by Paige Toon
Nothing? A week ago I was working in an architects’ studio in London and now I’m in LA, in a rock star mansion, sitting on a sunlounger next to a half-naked rock star! If that’s not surreal, I don’t know what is.
He knocks back his whisky in one and I hold out my hand for the glass.
‘Another?’
He hesitates for a moment before offering it up. ‘Why not.’
About time I start doing my job. I get up and hurry to the bar area, finishing the rest of my drink. I survey the bottles in the cupboard under the bar, searching for the whisky. I spot a can of Diet Coke and consider switching but think better of it. What I need right now is some Dutch courage. And a few shots of tequila wouldn’t go amiss . . . Ooh, there is a bottle of tequila in here, actually. I glance over at Johnny Jefferson, sprawled out on a sunlounger and facing away from me, oblivious to my beverage dilemma.
No, Meg, no. No tequila for you.
Oh, bugger it, I’ll just have one.
I take a quick swig from the bottle and almost spit the booze back out as it sears the back of my throat. I desperately, desperately want to cough. Instead I swallow furiously and choke back the tears.
I need water. Water!
Or perhaps another swig of tequila would help?
Oddly, it does.
‘You know what you’re doing over there?’ Johnny calls out.
Whoops, I’ve been ages.
‘Yes, just coming!’
I approach the sunloungers, trying not to get distracted by the sight in front of me.
‘Cheers.’ Johnny chinks my glass and takes a gulp as I sit down.
His chest is toned and smooth and he has a dark tan. There’s a tattoo of some writing right across his trouser line. I can’t read what it says, but phwoar . . .
Oi! Focus, Meg, focus!
‘So Rosa said you were away on a writing trip?’
‘Yeah. Trying to get everything together for next week.’
‘What’s happening next week?’ I ask.
He looks a little surprised. ‘The Whisky?’ he replies.
‘More whisky?’ I ask. Jesus, he really does have a drink problem.
‘No, the Whisky,’ he says.
‘I don’t understand.’ I look at him blankly.
‘Girl,’ he says, ‘don’t tell me you don’t know about my comeback gig at the Whisky – you know, the venue?’
‘No, sorry, I don’t.’ My face heats up. ‘Should I have heard about it?’
He laughs in disbelief.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘but I don’t really know much about you.’
And then I begin to ramble like a lunatic. . .
‘I mean, I’m not really a fan.’
Shut up, Meg.
‘I don’t mind some of your songs but, well, you know, I kind of prefer Kylie, to be honest.’
Why the bloody hell did I admit that?
‘But at least you haven’t ended up with a mad stalker,’ I continue. ‘I could know anything and everything there is to know about you. I could know your favourite colour, the brand of shampoo you use. . .’
Christ Almighty, ZIP IT! Nope. It just gets worse. . .
‘At least I’m not a star-fucker.’
ARGH!
‘I should hope not, Meg,’ he says, stubbing out his second cigarette in five minutes. ‘That would be going above and beyond the call of duty.’
‘Another drink?’ I offer weakly, the reality of everything I’ve just said starting to sink in. I’m going to lose my job. I’m going to lose my job before it’s even started.
‘Nah, I’ve got to shoot off.’ He stands up. ‘I’m going to hook up with some pals in town. Ring the Viper Room and reserve us a table for eight.’
‘Sure. Er, where . . .’
‘In the Rolodex in the office. You’ll find all the numbers you’ll need in there.’
‘Is that eight people or eight p.m.?’
‘Eight people. Get them to hold the table. I don’t know what time we’ll be there.’
So I’m still employed, then? I get up hastily and take his empty glass from him, unable to meet his eyes. I turn away and notice in the reflection of the glass window that he’s watching his new PA’s departing derrière as she makes her way inside to the office.
Half an hour later Johnny Jefferson comes downstairs and finds me tapping my fingers on one of the two big desks in the office. I’m still feeling nervy, despite the tequila, and I’m not quite sure what to do next.
‘Table all booked?’ he asks, hooking his thumb casually into his jeans pocket. They’re the same ones he was wearing earlier, but he’s changed into a fitted cream shirt with silver pinstripe.
‘Yes, and champagne chilling on ice. I didn’t know if you wanted the car so I called Davey just in case. He’s waiting on the driveway.’
‘Cool.’ He nods. ‘Thought I’d have to take the bike.’
At least I got that right.
He stays standing in the doorway for a moment, staring at me, his hair still damp from the shower.
‘Right then, I’m off.’ He pats the palm of his hand on the door with an air of finality.
I try to resist asking, but can’t. ‘When will you be back?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he answers. ‘Probably.’
And then he’s gone. And suddenly the house feels very empty indeed.