Johnny Be Good

by Toon, Paige

  ‘Fuck knows. But he’d better get back quick. Terrence will go ape-shit if he has to cancel tomorrow’s concert.’

  ‘What makes you think he won’t turn up for that?’ I ask, scared. ‘I mean, why are you so worried? He’s probably just gone for a walk or something.’

  ‘TJ said he was acting funny earlier.’ Bill looks shifty.

  ‘What sort of funny?’ I ask. ‘Drugs funny?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Bill admits. ‘But fuck knows what he’s mixed to get himself into that state.’

  ‘What do you mean? What state?’ Now I’m seriously concerned.

  ‘He climbed over the railings of the hotel balcony and hung off, laughing his bleedin’ head off.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ I say. His suite is on the top floor.

  ‘What did he say to you again? When he called?’ Bill asks.

  ‘He just wanted me to come and meet him. He didn’t say where.’

  The hotel phone rings and Bill snatches up the receiver.

  ‘Yes! Where? Where is that? Can you get us a car? Okay. We’ll be down right away.’

  Bill hangs up and grabs his jacket. ‘He’s down by the river. Some paparazzi arsehole snapped him and alerted the hotel. He must be well and truly fucked up for that to have happened. Normally they’d just get their photo and piss off.’

  As we drive through the streets of Paris in the rain in search of Johnny, I stare out of the window at the Eiffel Tower looming way up above the rooftops. The photographer said that he saw Johnny somewhere nearby, and we’re just hoping and praying he’ll still be there by the time we reach him.

  ‘As long as he hasn’t thrown himself into the bloody river,’ Bill mutters.

  The comment makes me feel slightly hysterical. ‘Why would he do that? Why? Has he done anything like that before?’

  ‘Calm down, girlie!’ Bill snaps. ‘I don’t think he’s suicidal. But yes, he has been in the past.’

  The tabloids had said he was screwed up after the band split, but I hadn’t realised it had been as bad as that. I feel like my intestines have tied themselves up into knots inside my stomach.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you follow him?’ Bill angrily directs his question at two of Johnny’s security team, who we’ve brought with us.

  ‘He told us not to!’ one of them hotly responds.

  We cross the river and drive along beside it in the direction of the Tower. I stare out of the window, desperately hoping to see Johnny, but fearing it’s a lost cause. He could be anywhere by now.

  ‘There he is!’ Bill suddenly shouts.

  ‘Where?’ I shout back.

  ‘There!’

  I follow Bill’s finger to a crowd of people near a bridge. I can’t see Johnny, but I can see flashbulbs going off.

  Using my A-Level French, I direct the driver to take us as close as he can, then we scramble out of the car and push our way through the hordes.

  I freeze. Johnny has his left arm around a down-and-out youth. His other hand is clutching an empty bottle of whisky. He’s almost falling over, he’s laughing so hard.

  ‘Johnny!’ I yell.

  ‘Nutmeg!’ He looks obscenely delighted and stumbles towards me, dragging the youth with him. ‘Bill!’ he shouts, letting go of the guy and the whisky bottle, which smashes to smithereens on the ground. He opens his arms up wide to Bill who, along with the security guys, is trying unsuccessfully to disperse the people who have gathered. Johnny turns back to me and smothers me in a hug, leaning his body weight into me so hard that I almost collapse. He reeks of a combination of booze, fags and vomit. Not a scent anyone will be wanting to bottle and turn into Johnny Jefferson-endorsed aftershave anytime soon.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you back to the hotel.’ I breathe through my mouth to avoid the stench, and try to drag him through the crowd. Many are still snapping away with their cameras. Johnny, wasted, is clearly a much bigger tourist attraction than the famous 300-metre-high structure towering above us.

  ‘Wait. Wait!’ Johnny pulls me back. ‘Come and meet my new friends.’ He spins around and grabs my hand, pulling me back in the direction of the bridge where there is a group of large boxes, some of which have been covered with plastic and old scraps of material. A homeless community appears to reside there.

  ‘Johnny, I don’t think we should.’ I tug back on his hand, trying to resist.

  ‘Shame on you, Nutmeg. They’re people too, you know.’ He cracks up laughing again. ‘Listen, Nutmeg, listen,’ he says, then shouts at the small group of destitute youths before him, ‘Say it! Say it!’

  ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ one of them responds.

  ‘Listen, Nutmeg, listen to this. Say it again!’

  ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ the same guy complies.

  Johnny turns to me excitedly. ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ he shouts. ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ he shouts again.

  Bill and the security team burst through the crowd at that point and drag him back towards the car.

  ‘Quick! Move!’ Bill yells at the driver.

  ‘Vite! Dépêchez-vous!’ I repeat his words in French.

  Johnny winds down the window and sticks his head out.

  ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’ he shouts at the top of his voice. ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’

  Who the hell is this person? I try to take his hand, but he snatches it away and laughs, hysterically.

  Racked with anxiety, I dial the hotel’s number and ask the manager to call a doctor.

  By the time we get to the hotel, Johnny has calmed down considerably, although it’s still a trial to get him up to his room and not into the hotel bar as he would have liked. I pull back the bed covers and sheets and prepare it for him, while Bill removes his shoes. The security guys stand by in case they’re needed again.

  ‘Come on now, mate,’ Bill says, trying to get Johnny to sit on the bed.

  ‘Nutmeg…’ Johnny holds out his hand to me. ‘Come here, Nutmeg.’

  I glance at Bill, who nods, and go towards the bed. Johnny takes my hand. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he slurs, and tries to pull me down beside him.

  ‘Johnny! No, mate,’ Bill manages to roughly extricate my hand and Johnny slumps back against the pillows, smiling up at me, sleepily.

  When the doctor arrives, Johnny is snoring steadily. After checking him over, the doctor determines that he just needs to sleep it off.

  Bill slumps down into a chair. ‘I’ll stay with him. You get some rest,’ he says, gruffly.

  I hesitate.

  ‘Go!’ he insists. ‘Got to make sure he doesn’t throw himself out of the window before tomorrow’s concert.’

  ‘Bill, he can’t play in this state,’ I say, reasonably.

  ‘You shut it!’ He raises his voice.

  ‘Bill, do not tell me to shut it!’

  ‘Don’t try to be an expert about things you know nothing about!’ He points his finger at me.

  I know I won’t win this argument so I leave him to it.

  Chapter 20

  The tabloids the next day speculate that Johnny has lost the plot, that it’s a repeat of seven years ago. There are pictures scattered across every publication, some better quality than others. Clearly the general public sold their tawdry holiday snaps to all and sundry.

  Christian calls me at eleven o’clock in the morning. ‘What the fuck?’ he exclaims down the line.

  ‘I know. Disaster,’ I confirm.

  ‘I’m at St Pancras. I’m on my way.’

  ‘You’re coming to Paris?’

  ‘Yep, I’ll be there at three, your time.’

  ‘I’ll send a car for you. Fill you in when you get here.’

  My parents also ring. They’re concerned, having seen for themselves the evidence of Johnny off his trolley.

  ‘Your father’s worried about you,’ Mum says. ‘And I am, too.’

  ‘Don’t be worried. I’m fine.’

  ‘We just don’t think you’re suited to this sort of thi
ng. You’d be much better off where you were, working for that nice architect lady.’

  ‘Mum!’ I snap. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘It’s not right!’ she squawks.

  ‘I’m not saying it’s right, Mum, but I’m not going to quit and leave him in the lurch like that! He needs me!’

  They want to come to the hotel to see me, but I tell them I’m too busy now. The last thing I need is pressure from my parents to quit my so-called glamorous job.

  I’ve been checking on Johnny all morning. He’s still dead to the world. I can’t believe Bill hasn’t cancelled tonight’s concert, yet. I’ve been fielding calls from journalists all morning, wondering what the score is. I have to keep fobbing them off.

  When Christian arrives, I take him up to Johnny’s room. Bill blocks us off at the door.

  ‘He’s just waking up,’ Bill says.

  ‘Can we come in?’ I ask.

  ‘Give him some time.’ He tries to ease the door shut on us.

  ‘Bill, why can’t we see him?’

  ‘A bit more time,’ he says, and shuts the door.

  ‘We’ll give it fifteen,’ Christian says. ‘Then we’ll go back in there.’ We wait in my room in uncomfortable silence.

  ‘I thought I told you to give him a break?’ Bill barks at the doorway, a quarter of an hour later.

  ‘Bill, it’s okay, mate, let them in,’ I hear Johnny say from inside. Bill glares at us and pulls the door open, standing back to let us pass.

  ‘Hey, man.’ Johnny gets up and gives Christian a sprightly hug. He turns to me. ‘Heeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny!’

  I take a step backwards in alarm.

  He laughs. ‘I’m joking, Meg.’

  I mustn’t look very impressed because he continues, ‘Chill the fuck out, it’s not a big deal!’ He sits down on a chaise longue and picks up his guitar, strumming a few up-tempo chords. Then he puts his guitar down and grabs at his fags on the table.

  I regard him, warily. ‘Are you okay to play tonight?’

  Bill snorts from behind me.

  ‘Yeah, course.’ Johnny grins and lights a cigarette. ‘What do you think I am, a fucking pansy?’ He taps his fingers rapidly on the table.

  ‘Christ, man, you had me worried.’ Christian sighs with relief and slumps down on the chaise longue beside him. Johnny chuckles and rubs at his nose.

  I look at Bill, suspiciously.

  ‘Right, that’s it. Off you go,’ Bill says, urging me in the direction of the door. ‘He needs his rest.’

  ‘Wait!’ I say.

  ‘What?’ Johnny widens his eyes in mock seriousness, then laughs. ‘Look at that little face.’ He nudges Christian and nods at me. ‘Isn’t she cute when she’s concerned?’

  Christian doesn’t answer, but fed up with being patronised by Bill and Johnny, I turn on my heel and leave them to it.

  The concert does go ahead that night, and Johnny is even more energetic than usual. I watch from the sidelines as he pokes fun at his speculated meltdown. The audience loves it.

  ‘You go and hang out with a few homeless chaps and everyone thinks you’ve gone fucking bonkers!’ he shouts into his microphone.

  Christian is standing backstage with me.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask him. ‘Was he like this last time?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Christian shrugs. ‘We kind of lost contact for a couple of years so I wasn’t around to see it.’

  ‘That’s right!’ I have to shout over the music now, as the band launches into the next song. ‘I forgot!’

  ‘About what?’ He quickly turns to look at me.

  ‘Your girlfriend!’ I yell.

  He nods, then stares back at the stage.

  I stand there feeling ill at ease for a minute before telling myself he probably stopped our conversation because of the loud music. Though I know I shouldn’t have said anything.

  Bess calls me the next day. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks, it’s been so manic.

  ‘Hi! It’s so nice to hear your voice! How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. How are you?’ She sounds a little cold.

  ‘Pretty good. Busy. It’s just been non-stop since we left LA.’

  ‘I bet,’ she says.

  There’s an awkward pause for a moment as I wonder why she called.

  ‘Are you still coming to London?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh! Yes! We get there the week after next.’

  ‘Do you need somewhere to stay?’ she asks. Her tone is decidedly detached.

  ‘Um, no, we’re staying in a hotel. Thank you, though,’ I add.

  ‘Okay.’

  Another awkward pause.

  ‘Shit!’ I suddenly remember. ‘I must get you a couple of tickets to the Wembley concert.’

  ‘Can you spare them?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course!’ I tell her. ‘I’ll get you backstage passes too.’

  ‘Really?’ Now she sounds cheerful. ‘That would be so cool!’

  I grin. ‘I’ll bike them to you when we’re in London.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. ‘Sure. I mean, you must be snowed under, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, regretfully. ‘Well, you could come to the hotel and pick them up, if you like?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s okay,’ she says. ‘I’m pretty busy too. But we’ll see you at Wembley, right?’

  ‘Of course!’ I gush. ‘I can’t wait. Listen, Bess, I’d better go. There’s someone trying to get through. Been fobbing off journalists non-stop since Johnny went doolally a couple of nights ago.’

  ‘Serena’s been going on at me to ask you about that,’ she says. ‘What on earth happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ I lie. ‘I really need to take this other call.’

  It saddens me that I can’t open up to her like I used to. If I had a bad day dealing with a nasty client when I was working with Marie, I could tell her about it. It’s completely different now.

  I decide to wake Johnny. He should have had enough of a sleep-in by now. He went out clubbing with the crew after the concert last night so I imagine he’s still feeling the worse for wear.

  He doesn’t answer the door so I have to use my key card.

  ‘Johnny!’ I call from the entrance to the suite. ‘This is your wake-up call!’ I add, brightly. No answer. I go in, half expecting to see two groupies in his bed again, but there’s just one figure under the crumpled bed covers, just one head of hair.

  I look around. The room is a mess. Empty bottles and fag ash line every surface. There’s a murmur from the bed.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, going over to it. ‘Johnny? Are you awake? How’s your head?’ I pull back the bed covers and then leap back in alarm. A girl with messy blonde hair and smudged eye make-up groggily looks up at me. Her eyes seem to focus suddenly and she opens them wide in shock. She quickly sits up and pulls the covers around her naked chest.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she says to me crossly in French.

  ‘Où est Johnny?’ I ask, trying to keep my emotions in check.

  She shrugs and looks shifty.

  ‘I need to know where he is.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answers in English. Then she yawns and relaxes. ‘He was here last night.’ She gives me a knowing look.

  I check the bathroom in case he’s in there.

  ‘What sort of a mood was he in?’ I call to the girl. ‘Was he doing drugs? You can tell me,’ I add, coming out of the bathroom and looking at her. ‘You won’t get into trouble.’

  ‘I think so,’ she says. And from the look on her face, she knows so. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks, looking concerned.

  ‘You should go,’ I tell her, towering over her at the side of the bed.

  She looks up at me, annoyed, for a moment, then lazily lifts up the bed covers and rummages around for a little while before pulling out a lacy black G-string. I feel increasingly nauseous as she unhurriedly turns it the right way around and then wriggles about underneath
the covers and puts it on. She climbs out of bed, wearing just her knickers, and hunts out a skimpy red dress. She’s only just slipped it over her head when we hear a groan from the other side of the room. We both look at each other sharply, and then race over to where the noise came from. Behind the chaise longue is Johnny, butt-naked and covered in his own puke.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ she exclaims.

  I kneel down, trying to ignore the sight of Johnny’s limp cock protruding from between his legs. I may have dreamed about seeing Johnny naked, but accessorised with his own vomit? I don’t think so.

  I urgently pat him on the face. ‘Johnny. Johnny!’

  ‘Is he okay?’ the girl asks, leaning forward. I push her back and reach over the chaise longue, grabbing Johnny’s leather jacket and covering up his bits.

  He groans again.

  ‘Johnny!’

  He opens his eyes and stares at me, unfocused. Then he closes them again.

  ‘Johnny, wake up!’ I demand, patting him on his face again. His eyes flutter open and he puts his hand up to his head. ‘Ow…’ he moans.

  I need to get the girl out of the room and fast. The last thing we need is her selling her story to the tabloids and I don’t want her to be a part of this any more than she already is. I stand up and grab my bag from inside the doorway. I hurriedly walk back to the sofa, pulling two hundred euros out of my purse as I go.

  ‘Here,’ I say, handing them over. ‘For a taxi. You need to leave now.’

  ‘I don’t want your money!’ she snaps.

  ‘You need to leave now,’ I repeat in French, fanning the fifty-euro notes out.

  She stands up, sulkily. ‘I don’t want them!’ she reiterates, glaring at the four notes in my hand.

  I pick up a coat I’m assuming is hers and hand it to her. She takes it, then retrieves her black high-heel shoes from underneath the coffee table and slips them on. Johnny groans again and tries to sit up.

  The girl glances over at him. ‘I hope he’s okay.’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ I quickly assure her, and usher her out of the room.

  By the time I get back around the chaise longue to Johnny, he’s flat on his back and out cold again.

  Chapter 21

  ‘I’m worried about him,’ I say to Christian, nine days later. We’re in the lobby of the hotel where we’re staying for the Wembley Stadium concert. Christian wants to catch up with Johnny, but Johnny has told me under no circumstances to let anyone into his room. It’s six o’clock in the evening and he’s still in bed. His behaviour reminds me of how he was at the start of the tour, except this time I know it’s down to drugs as well as depression.