Johnny Be Good (14 page)

Over the next few weeks, I try to force Johnny’s potential father-hood to the back of my mind. It’s not easy, even though I’m kept ridiculously busy. The MTV recording gets in the highest ratings it’s ever had, and everywhere in the press there’s talk of Johnny’s upcoming tour and forthcoming new album. I have my hands full, organising everything from photoshoots for the album’s artwork, to liaising with Johnny’s record company about tour rehearsals, and that’s on top of my usual day-to-day running about, keeping my boss well-stocked with everything from booze to shaving foam.

The press haven’t stopped speculating about Serengeti and Johnny’s break-up. Most have implied it’s because Johnny was sleeping around, but there haven’t been any pregnancy rumours. I’ve personally been keeping an eye on Serengeti’s profile in pictures, studying the outfits she wears to see if she’s covering up a bump, but of course it’s far too early to tell yet anyway.

I catch up with Kitty a couple of times for coffee, but luckily haven’t run into Charlie again. Kitty and I have become closer,
which is lovely, although I do feel like my life in England is slipping further away. I always mean to speak to Bess every week, but somehow the days just fly by, and it’s always difficult to find a time when it’s okay for both of us to speak and not the middle of the night in one country or the other.

My other friends and Tom have dropped me the occasional email to fill me in on their lives. They’ve been having an August heatwave in England and everyone has been making plans for the bank holiday weekend at the end of the month. I feel nostalgic when I remember going to Tom’s place in Somerset last year. I can remember the taste of the bright orange cider from the local pubs and the cream teas from his parents’ teashop as if it were only yesterday.

One day I get an email from Christian, bringing up the subject of Big Sur. It’s the first time I’ve heard from him since he returned to England and it’s nice to see his name flash up on my computer. Johnny and I are already booked in to go the weekend after next, but Christian had so far been unable to confirm if he could make it. Now he says he can, so I call the Post Ranch Inn, where we’re staying, and ask if they can fit another person in. They have a Tree House available, so I book it for Christian. Johnny and I are both staying in Ocean Houses, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and after I hang up, I realise I should let Christian take my room and I’ll stay in a less expensive Tree House. I ring back the resort to ensure our names are swapped over to avoid any embarrassment when we arrive, then I email Christian back to tell him the plans. I also request his ideal flying dates so I can book his ticket.

His reply email is warmer and friendlier than the last one, having made contact after all these weeks. He thanks me in advance for booking his flights, knowing that he’ll receive even
better First Class treatment if the flight is booked by Johnny Jefferson’s representative. He signs off, teasing me about paying up on my bet. I make a note in my diary to buy some Skittles the next time I’m out at the shops. They have loads of different versions here, too.

Johnny’s worldwide tour kicks off in November, so Big Sur will be the last chance he’ll have to relax for a while. Bill has told him–and me–that he’s not to write any more songs for the tour because ‘it’ll be a pain in the arse to incorporate them at this stage’, but Johnny’s bringing his guitar in any case. I don’t much fancy being on the receiving end of Bill’s wrath if inspiration does strike.

Davey’s all set to take the three of us, but the day we’re due to set off, our plans change. One, Christian’s flight is delayed as a result of a security alert at Heathrow. We have no idea at this stage if it will be several hours or even several days before he can fly. And two, Johnny decides that he wants to drive. He hasn’t got behind the wheel of his McLaren for months, apparently. So we agree to leave as originally planned, with instructions for Davey to keep checking up on Christian’s flight and bring him along as soon as he possibly can. Johnny and I, meanwhile, try to squeeze as much of our luggage into the very minimal boot of the car and leave the rest for Davey to bring along later. Johnny’s guitar goes on the second passenger seat, the one usually reserved for an extra groupie, ‘when he’s in that sort of mood’, as I remember Christian saying. I shudder at the memory of him groping that girl up against the wall. I’ve been doing my utmost not to think about it, but easier said than done.

Unlike Christian, Johnny is quite happy to break the speed limit, knowing that as long as he doesn’t go too crazy, he’ll be able
to afford to pay the fines. I’m on cop car look-out duty in any case.

We speed along Highway One, a twisting, dramatic two-lane road, bordered by dense pine forests and steep rock cliffs. The music is turned right up, so we don’t really talk; Johnny’s too busy singing along to a shed-load of artists that I don’t have a clue about. I don’t know the words to any of the songs, and even if I did, I wouldn’t sing. A year of playing SingStar with Bess back home and never getting a score above ‘Wannabe’ is all the proof I need to tell me I should keep my lips zipped.

After we’ve been driving for a few hours and the music is starting to give me a headache, I gently suggest we put on some Robbie Williams. Johnny finds this enormously amusing, but after a while he turns the sound off. My expression must’ve been seriously pained.

‘You alright, Nutmeg?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,’ I answer, trying to sound breezy.

‘Had enough of my tunes?’

‘Erm…Maybe just a little.’

He chuckles. ‘We’ll have a break.’

We’re driving along a winding road with green fields on our right and the ocean off to our left. The surf crashes violently onto the shore and there are white caps further out on the dark blue water. Seagulls swoop and glide above the rocky beaches. It looks windy out there. A couple of cars up ahead of us turn left into a car park by the ocean.

‘I meant to tell you,’ I say, ‘I saved you ten thousand dollars on your car insurance yesterday.’

‘Cool,’ Johnny replies, distracted. He slows down and follows the other cars into the car park.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, trying not to feel disappointed at his mediocre reaction. I was super-impressed with myself for shopping around like I did.

‘I want to show you something,’ he says. ‘You’ll love it.’

I perk up. A few people turn to look at us as we get out of the car, but no one seems to recognise Johnny, possibly due to his sunglasses.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Elephant seals,’ he says, grinning and helping me out of the car. ‘Come and check them out.’

But before we have time to get to the viewing area for the seals, I spot a family group feeding a horde of squirrel-type creatures. A little girl of about seven or eight holds out a cookie and one of the critters stands up on its hind legs and stretches upwards to take it straight from her hand.

‘What are
they
?’ My voice rises in my excitement.

‘Chipmunks,’ Johnny replies.

‘Chipmunks? They’re so cute!’ I squeal. ‘I want to feed them, too!’

‘Do you want me to get you your crisps from the car?’ he asks, humouring me.

‘Yes, please!’ I beam, totally forgetting about elephant seals for the moment.

He returns a minute later with my half-eaten bag of cheesy Doritos and hands them to me. I crouch down on the ground, the chipmunks immediately taking notice of the rustling bag. Three of them break away from the family still feeding them and run over towards me. They stand up on their hind legs, arms stretched high like little children. I hand one a Dorito and it huddles over and munches away happily. Suddenly another chipmunk jumps
up onto my lap and I look up at Johnny in delight. He’s standing a few feet away, watching. I can’t see his expression behind his glasses. The chipmunk on my lap tries to get into the bag, but I gently ease him away and get out another Dorito. The third one bounces up onto my lap.

I look at Johnny again and start to giggle. His mouth turns up at the corners as he crosses his arms.

A few minutes later I’m still there, feeding the chipmunks.

‘Okay, shall we go and see the elephant seals now?’ Johnny finally speaks.

I really,
really
don’t want to stop feeding the chipmunks. That one just put his hand on my finger!

‘Um,’ I say, hesitantly.

Johnny sighs.

I laugh again as another chipmunk tries to get into my handbag.

‘Meg?’ Johnny presses.

‘They’re so cute!’ I say for about the twentieth time since we arrived.

‘Yeah, I know, but elephant seals?’

I’m so torn, I can’t even tell you.

‘God, you’re a bloody nightmare,’ Johnny says.

‘Okay,’ I say, reluctantly. ‘Sorry, little guys,’ I tell my furry friends, ‘the mean man says I’ve got to go and look at elephant seals.’

Johnny walks a few feet in the direction of the seals and turns back to wait for me, arms still crossed. He doesn’t look amused.

I nudge two chipmunks gently off my lap and stand up. My legs ache from crouching for so long. The chipmunks stand up on their hind legs again, holding their little arms out to me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell them again. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, okay?’

Johnny leads the way to the viewing platform and stands there looking at the beach. He turns to me and smiles.

‘Check ’em out.’

I’m confused. ‘Check what out?’ I ask.

‘The seals,’ he says, pointedly.

‘Where are they? I can’t see any seals,’ I tell him.

He takes a deep breath and points. ‘There. On the sand.’

I peer closely. I’m still confused.

‘Where?’

‘There!’ he says, frustrated now.

‘What, those rocks?’ I ask.

‘They’re not bloody rocks, Meg, they’re elephant seals.’

‘Ohhh,’ I say. Sorry, but I’m completely unimpressed. They look like rocks to me. Or lumps of wood. I glance back regretfully at the cute little chipmunks. They’ve moved on to another group of people now. I look back at Johnny. He’s staring at me, irritably.

‘Sorry!’ I say, trying to look more interested. ‘Wow. They really are something,’ I add for dramatic effect.

‘Fine. Let’s go, then,’ he says, turning away.

‘Can we feed the chipmunks again?’ I bleat, running after him.

He turns back and looks at me in disbelief. ‘Haven’t you fed them enough?’

I look up at him, meekly. ‘No.’

His face breaks into a grin. ‘Bloody women,’ he says. ‘Have you got any Doritos left?’

I peer into the bag. ‘Not many.’ I shake my head, woefully.

‘Come on, then,’ he says. ‘Let’s go and feed the shitmunks again.’

Another car pulls up and a family of five get out. A young boy
of about three and a girl of about five spy the feeding frenzy and run towards us in excitement. They’re followed soon afterwards by two weary-looking parents and a spotty-looking girl in her early teens. The younger kids immediately scare the chipmunks off my lap, greedy little fingers reaching out for my crisps so they can feed the critters themselves. I look up at Johnny and pull a face. He grins.

‘Let the children feed the chipmunks, Meg.’ He puts on his most patronising voice. I am so not impressed. Bloody kids.

The chipmunks haven’t gone far, their craving for crisps overtaking their survival instinct as the children scream with delight and grab at my crisp packet. I let go, grudgingly, and stand up. But then something to my left catches my eye. The teenage girl resembles a statue, mouth gaping open, eyes wide in disbelief. She’s staring at Johnny. I suppress the urge to giggle.

‘Mum…Mum…’ she starts to say, arm rising from beside her waist, finger outstretched in the direction of Johnny. Her mum and dad turn to look at what–or who–has got her attention. Her mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish as her finger continues to rise until it’s pointing right at Johnny’s face.

‘Time to go,’ Johnny mouths at me.

‘It’s…It’s…It’s…’ She tries to get the words out. ‘JOHNNY JEFFERSON!’

Bummer, too late.

‘IT’S JOHNNY JEFFERSON!’ she screams again.

The other people in the vicinity turn to look as Johnny stands there, embarrassed.

The girl jumps on the spot in a state of full-on hysteria as tears begin to roll down her now-red face. Her parents look completely baffled; her mum tries to calm her as her dad studies
Johnny in alarm, trying to place him. Johnny attempts an awkward smile.

‘Would you like an autograph?’ he suggests to her, finally. She nods her head, robustly, still crying.

‘I’ll go and get some paper,’ I tell him.

‘No, I’ll get it,’ he assures me quickly, obviously in no hurry to be left alone with one of his slightly crazed fans. He turns to leave, but the girl grabs him by his jacket.

‘Angela, let go!’ her dad shouts.

‘No! No!’ she shouts back.

‘I’ll go,’ I tell Johnny as he turns back to her.

‘I was just going to get some paper for an autograph,’ I hear him tell her calmly as I rush off towards the car. It’s locked, of course.

‘Johnny!’ I call. ‘Can you unlock the car?’

He hastily aims his key at the car and it unlocks. By the time I get back to him he’s surrounded by all twenty people in the car park, give or take a couple of very perplexed-looking pensioners.

It takes us another twenty minutes to get out of there, after he’s signed his autograph repeatedly for friends, relatives and friends of friends and relatives, plus posed for a few photographs.

Eventually I play bad cop, telling people this is the last photo and autograph, and drag him away.

‘Bloody hell,’ I say when we get into the car.

‘Mmm,’ he answers.

‘Bet you wish you hadn’t stopped for chipmunks now.’

‘I didn’t stop for chipmunks, Nutmeg,’ he says drily as we squeal out of the car park, kicking up grey dust in our wake.