Johnny Be Good

by Paige Toon

  ‘Yep,’ he says, getting up and heading to the far right of the terrace where there’s a polished-concrete table with bench seating. I follow him.

  ‘Red wine okay?’ he asks, going to the outdoor bar.

  ‘Cool,’ I say, placing the pizzas on the table. He brings the wine over, along with a couple of glasses and a bottle opener.

  ‘So why did Paola leave?’ I ask, going to sit down.

  ‘Sit there,’ he says, indicating where with the bottle opener. ‘See the view.’

  I do as he says while he opens the bottle and slides along beside me. I edge away from him a little.

  ‘I’m not going to bite.’ He gives me a sidelong glance and pours a couple of glasses of red. We eat in silence for a short while, looking down at the view. The smog has lifted and the sky is changing colour from blue to orange as the sun sets before us.

  He still hasn’t answered my question.

  ‘So, Paola…’ I try again.

  He takes a large mouthful of pizza.

  Oh, I give up. And now I seem to have lost my appetite. Eating pizza is the last thing I feel like doing in front of Johnny Jefferson.

  ‘You done?’ he asks, as he finishes his third slice.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ I push my plate away.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his fags, tapping the filter end of one on the tabletop before lighting it. He swivels to face me, resting his knee casually on the bench seat. I glance at him nervously.

  ‘You seem tense,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not tense,’ I lie.

  He raises one eyebrow and flicks his ash onto his plate. Yuck. I get up and go to the bar area, bringing back a glass ashtray I spotted in there yesterday. He flicks his ash in it and grins at me. I look away.

  ‘You are definitely tense, chick.’

  ‘I’m not tense,’ I deny again, this time a little irritably.

  He chuckles softly and slides the ashtray closer to him. I notice his fingertips are rough and calloused, I guess from playing his guitar.

  ‘So what did you get up to today?’ he asks.

  ‘Um, just sent out some emails introducing myself. Little bit of fan mail, that sort of thing. And I have a bunch of interview and photoshoot requests which we must go through.’

  ‘You’ve already told me that.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘S’okay.’

  We fall silent again. I reach for my wine and take a sip.

  I wish I didn’t feel so jittery. I’m usually quite composed. I sit up straighter with determination.

  ‘Did you get hold of Serengeti?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’ Pause. ‘She’s cool.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I really liked her in Highlights & Lowlifes,’ I reveal.

  ‘She’ll be delighted to hear it,’ he says, knocking back half a glass of red wine in one gulp and glugging some more into his glass. ‘Top-up?’ he offers.

  ‘Thanks.’ I slide him my glass. ‘Have you seen her new movie yet?’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Going to the premiere on Thursday.’

  ‘Wow! That must be so cool!’

  ‘I’ll get you a ticket. You can come, if you like.’

  ‘Really?’ I practically squeal.

  ‘Of course,’ he calmly confirms.

  ‘I wonder if Kitty’s going?’ I think aloud.

  ‘Who’s Kitty?’

  ‘Rod Freemantle’s PA,’ I answer.

  ‘Aah, yeah. The one you were MSN-ing earlier.’

  I try again. ‘You never answered my question about Paola. Why did she leave?’

  Johnny shrugs. ‘Just wasn’t for her, I guess. You’re a nosey little thing,’ he says, tapping another fag out onto the table.

  I don’t reply, instead just swirl my wine around in my glass as though I haven’t heard him.

  ‘I wanted a Brit,’ he explains.

  ‘Someone from Britain?’

  ‘That’s what “a Brit” means, yeah.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, undeterred by his sarcasm.

  I don’t think he’s going to answer for a moment, but then he speaks.

  ‘Ah, you know…I kinda miss the UK. Nice to have a little piece of it here. Not that I’m calling you a piece,’ he adds quickly.

  I laugh. ‘Do you get home very often?’

  ‘Not often enough,’ he replies.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a marathon to organise these days. And the tabloids over there are fucking awful. They won’t leave you alone.’

  ‘It must be hard,’ I muse.

  ‘Can’t really complain. Not when I’ve got all this.’ He motions around him.

  ‘It must still be hard, though.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Do many friends from home come to visit?’ I ask.

  ‘Sometimes, yeah. In fact, my mate Christian is coming this weekend.’

  ‘Really? In time for the gig?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  Silence. I wish I could think of something more interesting to say.

  He takes a long drag and then stubs out his half-finished cigarette, getting up from the table.

  ‘I’m going to hit the town,’ he tells me.

  ‘Oh, okay.’ I get up and start to clear the plates. ‘Do you want me to reserve a table for you anywhere? Call Davey?’

  ‘Nah. Just going to play it by ear,’ he calls as he reaches the sunlounger and picks up his guitar, swinging it over his shoulder. ‘Catch you later.’

  ‘Okay, bye!’ I reply, cheerfully.

  As soon as he goes inside and slides the glass door shut behind him, I slump back down on the bench and take a deep breath.

  I’m in trouble. I haven’t had a crush like this since I was fifteen and in love with my French tutor. He was divine: young–must’ve been mid-twenties–dark-haired, olive-skinned and devastatingly good-looking. My parents wanted me to take extra lessons because they were considering moving the whole family to France. As it was, they stayed in the UK until I went to university and then retired to Provence, but the lessons paid off anyway. I got an A. Amazing what a crush can do in terms of motivation.

  I still remember staring into his dark-brown eyes across the table…Mr Dubois. I don’t know what his first name was. Funny how it just never occurred to me to ask.

  I wonder what he’s doing now? He was such a nice man.

  Nice men…Unlike countless other women out there, I’ve never really gone for bad boys. Take my ex-boyfriend, Tom, for example. He was lovely and we’re still friends. No one could believe it when we broke up six months ago. We got on so well, but we just kind of fell out of love with each other and were more like brother and sister towards the end.

  But I digress. My problem now is with Johnny Jefferson. My boss. And I don’t quite know what to do about it.

  Chapter 3

  It’s the afternoon of the premiere and I am going stir-crazy with excitement. I’ve barely seen Johnny these last couple of days and it’s taken a superhuman effort to get any work done–I haven’t been able to concentrate for buggery. I was convinced he’d forget about his promise, so when he showed up in the kitchen yesterday with tickets to not only the premiere, but the aftershow party as well, I came over all shy like a schoolgirl. It was a bit embarrassing in front of Rosa. Kitty’s also going tonight, and we’ve arranged to meet in the foyer. I won’t be sitting with Johnny and Serengeti as they’re in the VIP bit, nor am I travelling there with them. I think the film company has arranged Serengeti’s transport, but Davey’s taking me.

  At four o’clock I’m still trying to decide what to wear. The choice is between a cream dress from French Connection or black trousers and silver top combo. The dress shows off my legs, but I can’t for the life of me find my cream push-up bra and I look very flat up top without it. Not very helpful in the city of boob jobs.

  A loud buzzer sounds. I pick up the receiver of the video phone in the office.


  ‘Ms Knight here to see Johnny,’ one of the security guards tells me.

  Damn. Serengeti Knight is about to make an appearance, and I haven’t even got any make-up on. I assumed Johnny would meet her at her house.

  I hurry to the front door to let her in, wondering if I should alert Johnny first. I haven’t seen him today and I’m not even sure if he’s in.

  I fling open the door and beam at the beautiful creature before me. Serengeti Knight is petite and perfectly formed: shorter than me by about an inch, and that’s when she’s wearing heels, whereas I gave up wearing mine in the house days ago. Golden curls cascade around her shoulders and her eyes are the most unusual shade of bronze I’ve ever seen. They match the colour of her dress, a long sleek number. I’m guessing it’s what she’s wearing tonight. Either that, or this is a woman who likes to play dress up.

  ‘Who are you?’ Her tone is icy and I’m taken aback.

  ‘I’m Meg, Johnny’s new PA.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me he had a new PA,’ she says, accusingly.

  ‘I only started on Sunday.’ I try to combat her coldness with the warmth of my smile, but it has no effect. She makes to push past me, so I step back to let her in, feeling disappointed. It never occurred to me that she might not live up to my expectations.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she says, annoyed, looking me up and down. I thought I’d left her more than enough room to pass, but I squeeze myself up against the wall so she can wander through with a foot to spare on either side.

  I go to close the door, but she spins around.

  ‘Wait!’ she commands me, furiously.

  I pause, hand on the doorknob.

  ‘Open it! Open it!’ she orders.

  Confused, I open the door again. Is she a bit bonkers or something?

  Impatiently she pushes back past me and stands on the doorstep.

  ‘Footsie!’ she calls. ‘Footsie, come here, baby!’

  Who on earth is Footsie?

  I don’t have to wait long to find out. A tiny white fluffball of a dog hurls its way towards the door. Then it spots me and starts yapping.

  Yippee.

  I throw myself back up against the wall once more while Serengeti heads inside. A few moments later, her psycho pooch follows. Closing the door, I make my way with trepidation to the living room.

  ‘Where’s Johnny?’ Serengeti demands.

  ‘I think he’s upstairs.’

  ‘Think? Shouldn’t you know?’

  ‘Well…’

  I hear a door open upstairs, followed by footsteps along the landing. Johnny appears above us.

  ‘Hey,’ he says.

  ‘Hey, baby,’ she coos, smiling warmly at him.

  ‘Are you coming up or am I coming down?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ll come up, shall I?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Footsie starts sniffing me as Serengeti makes her way up the stairs. Go on, I urge the dog with my eyes. Go with your mistress…But he doesn’t, choosing to stay and rub his wet little nose all over my bare legs instead.

  I go back into the office, pooch in tow. It’s only ten past four. Davey’s coming for me at six, so between now and then I’ve got to make a wardrobe decision. And I suppose I should do some work…I pick up another fan letter and try to pay attention.

  At five o’clock I decide to call it a day and go and get ready. Just as I’m clearing my desk, Serengeti walks into the room.

  ‘Oh! Hi!’ I exclaim, surprised.

  ‘We’re off soon,’ she informs me. ‘Johnny says you’re going to the premiere, too?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I can’t wait!’

  She flashes me a tight smile. ‘I was thinking you’d be able to keep an eye on Footsie, but I guess…’

  My face falls just as Johnny appears in the doorway.

  ‘He’ll be alright,’ Johnny says, motioning to the dog. ‘Meg was a big fan of Highlights & Lowlifes, you know. She’s been looking forward to this.’

  Serengeti considers this fact for a moment before crouching down and patting Footsie’s curly, white head. ‘I suppose you’ll be okay, won’t you, baby?’

  ‘Is the car coming to collect you from here?’ I ask them both.

  ‘Yeah.’ Johnny doesn’t sound too happy. He looks at Serengeti. ‘I think I’m going to take the bike.’

  ‘You know I don’t like the bike,’ she snaps. ‘It messes up my hair.’

  ‘I mean I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Baby, can’t you just do this one thing for me? On my premiere night?’

  Johnny doesn’t answer.

  Serengeti glances at me and irritation floods her face as she realises I’m eavesdropping on their ‘domestic’. I quickly busy myself with the papers again and pretend to be hearing impaired.

  ‘Look,’ Johnny says. ‘I don’t want to do all that corny Hollywood red-carpet crap anyway.’

  ‘But baby, we agreed to make our relationship public!’

  ‘No, Serengeti, you agreed with your publicist. I never did. I’m taking the bike,’ he decides conclusively.

  The buzzer announces the arrival of Serengeti’s limo. Footsie simultaneously cocks his leg and urinates over the table leg.

  ‘Argh!’ I gasp.

  Serengeti glares at me, then at her dog, before turning and flouncing out of the office.

  I study the yellow puddle on the floor. I guess that means I’m clearing up the dog piss, then.

  I look back up and see Johnny still standing in the doorway.

  ‘What time’s Davey arriving?’ he asks.

  ‘Six o’clock,’ I answer. ‘Better go and get ready. Well, after I clean up this…’

  The corner of his mouth turns up. ‘Okay, chick.’

  By the time I’ve found the cleaning stuff in the laundry and tidied away the present Footsie left me, I have only half an hour to get ready. Like a true Libran, I’ve changed my mind again and have now decided to wear a long black dress. I’m accessorising with a sparkly, red, costume-jewellery necklace that my grandmother gave me from her heydays. I already have a glow from a few days in the LA sunshine, so for make-up, I opt for a summery sheen: rosy cream blusher and just a hint of gold across my eyelids, finished off with black mascara and sheer lipgloss. My blonde hair is naturally straight anyway, but I run the hot irons through it to smooth it down. Finally I slip my feet into killer high heels and survey my reflection. Not bad.

  I exit my room and head towards the stairs. Johnny comes out of the door at the far end of the landing.

  ‘Cor, sexy,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I reply, jokily brushing him off.

  ‘You’re going to make Serengeti jealous looking like that, you know,’ he continues.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ I roll my eyes and start to walk down the stairs.

  ‘I’m not actually joking,’ he warns.

  I look back up at him, a couple of steps behind me on the stairs. ‘Are you serious?’ I ask. ‘Do you want me to go and change?’

  He laughs wholeheartedly. ‘Fuck no, Meg. Who gives a shit if Serengeti gets jealous or not?’

  ‘Well, okay, then,’ I say hesitantly, and continue to walk down the stairs. The buzzer goes as we reach the bottom.

  ‘That’ll be Davey,’ I say. ‘Are you really not going to join Serengeti on the red carpet?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘She’s going to be disappointed.’

  ‘Do you think I’m a bad boyfriend?’ he asks, attempting to look grave, but unable to hide the twinkle in his eye.

  I give him a wry look and don’t answer, continuing towards the door. He follows me, opening up a cupboard in the hallway and pulling out a black-leather biker jacket and shiny black helmet.

  ‘Want to blow off Davey and come with me on the bike instead?’ he asks, shrugging himself into his jacket and zipping it up.

  I laugh. ‘Oh sure, I bet that would really delight your girlfriend!’

  He grins at me cheekily and goes to the door, holding it open for
me to walk through.

  ‘You sure?’ he asks. ‘Last chance.’

  I hesitate. God, I would really love to turn up at the premiere with him on his motorbike, but I know it’s a bad idea. A terrible idea. What is he thinking?

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ I attempt to sound serious. ‘I’m not sure that would be a good look for Serengeti, you turning up to her big night with another woman. Not that it’s like that,’ I add quickly. ‘I mean it just might look like that, you know, to the tabloids…’

  He raises one eyebrow at me in amusement. ‘Suit yourself,’ he says as we arrive at the car. ‘Maybe catch you later.’

  Davey steps out onto the driveway and opens up the door for me, waving his hand towards the back seat with a flourish. I glance over my shoulder to see Johnny reach the large garage, partly obscured by trees, at the other side of the property.

  Back in the car, Davey starts up the ignition and slowly drives towards the gates. We wind our way back down through the hills of Bel Air, and then suddenly there’s an almighty roar and a motorbike zooms past us.

  I feel numb as I realise I turned down the chance to ride with Johnny Jefferson. Bess would hit me on the back of my head with a hammer if she found out. Why does my common sense always kick in like that? Out of all my friends, I’m the biggest pragmatist.

  Well, at least my hair won’t get messed up. And I’m wearing a long dress–that wouldn’t have worked on a bike. Plus, high heels would’ve been a nightmare, too.

  Nope. Common sense isn’t working this time. I still feel like rubbish.

  The crowds down Hollywood Boulevard are overwhelming. Davey drives right to the front of the barriers and gets out to open my door. Flashbulbs are going off left, right and centre, and people crane their necks to see who I am. Of course, they soon realise I’m Nobody and turn their attention to the next car to pull up. This doesn’t matter to me. I feel like a star as I hand over my ticket. There are screams everywhere as I step through the barriers and I’m vaguely aware of other people on the red carpet signing autographs and having their pictures taken. But I’m so nervous I don’t pause to see who they are: I just keep walking towards the entrance. My red-carpet experience is over before I know it, and once inside I deeply regret not making more of it. I stand just inside the doors for a moment and look back.