by Paige Toon
‘This is bliss,’ he says, slicing a piece of Camembert for his bread.
‘Mmm,’ I agree, tilting my head back and gazing up at the blue sky. It’s been tipping it down in England for the last four days. It is lovely here. I just wish I had some friends around to enjoy it with.
‘When are you going away again?’ I pop my sunglasses on top of my head and turn to face him.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies, not looking at me. ‘Might be soon.’
‘How soon?’ I ask with trepidation.
‘The band’s starting tour rehearsals next week. I should probably be there for that.’
‘Next week?’ I exclaim. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘I’m not. Sorry, Meg.’ He glances at me sideways, furrowing his brow.
‘For pity’s sake!’ I explode. ‘You’ve only just got back!’
‘I know. But I have to do this. I have to make this book work, otherwise I’m fucked.’
I don’t bother to tell him off for his language. I put my sunglasses back on and stare moodily at the pool.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.
‘Whatever,’ I reply.
‘You do like it here, don’t you?’
‘Of course I like it,’ I retort. ‘I’m just really bored being all by myself.’
‘You’re not by yourself,’ he corrects me, irritatingly. ‘You’ve got Barney.’
‘You know what I mean,’ I reply crossly. ‘I have no social life. I have nothing to do, no friends to see.’
‘How can you say you have nothing to do? Look around you! Don’t you know how lucky you are?’
‘Yes, of course. But I’m lonely!’
‘Why don’t you get a job?’
‘What would I do?’
‘I don’t know – work in a bakery or something.’
‘Oh, yeah, and where am I supposed to put Barney? Out at the back with the ovens?’
‘He could go to a nursery.’
I shake my head. ‘That’s hardly likely to be financially viable, is it?’
‘I don’t know, Meg, but you said you were bored. I thought maybe you could do with a change of lifestyle.’
‘By sticking our son into day care?’ I snap.
He sighs. ‘Why don’t you try taking him to a playgroup or something, then?’
‘I don’t know of any.’
‘There must be a way to find out about them.’
‘I don’t know anyone at them, though,’ I say.
‘Isn’t that the point? You’d go to meet people.’
‘What if no one speaks English?’
‘You speak French!’
‘An A level doesn’t constitute speaking French! Especially when I’ve barely used the language in the last decade, apart from asking for croissants and baguettes.’
‘Well, wouldn’t this be a good time to use it? I thought you wanted to brush up.’
‘Now you are really annoying me,’ I warn.
‘Only because you know I’m right,’ he replies. ‘Stop making excuses for yourself.’
I’m about to storm inside when he puts his hand out to stop me.
‘I don’t mean to wind you up. I’m trying to help.’ He gets to his feet and goes out through the pool gate. I sit there stewing for a minute, but I’m over it by the time he returns with some magazines.
I nod at them. ‘Research?’
‘Yep. Band interviews.’ He dumps them on a table. ‘I sat in on a couple of them. It’s interesting to see how they’ve been edited.’
I lean forward and riffle through the stack. Most are serious music journals, but finally I come to an addictively trashy celebrity magazine. My heart jumps, as it always does when I read these sorts of things. I try not to do it very often.
‘Mind if I borrow this one?’
‘Of course not,’ Christian replies.
I lean back in my seat. I have to get through the news and gossip before I can relax. I’m nervous as I turn the pages, barely reading the content. I don’t even pause to admire the beach snaps of sexy Scott from Contour Lines. It’s only when I finally reach the fashion pages that I can breathe a sigh of relief. No news or gossip about Johnny in this one. I settle myself and begin to browse at a more leisurely pace.
I come to a double-page feature:
WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG . . .
Match the celeb to their childhood pic!
Ooh, I love these quizzes!
And then my heart stops.
Barney. There’s a picture of Barney.
No. That’s not Barney. I quickly scan the tiny headshots of celebrities running along the bottom of the page and immediately spy what I’m looking for. Johnny Jefferson. Johnny Jefferson as a child looks identical to my son.
I feel the blood draining from my face as my eyes dart towards Christian, reading in amicable silence beside me. Act normal. Try to act normal, Meg.
My heart is pounding so hard inside my chest, I’m surprised it’s not cracking my ribs. I slowly close the magazine and get to my feet.
‘Do you want anything?’ I ask breezily, holding the offending article behind my back. I can’t let him see this. I can’t.
‘No, thanks,’ Christian replies, distracted.
‘Back in a tic’ I quickly make my way through the pool gate and down the stone path to the front door.
Holy SHIT!
I hurry into the house and shut the door behind me, leaning up against it in a panic. What the hell am I going to do with this? I look down at the magazine in my now-sweaty hands. I could tear out the page? It’s the centre spread, so that could work. No, there’s another feature on the back of one of the pages – what if Christian tries to read it and discovers half of it is missing?
I’ll have to bin the whole thing. But where? I can’t put it in the kitchen bin. I’ll have to walk to the big waste bins down the road. It’ll take me a few minutes, so I’m going to have to hurry. I run out through the door, hoping Christian doesn’t come back inside and notice my absence.
Johnny Jefferson is one of the world’s most recognised celebrities. He’d barely turned twenty before his band, Fence, was catapulted into global superstardom. But three years later, when the band split, Johnny spiralled out of control before falling into a dark depression. It was another two years before he was ready to reinvent himself as a solo artist, but when he did, it was one of the most successful comebacks of all time. Now thirty-three, he’s had more platinum-selling records than any other rock star in history.
As for my part in all this – well, before I was stupid enough to mix business with pleasure, I worked for Johnny as his personal assistant. Occasionally I can remember the excitement I felt when I got the job; how thrilling it was being able to tell my best friend Bess that I was going to work for him in LA. She screamed so loudly it almost split my eardrums. I wasn’t even a very big Johnny Jefferson fan, unlike Bess. She was always into that alternative-rock stuff, but I was more of a pop girl. Of course I grew to love rock music, mostly because I grew to love my boss.
I met Christian when I was working in LA. He’d known Johnny since childhood. They went to school together, lived close to each other in their hometown of Newcastle upon Tyne, and were best friends for over fifteen years until Johnny was stupid enough to sleep with Christian’s girlfriend. They eventually patched things up and became mates again, and that’s how Christian ended up with the job of writing his famous friend’s biography. I liked Christian instantly. He was such a good guy – not like his pal, who treated women appallingly and yet they still came back for more. I was as bad as any of the groupies, and that’s not something I can easily admit. It was so hard to resist him. Of course I knew he was gorgeous – I’d seen countless pictures of him in magazines – but I didn’t properly understand his attraction until I met him face to face. I still remember that first time. It was outside by the swimming pool at his LA mansion. At six foot two he was taller than I expected him to be, and his green eyes were almost lumino
us with the light of the pool reflected in them. His dirty-blond hair fell messily around his chin and he had a few freckles across his nose that I’d never noticed in photographs. I was so on edge that I knocked my beach towel into the water and I recall the muscles on his bare arms flexing as he wrung it out. My eyes were drawn to his famous tattoos, etched into his tanned skin with black ink. I soon found out that he is also incredibly charismatic: rooms fall silent when he walks into them, and something is inexplicably lost when he leaves. Plus, he has an astonishing talent for music. It’s not hard to understand how I fell for him.
When things crashed and burned with my boss, Christian and I just kind of fell into step with each other. Christian would probably describe that differently. Apparently he’d had feelings for me for a long time.
I am in love with Christian. I don’t need to convince myself of that. And I’m not in love with Johnny anymore. But somewhere deep inside there’s a part of me that’s connected to him. I wish I could disconnect myself for good. But I can’t. I will never be able to. Because my son is his son. I feel so sick I could throw up.
Chapter 3
‘Bloody hell, it’s hot,’ Christian says. We’re sitting on the beach near Perpignan. Barney is playing with his new dumper truck in the sand a few feet away and Christian is propped up on his elbows to my left. I’m sitting up so I can keep an eye on my little boy.
‘I should introduce a swear box,’ I say drily. ‘Then you’ll be sorry.’
‘And you’ll be rich.’
‘Exactly,’ I reply with a grin.
‘Shall we go for a swim?’ Christian turns to Barney, not waiting for me to answer. ‘Barney, do you want to go for a swim? Barney?’
He’s too engrossed in his truck to even look up.
‘You go,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay with him.’
‘No, we should go together as a family.’
A wave of nausea passes through me. I’ve been feeling off colour ever since the other day, when I saw the picture of Johnny as a child. Luckily, Christian hasn’t noticed his magazine is missing. I don’t suppose a bandmate’s beach snaps are particularly crucial to research.
‘Come on, Mummy!’ Christian says. He’s scooped up a giggling Barney and is now holding his hand down to me. I take it and he pulls me to my feet. He turns and runs towards the water with Barney slung over his shoulder. I follow them, smiling.
Together as a family . . .
It occurs to me as I walk across the hot sand, that I’ve become very good at lying. What a despicable talent to have. It’s not something you can boast about, like being good at languages or playing the piano. I’m a good liar. My parents would be so proud.
Christian runs with Barney into the clear blue water, white foam splashing in their wake and, at the same time, a small voice inside my head wonders if maybe I should lay off myself a little bit. It was an accident. A mistake. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. But if I let all these bad feelings continue to eat me up, that’s exactly what I’ll end up doing: hurting someone. I push these thoughts to the back of my head, unwilling to contemplate them any further at the moment.
‘It’s cold!’ I gasp, wading into the water.
‘Go under quickly,’ Christian urges, doing just that and ending up with Barney squealing in his ear.
I duck in up to my neck and quickly burst out of the water again.
‘Better?’ Christian asks.
‘No!’
‘Go under again.’
‘I think I’ll stand here for a bit, thanks.’
He casts his eyes heavenwards, then smiles. ‘I like your new bikini, by the way.’ It’s a gold-coloured one from H&M.
‘Thanks. Mum took me birthday shopping in Perpignan last week.’
‘You look fit. No one would ever be able to tell you’ve had a kid.’
I laugh. ‘Breastfeeding hasn’t entirely killed my boobs, then?’
He chuckles. ‘No. Unlike hers . . .’
He discreetly nods towards a middle-aged woman nearby who is tanned a deep bronze and has her naked boobs swinging happily past her ribcage.
I giggle and he pulls me down into the water, kissing me on the lips while I simultaneously breathe in sharply.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go away again,’ I say after a while.
‘I know.’ He changes the subject. ‘Do you want to swim to Mummy?’ Christian zooms Barney towards me and I catch him, laughing. He can’t talk yet, but he can understand quite a lot. I encircle my son’s small waist with my hands and bob him up and down in the water as he kicks furiously. Eventually his kicks subside. We rub our noses together.
‘You should do this more often,’ Christian says.
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘It didn’t take very long to get here, did it?’
‘Not with me driving,’ he replies. ‘You’d have to add at least fifteen minutes onto your time.’
Christian loves cars. I still remember the time he borrowed . . . I sigh. I can’t even say his name inside my head without flinching.
‘What’s up?’ Christian asks.
I don’t bother to lie. ‘I was just remembering the time you drove me to Santa Monica beach.’
‘In Johnny’s Bugatti?’
If Christian notices me flinching again, this time he chooses to ignore it.
‘Yeah.’
It was shortly after I’d started working for Johnny in Los Angeles. He told Christian and me to take the day off, so we borrowed his Bugatti Veyron – one of the fastest and most expensive cars in the world – and went out for the day. Christian was beside himself at getting to drive the car. Johnny has several supercars in his garage. At least, he used to. I assume he still does.
I wonder if Christian caught up with him while he was in LA. I don’t ask. I never ask. Sometimes he offers up the information, but most of the time he keeps their catch-ups to himself. He knows about my history with Johnny. I think he prefers to pretend there is none.
‘Shall we go to the beach bar for lunch?’ Christian asks.
‘Sure.’
We get back to Cucugnan in the early afternoon. Barney has fallen asleep in the car so I transfer him to his cot and then go to the bathroom with the intention of taking a shower. I open the window to let in some air and see that Christian is in the pool.
‘Come in, it’s beautiful,’ he calls.
I didn’t bother to get changed out of my bikini for the car journey home so all I have to do is grab Barney’s baby monitor and step back into my flip-flops by the front door to avoid scalding my feet on the scorching stone tiles. I wander around to the side of the house, untying my black sarong as I go and trying not to disturb the bees buzzing away at the lavender lining the path. Several yellow butterflies flit around the purple flowers as I pass and I breathe in deeply and smile to myself. At moments like these, it’s impossible not to feel happy. I walk to the steps and go in. The cool water of the pool takes my breath away, but it’s almost instantly lovely. I swim over to Christian and he puts his hands on my waist. He bends down for a kiss, and for the first time in what seems like ages, I kiss him back.
‘I love having sex outside in the hot sun,’ he says later.
‘You say that like you’ve done it often.’ I tie my sarong back around my waist. Christian is still lying naked on the sunlounger in front of me. It’s just as well this house isn’t overlooked by the neighbours. Christian smirks.
‘What? Have you done it often?’ I pry, curious now, but not jealous.
‘Once or twice,’ he replies with a grin that implies it was substantially more than that.
‘Who with? Clare?’ That was his last serious girlfriend. ‘Actually, I don’t want to know,’ I decide.
‘Haven’t you?’ He turns the tables on me.
‘No.’ I rack my brain to be sure. No, not with Johnny. And most certainly not with the other guys I’ve been out with in my life.
‘That’s a travesty. I’ll have to help you make up for lost time,’ he teases.
He sighs. ‘Don’t you ever wish it was just the two of us?’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’ I exclaim.
‘I don’t mean it terribly. I don’t know . . .’ He doesn’t continue, instead rising to his feet and putting on his almost-dry swimming trunks.
I stand and stare at him. ‘Do you wish we had more time to ourselves?’
‘Yeah, just to talk and – you know, without being interrupted. I wish our parents lived closer.’
‘It would be nice to have them around to help more,’ I agree. ‘Are your mum and dad still planning a trip?’
‘I think so, but Dad’s really busy at work at the moment.’
‘Hasn’t he found a replacement for Joel yet?’
‘No.’
Christian’s dad, Eugen, owns an electrical store in Newcastle. He used to run it with Christian’s younger brother, Joel, but Joel quit the business recently to go and live with his girlfriend in her native Australia.
‘Mum might come out by herself. She’s having withdrawal symptoms from her grandson.’
Mandy, his mum, is besotted with Barney. If she knew he wasn’t hers . . . It’s too horrendous to contemplate.
‘That’d be nice,’ I say. I like Christian’s mum, feisty though she may be. She’s from Newcastle, whereas Christian’s dad hails from Sweden. It still impresses me that Christian is bilingual.
I really should practise my French . . .
A noise comes from the nearby baby monitor.
‘I’ll get him,’ I say, heading inside to retrieve my little sleepyhead. He’s lying awake in his cot, staring at the colourful boat mobile above his head. ‘Come on, you.’ He grips me around my neck with his chubby fingers and presses his face into my shoulder as I walk back down the corridor. A powerful wave of love throbs through me. I can barely imagine my life before he came along. The thought of being without him now . . .
That’s not to say I’ve found motherhood easy. The first few months came as a complete shock. Christian was working so hard and I ended up doing the lion’s share of the work – both with the baby and around the house. I cried a lot. I was exhausted beyond belief from getting up in the night to breastfeed, yet I would still lie awake thinking about everything. Even though Barney was born with a head full of dark hair and people said he looked like Christian, I could never be sure. His eyes were blue. Maybe they’d turn brown like Mummy and Daddy’s, as everyone presumed, but I used to torment myself that they’d turn green instead. Which of course they did.