Johnny Be Good (21 page)

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.

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 thing. 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.

‘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.

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.