The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson

by Paige Toon

  ‘That’s OK,’ I tell her, even if she’s not entirely forgiven.

  ‘I used to worry that this would happen one day,’ she confides. ‘That Johnny’s past would come back to . . .’ Her voice cuts off abruptly before she can say ‘haunt us’. She squirms. ‘I don’t mean it to sound like a bad thing.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I stand up straighter, feeling emboldened. ‘I mean, aren’t I a bad thing in your opinion?’ If she wants to say so, she should say it to my face.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to explain.’ She smiles meekly. ‘I’m not saying this isn’t hard for me. That would be a lie, because Johnny and I have already been through a lot and I actually thought we might be over all the hurdles, that we would get our happily ever after.’

  ‘I’m sorry to spoil it for you.’

  ‘Jessie, you’re not listening to me,’ she says calmly. ‘What I’m trying to say is that, even though this came as a shock, I think you might be good for us. Good for Johnny.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m kind of glad you’re here.’

  We stare back at each other for a long few seconds, then she smiles. ‘Come on, the saleswoman will think we’re shoplifting.’

  ‘Nah, I did enough of that in Armani.’

  ‘What?’ she gasps.

  ‘Just kidding.’ Ha! Got her.

  She rolls her eyes and whacks me on my arm. We’re stifling giggles as we leave the changing rooms.

  The next two days pass by alarmingly quickly, and soon it’s Friday night and time for the party. I wear my hair in a fishtail plait in the end. Meg called in someone to do our hair and makeup and I’ve never felt more spoiled. The party is here in Bel Air in Michael Tremway’s enormous mansion, so it’s only a short ride in the limo to get there. Meg looks stunning in a golden-yellow Gucci dress with long floaty sleeves and a short hem which shows off her long legs. She’s wearing her hair down, a chunky costume jewellery necklace, and we’re both wearing black killer-heels. We went shoe shopping this morning, and yes, they are probably going to kill me by the end of the evening.

  Johnny is wearing skinny black jeans with a metal-studded belt and a silver-grey shirt unbuttoned at the top. It’s a warm evening so he’s rolled up his sleeves and his tattoos are visible. For some reason I imagine Stu with tattoos like Johnny’s and the thought makes me smile.

  Johnny leans across to open up the fridge. He pulls out a bottle of what looks like champagne. It’s called Perrier Jouet and has a pretty white flower decoration up the side. Isn’t Perrier mineral water?

  ‘Want one?’ he asks Meg with a raised eyebrow.

  She eyes him cautiously. ‘No, it’s OK,’ she decides.

  ‘Nutmeg, it’s fine. You and Jessie can drink it.’

  Doesn’t he drink alcohol? I know from Googling him that he’s been in and out of rehab for drug addiction, but these days he’s clean – let’s face it, Stu wouldn’t have let me come anywhere near him if he wasn’t. But I didn’t realise that he didn’t even drink.

  ‘Jessie’s only fifteen,’ Meg points out.

  ‘So?’ I chip in, a little annoyed. I’m gagging for some alcohol, especially if we’re going to a party. ‘I drink all the time at home.’

  She doesn’t look convinced. Or maybe I’m misreading her and she doesn’t look impressed.

  ‘One glass won’t hurt. It’s a special occasion,’ Johnny says gently before turning to me. ‘Jessie? Do you want a glass of champagne?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ I’ve never had champagne before.

  Meg also takes a glass, but Johnny grabs a can of Coke out of the fridge and cracks it open.

  I take a large gulp of champagne and nearly cough and splutter it back up again. Jeez, it’s fizzy! I prefer cider, to be honest. This isn’t sweet enough. But it’s a drink so I knock it back as quickly as I can. No sooner have I finished it than we arrive. I look out of the car’s blackened glass windows to see crowds of people milling around on the pavement outside a high brick wall. Others are climbing out of limos, being papped by waiting photographers. Meg squeezes Johnny’s knee and then turns to me.

  ‘I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to protect your identity,’ she says, calmly. ‘We’ll do our best, but just try to enjoy tonight. If anyone asks, stick to the nanny story.’

  ‘OK,’ I concede. Why are they so reluctant to tell the world about me?

  Before I can ask, the door opens and Davey stands back to let Meg climb out. Johnny and I still haven’t had a proper heart-to-heart. Which means I haven’t had a chance to ask him the questions that I really need answers for. On the couple of occasions I’ve brought up Mum, he seems uncomfortable. OK, so he might not remember her, and maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it in front of Meg, but he hasn’t exactly made an attempt to take me off somewhere, just the two of us. I went shopping with Meg on my own, but it’s Johnny who I want to develop a relationship with. What’s he playing at? Why isn’t he making more of an effort? Maybe he feels awkward. Tough! Life is awkward. Irritation spikes me out of nowhere.

  Johnny steps out of the car to the flashes of paparazzi camera bulbs. I take a deep breath and try to calm down. I’m about to go to a Hollywood party! I should be excited. Tonight I need to channel fun-Jessie and try and forget all the other stuff. I wait for the flashes to follow him away from the limo, and then I move over to the door and, taking some comfort from Davey’s encouraging smile, I carefully climb out, hoping my killer stilettos don’t buckle underneath me.

  Chapter 15

  I can’t believe Johnny and Meg aren’t blinded by the flashes going off in their faces as they head towards the gates. I’m slightly lost in the crowd as I follow them, my head buzzing from that glass of champagne I drank way too quickly.

  Meg looks over her shoulder at me once to check I’m still with them, but Johnny keeps his eyes trained forward. I have my ticket in my hand, and I’m assuming that they’re staying ahead of me in a deliberate attempt to keep my identity under wraps. I can’t help but feel disappointed, but hopefully they know what they’re doing.

  My heart jumps as they make it through the gates, with nobody even checking their tickets. And why should they? Johnny and Meg are two of the most recognisable faces in showbiz. But what if I can’t get in? I’m a bit panicked as I join the small queue ahead of me. Obviously nobody moves aside for me, like they did for my famous father. Eventually I reach the front and hand over my ticket.

  ‘Name?’ a large and formidable-looking bouncer asks.

  ‘Jessie Pickerill,’ I tell him with a pounding heart.

  He scans his list and seconds later, moves aside.

  Meg and Johnny are waiting for me. She smiles brightly, but my eyes are drawn to his.

  ‘OK?’ he asks, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, still on edge. And then I look around.

  There’s so much to take in. The house is in the distance behind a gently sloping lawn, and on the lawn there is a vast array of colourful old-fashioned fairground rides: a carousel, Ferris wheel, flying chair-o-planes, a helter-skelter and teacups. I feel like I’m back on Santa Monica Pier, except these rides are in somebody’s garden!

  The house in the distance is an enormous three-storey mansion made out of cream stone, with pillars all the way along the front. The winding path is lined with pink and white flowers and lit with real-fire torches, although it’s not dark, yet. I notice golf-kart-style buggies going to and from the house along the path. In a daze, I follow Johnny and Meg to the karts. There are no photographers inside the gates – at least, not that I know of – so I’m hoping I’ll relax soon. I wish I’d had another glass of champagne.

  Just as I think that, I see serving girls in red and black 1950s dresses standing beside the karts holding wooden trays full of champagne glasses. Some of the liquid inside them is clear and fizzy, the others are coloured raspberry pink or pale orange. There are a few tall glasses of juice, too.

  ‘Champagne, Bellini and Rossini,’ the serving girl nearest to
us reveals. I check out her reaction to Johnny. She keeps her cool, but her eyes watch him beneath lowered lashes as he leans across and takes a juice. She looks amazing – she could be an actress or a model with her red lipstick and dark hair tied up in a high ponytail.

  ‘I’ll take a Bellini, please.’ Meg helps herself, ignoring the girl’s obvious fascination with her husband. I wonder how she copes with it. I’d hate it if I were her.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask Meg, nodding at the pale orange liquid in her glass.

  ‘Champagne and peach puree. The Rossini is Champagne and berry puree. Will your stepdad kill us if you have one more glass?’

  ‘Let him try,’ I scoff, reaching for a berry drink and taking a sip as I climb on to a waiting kart. Mmm, this tastes much better than that stuff in the car. Johnny and Meg sit behind me, facing backwards, him with his arm draped around her shoulder. He seems so into her, but surely she must feel insecure when so many women are obviously interested in him?

  Pop music is blaring out of enormous loudspeakers all around the garden, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of screams and laughter coming from the fairground rides as we drive past them. I can smell popcorn and candy floss and spy a couple of hot dog stands, with servers dressed in 1950s-style striped red and white costumes and matching hats.

  The kart doesn’t pull to a stop outside the house, but instead drives along beside it. We round the corner to the back garden and are greeted with the sight of a large oval-shaped swimming pool with two slides going into it on either side, and a fountain in the middle spurting out jets of crystal clear water. There are loads of people splashing about – mostly younger ones, from what I can see – and quite a few girls in bikinis and bare-chested guys in shorts lazing about on sunloungers dotted all around the pool. This makes Mike and Natalie’s party look laughable in comparison.

  Beyond the swimming pool, the sprawling garden continues, and off in the distance I can see a log cabin set within silvery white tree trunks.

  I can’t believe one person owns all of this. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

  Inside, the house continues to astound me. Two wide winding staircases curve up and away from the ground floor of a double-height, white marble-lined lobby. Impressive flower displays sit on top of what look like antique carved wooden side tables.

  A distinguished-looking man wearing a casual white shirt and black trousers greets people as they arrive. It takes me a few seconds to recognise him as Michael Tremway. There’s a woman who must be his wife beside him. She looks young, and I remember reading somewhere that he remarried someone who is about twenty-five years his junior. She’s young enough to be his daughter. I wonder what Macy thinks of her.

  ‘Johnny,’ Michael says, warmly, as we reach him. ‘Meg. You look stunning, as always.’ He kisses her hand first and then shakes Johnny’s. I hang back, but Johnny steps aside and brings me in. ‘And this is Jessie, my—’

  ‘Our nanny,’ Meg smoothly interrupts.

  Was Johnny just about to introduce me as his daughter? I feel a surge of annoyance towards Meg for cutting him off. Who is she trying to protect, me or them? I have a feeling it’s the latter.

  Michael shakes my hand and smiles, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners. He turns around to his wife.

  ‘You remember Colleen.’ She steps forward and kisses Johnny’s cheeks, doing the same to Meg. She has a high-pitched, slightly cloying voice.

  ‘It’s great to have you back in LA,’ I overhear Michael saying to Johnny.

  ‘Yeah, well, can’t argue with the weather,’ Johnny replies. ‘Happy birthday, by the way,’ he adds.

  There’s a commotion behind us. I whip around to see a girl, who must be about my age, in a skimpy red bikini and with long, dark, dripping-wet hair, sitting on her bum in the middle of the lobby. She looks shell-shocked. Michael Tremway stalks through the crowd.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to run on the marble with wet feet!’ he exclaims with exasperation as he reaches her.

  The girl blushes a deep beetroot as she scrambles to her feet.

  ‘Screw you,’ she hisses, deliberately bumping into Colleen as she heads to the stairs, making her gasp and wobble on her high heels.

  I stare after the girl, dumbfounded, as I realise that that was Macy from my favourite TV show. Charlotte Tremway, I correct myself in my head.

  Michael laughs lightly. ‘Teenagers,’ he mutters. ‘Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.’ Then he turns to say hello to the next people to arrive.

  I can’t help but feel bad for Charlotte for being dismissed by her dad so easily.

  A while later, I decide to go and explore on my own. I feel like Meg’s on edge having me around threatening to blow the big secret. I leave her and Johnny sitting inside with a few people from Johnny’s record label and go for a walk around the fairground.

  My heels sink into the grass as I walk past a hotdog stand towards the old-fashioned dodgems, snatching up a Bellini from a passing waitress on the way. Mmm, yum. This one’s even nicer than the berry one. I wish I had a friend here to share this experience with. I miss Natalie. She’d go crazy at a party like this!

  Thinking about her reminds me that I’m going home soon. But I’ve barely got to know my so-called dad at all. I can’t imagine ever knowing him, not like I do Stu. Once more I feel a pang of homesickness. Absence definitely makes the heart grow fonder in my case. I wonder if Stu’s missing me. Probably not. I bet he’s enjoying the peace and quiet.

  Katy Perry’s ‘California Girls’ is blaring out of the garden speakers as the dodgem ride up ahead comes to an end. The combination of perky music and alcohol makes me decide to have a go. By a stroke of luck, I manage to swipe a just-vacated car beside the barrier. I hold my almost empty glass between my knees and take in my surroundings while I’m waiting for the ride to start. The ages of the people around me range from about ten to sixty. There are a few teenagers who look pretty cool. They shout across the cars to each other and, as the ride starts off, my eyes are drawn to the back of one boy’s head. He has black, messy hair and even from behind I can tell he’s probably pretty cute. I nip in between a couple of kids and he rounds the bend up ahead, allowing me to catch a glimpse of his face. Whoa. I was right. He’s gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. Tanned with dark eyelashes and sculptured cheekbones. I wonder if he’s an actor? I wonder if he has a girlfriend . . . Maybe he’s gay. An old biddy crashes into the side of me and then hoots with laughter. I giggle as I turn my wheel all the way to the right and reverse away from her, crashing backwards into the front of another car. My head jerks forward on impact.

  ‘Hey!’ I hear a guy behind me jokily complain as I put my foot down. I look over my shoulder with a grin to see that it’s him. My eyes widen, while his narrow, and he leans forward with determination as he chases me. I dart in between two more cars and take a hard right to come up behind him. He spies what I’m up to and I laugh at his mock outrage. All of a sudden he spins his car around so we’re facing each other, heading for a head-on crash. I squeeze my eyes shut, then, ouch!

  ‘No head-on crashes!’ the guy running the dodgems shouts at us.

  The boy purses his lips at me and I try to keep a straight face as we find ourselves riding side by side. I grab the opportunity to down the rest of my drink.

  ‘Are you drinking and driving?’ he asks with faux horror. He has an American accent. ‘Bad girl,’ he mutters.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’ I turn my wheel sharply to the left and veer into him.

  ‘Hey!’ He laughs, doing the same to me. All of the cars slow to a stop as the ride comes to an end. Damn.

  ‘Everybody off!’ the dodgem car operator shouts.

  Our cars have stopped beside each other. He shoots me a sideways look and raises one eyebrow. ‘I hate to think what you’re like on the road.’

  ‘I don’t have a licence,’ I reply flippantly, trying to look cool and not too ungainly as I go to c
limb out of my car.

  ‘No?’ He looks surprised as he hops out of his own and holds his hand down to me. He has a tattoo of a comic-book style POW! on the outside of his right forearm and a bunch of braided leather straps around his wrists. I take his hand instinctively, the slit on my dress flashing the length of my leg as I step on to the smooth metal. At least with him holding my hand I won’t slip in my heels and make a tit out of myself. ‘How old are you?’ he asks, as a girl of about ten barges past me to get into my car.

  ‘Fifteen,’ I reply, glaring at the little brat. He looks surprised, and then I realise I’m gripping his hand hard, so I drop it like a hot cake. His fingertips were rough like Johnny’s. ‘You play the guitar,’ I say without thinking.

  ‘Yeah.’ He looks confused. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘No, just a lucky guess.’ I nod down at his hands.

  ‘Aah,’ he says.

  Even with the extra inches on my shoes, he’s taller than me by half a foot.

  We reach the barrier, trying to avoid people rushing to take over the empty cars. A couple of kids who miss out moan loudly. I spy the old biddy who hooted with laughter looking a bit sneaky as she stays in her car. ‘Cheeky cow,’ I mutter.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her.’ I nudge and point. ‘That old lady, sticking in her car for another ride.’

  He grins and tuts. ‘Guess she’s gotta get her kicks from somewhere.’ We step down on to the grass and it’s then that I notice his T-shirt: it’s grey with a faded black line drawing of a wombat on the front, playing an electric guitar.

  ‘You like The Wombats?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Yeah, man, they’re cool.’ His bluey-grey eyes stare out at me from behind a few wisps of black hair that have fallen down across his forehead. ‘I’m going to see them in September.’

  ‘No way! I’m so jealous.’

  ‘Can’t you get tickets?’ He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his skinny black jeans.

  ‘I won’t be here, then,’ I reply sadly, handing my empty glass to a passing waitress.