by Paige Toon
I had to enlist Bill’s help to get Johnny off the floor when we were in Glasgow the other morning. Even he looked dismayed at the sight of him.
‘Do you think he’ll be okay for the concert tonight?’ Christian asks.
‘I hope so,’ I reply.
Johnny is not okay by any stretch of the imagination, but Bill insists on business as usual. He plies Johnny with whisky on the way to the venue and tries to get him psyched up by his enthusiasm.
‘First gig at the new Wembley Stadium! Going to be a bit different from last time, eh? Eh?’
Johnny doesn’t answer. We’re sitting in a booth at the back of the tour bus, away from the rest of the band who are boozing it up at the front. Johnny is staring out through the window.
We’ve used a combination of bus and private jet on this tour so far. The bus is strangely more convenient most of the time, although the jet was not an experience I’ll forget anytime soon. If only all air travel could be like that: gourmet meals, champagne on tap and not a queue to be seen.
‘Here, mate, have another whisky.’ Bill tries to sound cheerful.
Johnny makes no indication of having heard him.
‘Come on, Johnny boy.’ Bill swigs from the bottle. ‘Mmm. Bloody good whisky, this is. Have some.’
‘Bill, I don’t think Johnny wants any whisky,’ I state.
‘Mind your own business! I know what’s good for him!’ Bill snaps.
‘Don’t speak to her like that,’ Christian says, firmly.
‘Oh, fuck off the lot of ya.’ Bill gets to his feet and plods off down the aisle to join the party at the front of the bus.
‘You alright?’ Christian asks his friend.
Johnny sighs. ‘Yeah.’
‘You’re obviously not, mate,’ Christian says, glancing sideways at me.
Johnny sighs again and turns around to look at us both across the wooden table. ‘What’s anyone going to do about it?’ He reaches over and takes the bottle of whisky Bill left.
‘Johnny, should you be drinking that?’ I ask, tentatively.
He sniggers and takes a swig. ‘What are you, my mother? Oh no, that’s right,’ he says, sarcastically, ‘she’s dead.’
I do a sharp intake of breath.
‘You’ve only got tonight’s gig to get through, then you’ll be back in LA and able to rest up a bit.’ Christian carries on as though he hasn’t heard Johnny’s last sentence.
‘Yeah, and the fucking party.’ Johnny gives him a wry look. His wrap party is tomorrow night and everyone who’s anyone is going to be there. Select journalists from certain publications are even giving up their Christmas Eves to have a few minutes of interview time with him.
‘I hate this fucking business,’ Johnny adds.
‘Come on, mate, how can you say that?’ Christian tries to jolly him up. ‘You love this shit. Once you get on stage, you’ll be fine. You always are.’
Christian is right, to an extent, but after watching Johnny play every other day for almost two months, right now, backstage at Wembley Stadium, I can see that his heart isn’t really in it. His performance is perfunctory. He’s not really interacting with the audience, and that’s a shame because the British critics are out in force tonight.
A member of the security team brings Bess to me after the show, and I get to meet the ubiquitous Serena at last. She’s actually very pretty: short, spiky-black hairdo, olive skin and brown eyes.
I give Bess a big hug and shake Serena’s hand. Serena’s eyes are flitting around all over the place. I’m sure she’s searching for Johnny, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
‘Did you like the concert?’ I ask them.
‘Yeah, it was great!’ Bess enthuses.
‘Really good,’ Serena answers, distracted. She flicks her hair back and puts one hand on her hip before letting it fall to her side again. I can see she’s trying to act cool, but it would be much more endearing if she jumped up and down on the spot with excitement.
‘I think Johnny’s in his dressing room,’ I say, putting them both out of their misery. ‘I’m sure he’ll come through soon.’
At that moment, Christian appears.
‘Hey, Meg, you want something to drink?’ he asks me.
‘Sure. Christian, this is my good friend Bess and her flatmate, Serena.’
‘Hi.’ He shakes hands with both of them. ‘Bess…’ he thinks aloud. ‘Didn’t Meg used to live with you?’
‘Well remembered,’ I say. ‘Let’s all go and get a drink.’
Forty-five painfully long minutes pass and there’s still no sign of Johnny. Christian stayed with us for the first half an hour until the small talk wore him out, and the rest of the crew are doing shots on the other side of the room where the groupies have also descended. I’m embarrassed to be here in front of Bess and I really want to go and check on Johnny. I tell her the latter.
‘Can we come?’ she asks, breathlessly. Serena’s eyes light up at the thought.
‘Um, not really,’ I tell them with regret.
Bess’s face is a mask of disappointment and Serena looks severely disgruntled.
‘Sure, sure, I know you’ve got a job to do.’ Bess dismisses me.
‘I’ll see if I can persuade him to come out,’ I tell her, heart sinking.
As soon as I see him, I know that he’ll be doing no such thing. He’s sitting on a chair in his room, smoking a cigarette with the lights off. He’s made his way through a bottle of vodka.
I switch the light on. ‘Johnny, are you coming out?’ I ask, cautiously.
‘Another one…’ He holds the empty bottle out to me. It wobbles from side to side in his hand.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I think you’ve had enough.’
‘Another one!’ he says, angrily.
‘No.’ My voice is firm. ‘Come back to the hotel.’
‘Fine. I’ll get it myself,’ he slurs, rising unsteadily to his feet. He stumbles and I rush over to help him. I can barely support his weight. I need Christian!
‘Johnny! Sit back down!’ I shout. ‘I’ll get you another bottle if you wait here,’ I fib, going to the door.
Christian is in the backstage area, picking the orange Smarties out of a bowl. He has about twenty in the palm of his hand.
‘Want one?’ he offers them to me.
‘No. Christian, I need your help with Johnny.’
He knocks the sweets back in one and swiftly follows me out of the room. Bill is chatting up a couple of groupies near the sofas, and I’m glad he’s distracted. I don’t want him there. I barely register Bess and Serena standing next to the door.
‘Where is it?’ Johnny slurs, looking at my empty hands.
‘Come on, mate, we’ll get you back to the hotel,’ Christian says, lifting him up.
‘What the fuck?’ Johnny asks, pulling Christian’s left hand close to his eyes and scrutinising it. The orange food colouring from the Smarties has rubbed off on his hand.
‘Smarties,’ Christian tells him.
‘You and your sweets, man,’ Johnny chuckles, drunkenly. ‘Get me my fucking vodka!’ he shouts.
‘Back at the hotel, mate,’ Christian tells him, calmly. ‘Come on, we’ve got to go.’
I follow Christian and a stumbling Johnny out of the room and down the corridor to the exit. Then I remember Bess and run back to say goodbye.
‘I have to leave,’ I tell her, hastily.
‘Right, okay,’ she says, looking unimpressed but not surprised.
I give her a hug. There’s tension on both sides.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll call you!’ I promise, dashing out of the room.
There’s a chasm opening up between us, and Serena is on Bess’s side of the bridge. I don’t know who is on mine. It should be Johnny, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.
Johnny has passed out by the time we get back to the hotel. I take a seat on the sofa in his suite and open up a magazine. I’ve decided to stay with him to make sure he’
s okay. Christian sits down next to me.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Keeping you company,’ he says.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I know.’ He goes over to the kitchenette area and switches on the kettle. ‘Tea?’ he asks.
‘Vodka?’ I fire back. ‘Sorry, sick joke,’ I say. ‘Yeah, a tea would be nice.’
‘He needs to go to rehab,’ Christian says, bringing our cups over to the coffee table. ‘Sugar?’
‘One, thanks,’ I reply. ‘I wonder if he will?’
‘Bill could make him.’
‘Bill’s an idiot,’ I say.
Christian chuckles. ‘He’s not.’
‘Yeah. He is.’
‘He’s been there for Johnny over the years.’
‘He’s been there for the money over the years, you mean,’ I say, drily.
‘I’m sure that helped. But you’re wrong about him.’ Christian hands over my cup. ‘Fuck, I wish we had some custard creams.’
‘Mmm! We could order room service?’
‘What, custard creams from room service?’
‘No, you wally. Just room service. I don’t know, a nice slice of chocolate cake or something.’
‘Actually, you know what?’ he says. ‘I could really do with some proper food. Don’t look at me like that. I’m in a savoury mood.’
I gasp, jokingly. ‘I can’t believe you would defect to the other side!’
‘I’m not defecting, Megan. I’m just dabbling.’
Johnny is still out cold in bed when our food arrives. Christian has opted for chicken curry.
‘Why did you and your girlfriend split up?’ I find the courage to ask, digging into my cake.
I’m half expecting him to tell me some silly story about her overfeeding his goldfish or something, but he nudges at his food with his fork, before saying, ‘I wanted kids and she didn’t.’ He laughs, a touch bitterly. ‘Not often you hear that, is it? She wasn’t really one for commitment.’
I put my fork down in sympathy.
‘I wasn’t fussed about getting married, or anything,’ he continues. ‘Not really sure I believe in all that, to be honest. But I did want kids one day. Not immediately, but some day. She didn’t want them at all.’
‘That’s sad,’ I say.
‘Yeah. Obviously wasn’t meant to be. I saw her the other day. Bumped into her in Soho. She was with another guy.’
‘That must’ve been weird.’
‘Yeah, it was.’
‘Are you still in love with her?’ I ask, tentatively.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘But I would have preferred her to see me with another girl. You know, see what you’re missing out on, kind of thing.’
I smile. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ I tell him the story about Tom. ‘He’s with another girl now,’ I say. ‘I should probably call him while we’re here.’ I take a deep breath. ‘But I’m not really sure I’m going to have time.’
Christian chuckles. ‘No time to make a wee phone call?’
I give him a wry look. ‘Yeah, okay, maybe I just don’t want to.’
‘Are you still in love with him?’ He turns my earlier question around on itself.
‘Definitely not. But hey, maybe we should both go for a walk through Soho later in the hope that our exes will spot us together.’
He smiles at me sideways and holds eye contact for a little longer than necessary. I quickly look away. I hope he doesn’t think I want to go out with him in that way.
I yawn. ‘Are you really going to stay here all night?’
‘Probably,’ he responds.
‘You’re good at that,’ I say, remembering he did the same for me when I went overboard in Amsterdam.
‘Did you take anything other than drink that night?’ he asks me now.
‘God, no! Definitely not.’ At least Johnny knows me better than that. ‘Why, did you think I had?’ I ask.
‘Maybe not on purpose, no,’ he says.
‘What do you mean? You think someone spiked my drink?’
‘It’s possible. You were pretty far gone.’
I consider this idea and anger wells up inside me.
‘Hey, don’t let it get to you now,’ Christian tries to placate me.
Easy for you to say that. ‘Who the hell would have done something like that?’
Christian shrugs. He glances over at Johnny.
‘No way.’ I shake my head. ‘No way. He would never do that.’
‘Who? Johnny?’ Christian asks.
‘Yes. You just looked at him.’
‘Not because I thought he spiked your drink,’ he scoffs.
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Listen,’ he says, after an uncomfortable silence. ‘Why don’t you go off to bed? There’s no point in both of us being awake all night.’
‘In that case, I should stay,’ I tell him. ‘I’m his employee.’
‘Yeah, and I’m his friend. And blood is thicker than water, and all that stuff.’
‘Fair enough.’ Not that they’re related, but I know what he means.
‘Anyway, I haven’t got a room at the hotel,’ he adds. ‘But let’s go for breakfast in the morning, hey?’ he says to me. ‘I’ll come and knock for you at nine.’
‘You didn’t last time,’ I point out.
‘I will this time.’
At nine o’clock the next morning, there’s a knock on my hotel-room door.
‘Is he awake?’
‘He was just starting to stir,’ Christian replies. ‘Has quite a headache.’
We go downstairs to the restaurant for a change of scenery and devour some fluffy American-style pancakes with maple syrup.
Afterwards we head back upstairs to Johnny’s suite. We’re expecting him to still be in bed, so Christian uses the key card he swiped from the bedside table.
We walk into the room and straight away see the bed is empty. Turning the corner, we’re greeted with the sight of Johnny snorting cocaine off the coffee table.
‘Johnny, what the fuck are you doing?’ Christian shouts, rushing over to him. ‘You’ve got a problem, man!’
‘Fuck off,’ Johnny shouts. ‘Don’t you dare fucking touch that!’ He grabs Christian’s hand, which was on the verge of sweeping the coke off the table.
‘You need help, bro!’
Johnny sniggers and leans down with his straw. Christian and I watch in dismay as he snorts up a line right in front of us. He sniffs and wipes his nostril, then lounges back on the sofa, bottle of whisky in his hand.
‘Meg, can you get me some fags?’ he asks me.
‘Piss off, you dickhead,’ Christian snaps. ‘Don’t act like this is nothing, because it’s not. This isn’t normal. You’re going to end up in a fucking state just like you did seven years ago.’
‘Oh, and you would know about that, would you?’ Johnny looks at him, angrily.
‘Hey, the fact that I wasn’t there is nobody’s fault but your own.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Johnny spits. ‘I know. If only I hadn’t slept with your fucking girlfriend. I know that’s why you never introduced me to Clare,’ Johnny adds, nonchalantly. ‘I would have fucked her, too.’
‘You son of a bitch,’ Christian says, stepping forward and then stopping. If looks could kill, Johnny would be dead right about now.
‘How dare you talk about my deceased mother like that?’ Johnny fakes melodrama.
‘Fuck you, you arsehole. Stop using your dead mum to get sympathy.’
‘Christian!’ I shout.
‘It’s true, Meg. He does it all the time.’
‘That’s enough,’ I say. ‘Cut it out, both of you.’
‘No, I will not cut it out,’ Christian snaps. ‘I know you, Johnny Sneeden. You’re a fucked-up son of a bitch. No disrespect to MRS Sneeden.’
Before I know what’s happening, Johnny is off the sofa and hurling himself at Christian.
‘STOP IT!’ I scream, as Johnny shoves Christia
n backwards into the coffee table. It cracks underneath his weight and cocaine dust flies everywhere. Christian is back up on his feet before I know it and he punches Johnny squarely in the face. Johnny stumbles backwards and swings at Christian. He misses. Christian grabs his coat, gives us both a glare that would stop traffic, and storms out of the hotel room. Johnny slumps down on the sofa. I go to his side. His nose is bleeding.
‘Oh, shit!’ I say, trying to take his hand away from his face so I can see if his nose is broken. I wouldn’t have a clue how to tell if it is, mind.
‘Hang on, I’ll get you some ice.’
There’s none in the tiny fridge so I call room service. Johnny reaches for the whisky bottle and takes a swig from it.
‘Johnny, please! You’ve had enough!’
‘Painkiller,’ he says to me, glumly.
‘Johnny, please,’ I say again. ‘You need help. You can’t meet the press in this state.’
‘I’m not going into fucking rehab. Rehab is for pussies.’
‘Come on, Johnny. You need a break from all this.’
‘I’m not going into fucking rehab,’ he repeats. ‘You can help me, Nutmeg. You always help me, Nutmeg.’ He holds out his hand and grabs mine, pulling me down onto the sofa and looking at me with sorrowful green eyes.
‘I can’t help you unless you help yourself,’ I say.
He snorts with laughter and I frown at him.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says, trying to be serious. ‘I can’t help you unless you help yourself!’ he mimics me, in much the same way Bill did when he called me prim and proper. It really rubs me up the wrong way.
‘Fine,’ I say, standing up.
And that’s when I spot the syringe.
‘Johnny, what the hell is that?’
He follows my stare. ‘Aw, Nutmeg,’ he says. ‘I haven’t used it.’
‘I can’t do this. I can’t do this, Johnny.’ The colour drains from my face as I back away.