The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson

by Paige Toon

  ‘Why?’ I ask tearfully. The lump in my throat has not shrunk. If anything, it’s grown.

  He stares down at his hands, crossed in front of him. He has tattoos on his wrists, trailing up his bare arms. ‘Meg hates taking them out in public,’ he explains. ‘She didn’t want to move back to LA in the first place.’ He flashes me a wry look. ‘I persuaded her. But we can’t live like that, hiding out from the paps all the time. I’m not going to be a recluse. We’ve just got to get on with it. The boys don’t care,’ he adds flippantly.

  ‘They didn’t seem bothered at all,’ I agree, noticing for the first time how calloused the tips of his fingers are. From playing his guitar?

  ‘Exactly.’ It sounds like this is a conversation he’s had a lot with Meg, and I’m guessing he gets a bit frustrated, but he clearly adores her. I wish he’d felt that way about my mum. The thought makes me feel sad. If only she hadn’t been just one of many.

  ‘What about the pictures that I’m in?’ I ask. ‘What if they’re printed?’

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ he says, lazily getting to his feet and stretching his arms over his head. ‘Not with all the others to choose from, and for now, the boys are the main attraction, not you. Anyway, Annie’s on the case.’

  She may be small, but she packs a punch . . . That’s what he said.

  ‘Come on.’ He nods towards the door. ‘Eddie’s biscuits taste much better hot.’

  I reluctantly get to my feet. I feel silly for overreacting, for thinking that everything is about me, but I know better than to let my pride get in the way of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

  Chapter 14

  I knot my white sarong around my chest to cover up most of my bright blue bikini. I wore this same sarong lower down around my waist when I took it on holiday to France a year ago, but I feel oddly exposed now.

  It’s Tuesday, late afternoon, and after yesterday’s run-in with the paparazzi, I’ve been quite content to stay at the house today. Disappointingly, Johnny had to leave us for a meeting with his record label earlier, but he’s back now, and Meg has suggested that we all go for a swim together. I still feel like I’ve hardly spoken to him, but I’m trying to go with the flow.

  Meg is applying sunscreen to Barney when I walk through the clear glass poolside gate. He’s wriggling and complaining as she rubs it into his cheeks.

  ‘Stay still,’ she berates.

  ‘Do you think I’ll be alright?’ I ask her, feeling the warmth of the sun on my arms. I’ve tied my hair up into a bun, so I don’t get it wet, and my shades are back where they belong: sitting on top of my nose.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Johnny interrupts from behind me. I look around to see he’s wearing navy blue swimming trunks and nothing else. His arms and part of his torso are decorated with tattoos. I’ve seen pictures of him in magazines looking not dissimilar to this, and now he’s here in front of me. Alive. Real. My biological father.

  ‘Can never be too careful,’ Meg mutters, as Barney continues to protest. She’s seemed a bit strained today with Johnny not being around. I don’t think she was happy he had to go off for a meeting. We ended up watching a movie in the cinema to pass the time, and I fell asleep for a couple of hours afterwards. My body clock is still messed up.

  Johnny goes into what I’m assuming is the pool hut – a medium-sized white painted-concrete cabin to the right of the pool – and comes out with an armful of rolled-up green towels. He goes and drops them over the glass fence that surrounds the pool on to a sunlounger, before returning to the hut. A moment later he re-emerges with a large inflatable crocodile under one arm and a large inflatable shark under the other. He looks comical and I go over to the fence and help to take one and then the other. He returns to the hut. What’s he doing now?

  I throw the inflatables into the pool and turn to see him appear with a giant double lilo, shuffling his way out of the door. He seems nothing like a rock star and I can’t help but giggle as he passes it over the pool fence and returns to the hut. I glance at Meg and she smirks as Johnny re-emerges with an armful of toys and a couple of long, foam tubes.

  ‘Are you done now?’ I ask sardonically, and he grins at me.

  ‘Pretty much, chick.’ He passes the last of the toys over to me and I drop half of them as he wanders around to the pool gate and comes into the fenced area. He steals Barney from Meg and swings him around in a circle, making him laugh.

  ‘I haven’t rubbed it into his arms yet,’ Meg says, with slight irritation.

  ‘He’ll be OK,’ Johnny chides, pressing a kiss to his giggling son’s nose. ‘Shall we jump in together?’

  ‘Yeah!’ Barney shouts.

  Johnny puts him down and they go to the edge of the pool. ‘One, two, three . . .’

  Splash!

  The water is shockingly cold, but her grip on my hand is warm and firm. I burst back up through the surface of the lake and my laughter collides with hers as she circles my waist with her hands, instantly making me feel safe and secure. I’m five years old and we’re in the Lake District on a camping holiday, just the two of us. I wipe the water out of my eyes and grin at my mummy, who smiles back at me.

  ‘Shall I zoom you?’ she asks, her brown hair dripping rivulets of water down her forehead and forcing her to blink her shining caramel-coloured eyes rapidly.

  ‘Yeah!’ I shout with glee.

  I jolt away from the memory and watch as Barney and Johnny’s heads pop back out of the water. Johnny flicks his wet hair out of his eyes and takes Barney’s hands, pulling him along.

  I look over at Meg to see her face soften as she watches them.

  ‘Can Barney swim?’ I ask her. He seems so small.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, starting on Phoenix with the sunscreen. ‘But only just, and he still needs constant supervision. So never, ever, ever prop the pool gate open.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I scoff. What does she think I am, an idiot?

  ‘You coming in?’ Johnny calls, and I realise he’s talking to me.

  Still smarting from Meg’s comment, I go to the edge of the pool.

  ‘Have a go on this.’ He pushes the inflatable shark across the pool. I’m not sure, but, well, OK . . . I fumble with the knot on my sarong and feel self-conscious as I throw it on a sunlounger, then I position the shark in front of me and leap to my fate. The shark wobbles, I scream and try to hold on, and then I tip over and get absolutely drenched, hair and all. So much for not getting it wet. Johnny hoots with laughter, Barney is hysterical and my role as comedy genius is born.

  ‘You knew that was going to happen!’ I laugh and splash Johnny. The blue water is blissfully cool, not freezing cold like the lake from my memory. He splashes me right back, but I use the crocodile as a shield. I look over at Meg and see that she has a strange expression on her face as she watches us, but then Johnny splashes me and I have no choice but to get him back.

  When I look over again, Meg and Phoenix have gone.

  We don’t stay in the pool for long. Meg’s disappearance seems to have put Johnny on edge.

  ‘Do you think she’s OK?’ I ask worriedly.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ he replies, which doesn’t exactly satisfy me. She’ll be fine when I’m gone, probably.

  There’s noise coming from the kitchen when we go back into the house. I follow Johnny into the room, where Meg is feeding Phoenix in his highchair.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Johnny asks. ‘I thought you were coming for a swim?’

  Meg glances at me and then back at her baby son. ‘I didn’t realise it was so close to the kids’ dinner time. Can you go and get Barney dressed?’ She sounds a bit snappy. ‘You’re dripping water all over the kitchen.’

  I guess that applies to me, too, I think uncomfortably as I tighten the towel around my waist.

  ‘Eddie has left us some Thai food,’ she tells me with what feels like forced brightness. ‘We can eat whenever you’re ready.’

  ‘I’ll go and have a shower. I’ll be quick,�
�� I promise, backing out of the kitchen. I think I might have upset Meg. Again.

  ‘Come on, buddy,’ Johnny says to Barney. He runs straight past me to the stairs.

  ‘Don’t slip!’ Johnny calls after him. He still has wet feet.

  Barney stands stock still for two seconds and then starts to jump up the stairs, one by one, like a three-foot-high rabbit. I chuckle, despite myself.

  ‘Give me a hand getting him dressed?’ Johnny says. He nods towards Barney’s bedroom, so I follow him in there, still feeling on edge.

  ‘Can you grab him some clothes from that drawer?’ he says, while stripping off his wriggling son.

  I do as he asks, choosing red shorts and a navy blue T-shirt with a white shark on the front of it. When I turn around, Barney is standing in front of Johnny, grinning up at him as Johnny vigorously rubs the water from his hair.

  ‘You look so much like each other,’ I say, and they both glance at me with their equally piercing green eyes. Phoenix looks more like Meg, I muse to myself as I pass Johnny the clothes.

  ‘Meg was a bit freaked out when she saw how much you look like me,’ he reveals, pulling the T-shirt over Barney’s head.

  I wasn’t expecting him to admit to that. I shakily perch on the edge of the children’s table.

  ‘I never did look much like Mum.’

  His jaw seems set in a hard line and he doesn’t comment. I want to ask him so many questions about her, but there hasn’t been a right time, and we’re not alone even now with Barney around.

  ‘When will we tell everyone about me?’ I find myself asking. ‘I know Meg isn’t very happy about me being here,’ I add, my voice wavering a little.

  ‘Meg’s fine,’ he says, brushing me off. When I say nothing, he gives me a sympathetic smile and I know he realises I’m not convinced. He glances at Barney and ruffles his hair. ‘I don’t think we should rush into telling everyone about you. Once that happens, there’s no going back. But we’ll talk about it some more soon, OK?’

  I don’t really know what he means, but I know this is not the time or place to press the issue.

  Johnny is still only wearing his swimming trunks and my eyes fall to the scrawly black writing of a tattoo across his left pec. It says Nutmeg.

  ‘Is that your nickname for Meg?’ I ask.

  He touches his hand to it and shrugs. ‘Yeah.’ He looks a bit sheepish when he meets my eyes again. ‘I’ll talk to her,’ he promises. ‘I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable being here.’

  The next day, Meg comes to find me when I’m outside by the pool.

  ‘How do you fancy coming to a party on Friday night?’ She sits down on the sunlounger opposite me.

  ‘Whose party?’ I ask.

  ‘Michael Tremway’s. He’s—’

  ‘I know who he is!’ I exclaim, excitedly. He’s the executive producer of one of my favourite US TV Shows, Little Miss Mulholland, about a teenage girl, Macy, who’s trying to make it as an actress in Hollywood. The girl who plays Macy is Michael Tremway’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Charlotte.

  Meg hands over a ticket and I try to refrain from snatching it, but fail.

  ‘It’s Michael’s fortieth birthday party,’ she tells me as I read that information for myself. ‘But I’m sure there will be plenty of young people there, too.’

  ‘Does Johnny know him?’ I ask breathlessly.

  ‘Johnny knows everyone,’ she replies with a wry grin. ‘He doesn’t go to many parties these days, but he says he’ll come with us to this.’

  ‘Really?’ The question comes out sounding like a squeak. Then my heart sinks. ‘I don’t have anything to wear.’

  ‘What about that silver swing dress?’ she suggests, before clapping her hand to her forehead. ‘What am I thinking?’ she says with a laugh. ‘Let’s go shopping!’

  ‘But, I . . .’

  ‘Johnny will cover it,’ she waves away any concerns. ‘He probably owes you about a million bucks in child maintenance, anyway.’

  It’s a throwaway comment, but it makes my head spin.

  That afternoon, Meg and I leave the boys with their dad and take a limo ride, courtesy of Davey, to Rodeo Drive.

  I feel like I’m Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. My heart has not stopped racing and, as we step out of the car on to the pristine, palm-tree-lined street, I think I’m going to have some sort of fit. The gleaming white Hollywood sign looms large in the distance and I can’t quite believe I’m here.

  Gucci, Prada, Armani, Valentino . . . The afternoon sun reflects off the glittering windows and I blink quickly as I take in the beautiful jewel-encrusted gowns in the displays. Meg suggests that we go for a wander first, try on a few things and then decide on a party dress. I let myself be lead by her, too stunned to do anything else.

  It’s only later, when I’m standing in a Roberto Cavalli changing room, staring at the reflection of somebody I hardly recognise, that I remember who I am and where I’ve come from.

  ‘I’m waiting . . .’ Mum’s voice cuts through the dense, stuffy heat of the changing room.

  ‘Hang on,’ I tell her, struggling to zip up the dress. Her face appears in front of the curtain – just her face, hovering like something out of a bizarre puppet show.

  ‘Mum!’ I squawk, checking to make sure she hasn’t left any cracks in the curtain for people to peek in.

  She ignores my protest. ‘Do you need a hand with that?’

  She comes in anyway, tutting at me as I reach past her to pull the curtain properly shut. I lift up my hair so she can access the zip.

  ‘There.’ She spins me around so that she can get a good look at me. ‘Mmm.’ She eyes me up and down. ‘Yes, I like that.’

  ‘No need to sound quite so enthusiastic,’ I say sarcastically.

  She smirks. She is not, and never has been, a gushing mum. Not like Libby’s mum, who’d be more inclined to say, ‘Wow, darling, that’s stunning!’ even when it’s anything but.

  I turn around and look at myself in the reflection, while she scrutinises me.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I say with a shrug, playing it down because that’s her speciality.

  ‘Get it,’ she says definitively.

  ‘I’ll see what else there is, first,’ I decide, in part to spite her.

  ‘OK,’ she says with a shrug. ‘But I’m asking the assistant to put it on hold.’

  She knew I’d come back for it, and she was right. I wore the dress at my birthday party, the one she never showed up for.

  I blink back tears as I stare at the girl in the mirror. I’m wearing a two-piece slim black skirt and fitted sleeveless top. The top bares my slightly-tanned midriff and has black lace trim around the hem, and the long skirt skims the floor with a slit all the way up to the top of my thigh. I’d have to wear heels. And I’d wear my hair up in a tousled bun with dark eye make-up. I can picture it perfectly. I dread to think how much this outfit costs, but Meg has forbidden me to look at the price tag. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I nearly choke when I see the digits.

  ‘Can I have a look?’ Meg’s voice snaps me out of it.

  ‘In a sec,’ I reply.

  I know this is the one. This is the dress. I know that my mum would say, ‘Mmm, yes,’ or something like that, but that would be enough for me. I wish she were here. I miss her so much.

  I try to swallow the lump in my throat and then open up the curtain to get Meg’s opinion.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ she says, shaking her head. I smile tentatively back at her.

  Her comments from my first night here are still niggling away at me, but she seems to be making an effort. I guess Johnny must have spoken to her, like he said he would.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asks.

  ‘I love it,’ I practically whisper.

  ‘Me too. Do you want to try on anything else?’ Pause. ‘Or have you made up your mind?’ she asks with amusement.

  ‘I don’t think this outfit can be topped,’ I reply.

  She laughs and clos
es the curtain. ‘Let’s go buy it, then.’

  As I change back into my old clothes, I ask her a question through the curtain. ‘Why does Johnny call you Nutmeg?’

  She laughs lightly. ‘God knows. My name’s Meg, but when I worked for him he just started calling me Nutmeg. Now he’s got it tattooed on his chest.’

  ‘I know. I saw when we went swimming.’

  ‘He’ll probably give you a nickname, soon,’ she says drily, and I wish I could see her face so I could read her expression.

  ‘I’ve already got a nickname. Jessie,’ I point out, coming back out of the changing room.

  ‘Of course. Short for Jessica.’ She smiles.

  I stay standing where I am. ‘How did you come to work for Johnny, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. I used to work for an architect as her PA, and then one of her clients . . . Oh! It was Wendel Rosgrove! You’ve met him.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I screw up my nose.

  ‘What?’ she asks with confusion.

  ‘I found him a bit intimidating,’ I reveal. That’s putting it nicely. I actually thought he was a bit of a wanker.

  Meg gives me a conspiratorial look. ‘I agree with you, but luckily I don’t have much to do with him. Anyway, he told my boss that Johnny was looking for a new PA and she suggested me for the job.’

  ‘Wow. As easy as that.’

  She laughs wryly and leans back against the wall, crossing her arms. ‘Nothing’s ever easy where Johnny’s concerned.’

  ‘Mmm. No, I suppose not.’ I gather up my things, ready to take them to the till.

  ‘I’m sorry about your mum,’ she says out of the blue and I stare at her with surprise. ‘I just wanted to . . . I just wanted to say that.’ She gives me an awkward smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply quietly.

  Meg shifts on her feet and I sense that she’s still got something to say. I tilt my head to one side, expectantly. ‘I’m also sorry I’ve been a bit off since you arrived,’ she gives me an apologetic look.