misguided pride for his daughter.

‘And I said no.’

‘Oh.’

That was both of them speaking.

‘A month later I found out I was pregnant and the rest is history . . .’

Silence as they contemplate this information.

‘You can’t tell any of this to Barbara,’ I warn my mum.

‘As if I would!’ she snorts, but I know her.

‘And you won’t be able to have any of your friends over while he’s here,’ I tell them strongly. ‘In fact, you can’t tell anyone that he’s here at all.’

‘Goodness me, what a palaver,’ Mum sniffs. ‘I’ll have to make up some excuse about us all coming down with something.’

‘You don’t need to stop seeing your friends,’ I say. ‘But if you could please go to their houses instead of inviting them here for a few days, that would be grand.’

‘Oh, yes, we’d be happy to do that,’ Dad says. ‘Anything to make the famous rock star feel at home.’

Oh, God, this is going to be a nightmare.

I go to pick up Johnny from Nice airport in the GTI. He flew first class instead of bringing the jet this time – and after a quick conversation on the phone the other night, we agreed that he won’t need alternative transport while he’s here. We want to keep this whole thing as low-key as possible.

I park the car and go inside to Arrivals, wondering blithely what disguise Johnny will be wearing to make sure he’s not recognised. I check his flight’s arrival time and see that it has just landed, and then I go to stand behind the barriers.

It starts as a buzz before turning to screams. Flashes are popping off all over the place and people begin to push and shove to get closer to the barriers. I’m being crushed among the throng and I know that all of this can only mean that, one, Johnny is in the vicinity and, two, the disguise didn’t work.

The last time I experienced anything like this was when I was travelling with him on tour; but then I was with him and under the protection of his security guards, not being squashed to smithereens by a bunch of perfect strangers.

I push back against the crowd as hard as I can and somehow manage to get away from the people and into fresh air. The screams grow louder and if I follow the light of the flash bulbs I can just make out the top of Johnny’s head as he walks through the Arrivals hall. What on earth am I supposed to do now?

He must be surrounded by security, otherwise he’d no longer be walking.

This is hopeless. There’s no way he’ll be hopping into the Golf under these circumstances. I make a decision to go and get the car and then try to contact him.

One of his security team calls me before I get out of the car park.

‘Meet us in Sainte-Hélène, just off the A8. We’ll pull up on the approach to town. We’re in a black Merc, licence plate . . .’ He reels off some numbers, but they go straight in one ear and out of the other. I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it.

As soon as I exit the motorway on my way to Sainte-Hélène, I get another call.

‘We’re being tailed by the paps. Wait at the location while we try to lose them.’

I recognise that voice.

‘Is that you, Samuel?’ Samuel was one of Johnny’s security guards when I worked in LA.

‘Hello, Meg Stiles,’ he replies in a deep American accent. ‘Gotta go. See you in a bit.’

I hang up and smile to myself. It’s strange to be back in this world. Strange and momentarily exhilarating.

I wait on the side of the road for twenty minutes before I’m contacted again.

‘Have you lost them?’ I’m referring to the paparazzi.

‘Yeah, but we’re no longer near the motorway. Permission to take the subject direct to the location?’

I sigh. All this waiting for nothing. ‘Yes, of course,’ I reply.

When I finally reach Johnny’s hotel, the black Mercedes is nowhere to be seen. I go inside and approach the reception desk. The receptionist – long, dark, silky-smooth hair and immaculately made up – regards me with suspicion.

‘Bonjour,’
I say.

‘Hello,’ she replies in English.

Fine, if she’s going to play it that way. Makes my life a whole lot easier.

‘We’re fully booked,’ she says snootily.

‘I know. I’m here to meet someone. Has Mr Jefferson arrived yet?’

She shrugs, playing dumb. ‘I don’t know who you mean. Who is this “Mr Jefferson”?’

‘Johnny Jefferson,’ I say, looking her straight in the eye.

‘I don’t know who this person is that you are speaking of, but I’m sure that if you are supposed to be meeting him, you would know of his whereabouts.’

Oh, for God’s sake. She clearly suspects me of being a demented fan.

‘I guess I will have to try calling him again,’ I reply, giving her a look through narrowed lashes. I turn and walk away, choosing to ignore whatever it is that she’s bitchily muttering under her breath.

Now feeling pretty peeved, I get back into the car and dial his number. I expect Samuel to answer, so when Johnny picks up, sounding happy as Larry, I’m a bit taken aback.

‘Where are you?’ I ask.

‘At your parents’ house,’ he replies with surprise.

‘What are you doing there?’ I’m aghast. Johnny with my parents? Alone?

‘Didn’t you hear Sam? He said he was taking me to the location.’

‘The location? I thought he meant the hotel.’

‘Crossed wires,’ he replies merrily.

‘Have you been drinking?’ I ask suspiciously.

‘Had a few on the plane. And your dad’s got a lovely bottle of red on the go, here.’

‘Don’t drink any more!’ I tell him, horrified.

‘Why not, Nutmeg? We’re having a whale of a time . . .’

Oh, Jesus. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour!’

‘See you later, alligator,’ he says happily.

Bollocks.

  Chapter 20  

Samuel, and whoever else joined Johnny on this jaunty little security mission, have already left by the time I arrive. I don’t suppose it would help if their slick black Merc were parked on my parents’ driveway in full view of everyone. I wonder if Samuel will be sticking around in France while Johnny’s here, or if this was just a one-off due to Johnny catching a commercial flight instead of his private jet. Even if he did have first class all to himself, word can – and clearly did – get around about who was up at the front.

I park the car and hurry inside, full of apprehension. The feeling doesn’t ease when I hear what sounds like a mini party going down in the living room. I walk along the corridor towards the noise and see Johnny lounging on the sofa opposite my parents, a half-full glass of red wine in his hand.

‘Here she is,’ my dad booms, leaping to his feet. The wine in his glass sloshes dangerously close to the edge.

‘Hello, darling!’ Mum says tipsily. ‘Been on a bit of a wild goose chase, we hear.’

‘Yes.’ Through no fault of my own.

‘Hello, Nutmeg.’ Johnny waves from across the other side of the room.

‘Where’s Barney?’ I ask, looking around.

‘Here we go,’ Mum rolls her eyes at Johnny and my dad, then says to me: ‘He’s still asleep.’

‘Still asleep?’ I exclaim. ‘It’s after four o’clock! He’ll never go to bed on time.’

‘Ooh, she’s a whip-cracker,’ my mum jokes.

I purse my lips with annoyance.

‘He had a late nap,’ she explains. ‘Your dad had him in the swimming pool and he was having such a lovely time that I didn’t want to spoil it by putting him to bed.’

‘I’d better go and get him,’ I mutter, knowing he’s unlikely to be happy about it. He’s usually a handful when he sleeps late.

‘We weren’t sure if you were going to tell us off, so we’ve kept Johnny inside rather than risk him being seen by anyone,’ my dad calls after me in a stage whisper.

‘Oh, right,’ I reply, turning back. ‘I’m sure it’s fine to go outside.’

‘She says it’s fine to go outside.’ Dad points at me as he tells Johnny this information, even though Johnny heard me say it himself. ‘Ooh, you’ll like it out there. We’ve got a lovely view,’ he adds. ‘Although I’m sure you’ve seen lots of lovely views in your time.’