by Paige Toon
Meg’s voice comes through the headset. ‘That’ll make a good shot for the tabloids,’ she says wryly. ‘Our sneaky escape.’
The pilot swerves off to our right and I inhale sharply. This is actually quite scary – a bit like a fast fairground ride. That thought makes me think of Jack and me on the dodgems and I can’t help but smile. At that very moment, as I look out of the window at the mansions nestled in Beverly Hills below, I see his house. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I can see someone – him? – sitting on the slope of the grass looking out at the view. I wonder if he sees me too.
I’ll email him when I get home. I hope he keeps in touch. Like I said, we have unfinished business.
Stuart comes to collect me from the private airfield where we land. Johnny, Meg and the boys are going by chauffeur to Johnny’s dad’s place in Essex. Johnny would have had a chauffeur collect me, too, but Stuart wanted to come. And I’m so happy to see him.
An immigration official came on to the plane to check our passports, so all we have to do is walk down the steps and into the building. I see Stu through the glass as I head towards him – he’s wearing his typical uniform of white T-shirt and denim jeans and he suddenly feels so familiar. I don’t run to him, but when I go through the door and into his arms, the force of our bodies slamming into each other takes my breath away. I’ve never hugged him like this before in my life.
I pull away and smile up at him, and he down at me, and I notice his glasses have come loose so I reach up and straighten them. He looks past me and stiffens, and I know that Johnny has entered the building. I step away from Stu and turn around, and then they’re shaking hands – my new dad and my stepdad, the man who has raised me all of these years and who I’ve never properly appreciated. I wrap my arm around Stu’s waist again and give him a hug, and I notice something pass over Johnny’s expression as he regards us. He steps backwards, flanked by Meg and his boys.
When all is said and done, it’s still ‘them’ and ‘me’, I think pensively, as Meg comes forward to be introduced. But maybe that will change. One day.
We walk outside to the waiting limo and Stu’s little white Fiat, the cars a strange reflection of the two very different worlds laid out before me. Both Stu and Johnny look awkward and I think that they can see it, too.
Meg comes forward to give me a hug, while Stu and Johnny make small talk. ‘See you soon, Jessie,’ she says, quietly. ‘You’ve got my number. We’ll catch up while we’re here, OK? Maybe you can come and meet Brian when he’s perked up a bit?’
My grandad . . .
I nod quickly. ‘That would be good.’
She steps back while I crouch down to speak to Phoenix. ‘Come here, you.’ He flashes me a toothy grin and toddles towards me. He’s grown more steady on his feet even in these last few weeks, but I hope I never forget holding his hand while we walked along the boardwalk at Santa Monica, on my first morning there. ‘Bye bye, baby.’ I fight back tears as I take him in my arms and squeeze his chubby little body, then I watch him toddle off to hang on to his mummy’s leg. I turn to Barney. ‘See you later, B,’ I say.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks, his forehead furrowing with confusion.
‘I’ve got to go in that car.’ I point at the Fiat. ‘But I’ll see you soon, OK?’
‘I wanna come with you!’ he says.
‘No, you’ve got to go in the shiny new one,’ I reply with underlying humour.
‘Aw!’ he moans, his shoulders slumping dramatically.
I laugh and open the back door of the limo. The driver jumps out of the front seat and apologises because he didn’t get there first.
‘It’s fine,’ I wave him away. ‘Look!’ I say to Barney, and we both peer inside. ‘Go and see what’s in the fridge!’ He eagerly clambers inside, but I tug him back. ‘Kiss first.’
He pecks me on my lips and turns away and I fight back tears as I straighten up. Meg smiles sympathetically and touches my arm with tenderness as she and Phoenix climb into the limo. Stu nods at Johnny and then at me, before going to climb into the Fiat. He’s giving us some space.
‘I’ve got this,’ Johnny says to the limo driver, who returns to the driver’s seat, leaving us alone.
I stare up at the dad who I am yet to call dad. I know I’ll see him again soon, but this feels like the end of something. Hopefully it’s the start of something else.
‘Come here,’ Johnny says gruffly, pulling me into his arms as tears start to spill from my eyes. ‘I’m sorry we had to cut your trip short,’ he apologises again.
‘It’s fine,’ I manage to choke out as he lets me go. I don’t want him to leave yet. It feels too soon.
‘We’ve still got a lot of catching up to do,’ he says, running his thumb along my cheek and wiping away some of my tears. ‘And I really want to buy your stepdad a new car,’ he mutters with a smile.
‘He won’t let you,’ I tell him. ‘He couldn’t bear anyone to think that he told me about you so he could benefit.’ It’s true. I know him well.
Johnny rolls his eyes good-naturedly and says, ‘Try to convince him.’
I nod, but I know nothing will do that.
‘See you later, chick.’
I freeze as he presses his lips to my forehead, trying to etch this moment in time into my memory.
He turns away abruptly and climbs into the limo, and I suspect he’s feeling emotional, too.
The limo driver appears again to shut the door before returning to the front, and then I stand and watch my funny little family drive away from me.
‘Bye, Dad,’ I whisper.
Then I look over at Stu, waiting patiently for me in the Fiat. I go and climb into the passenger seat, next to him. The car smells comfortingly familiar, even if it is a pile of shit.
‘Alright?’ he asks cautiously.
‘Yeah,’ I grin. ‘Yeah, I’m alright. Let’s go home. I’m dying for a fag and a drink.’
‘I really hope you’re joking,’ he says warily. ‘I thought you might have grown up since you’ve been away.’
I collapse into giggles as we drive away from the airfield.
But in truth, I have grown up. I’ve changed. And I might be going back to the same town, the same little house, the same school and the same friends, but one thing’s for sure, life will never be the same again.
I’m excited to see what it has in store for me next.
Acknowledgements
I don’t think I will ever start an acknowledgements page without thanking my readers first and foremost. I can’t tell you how much your messages and online reviews make me smile, so please say hi if you haven’t already @PaigeToonAuthor and on Facebook.com/PaigeToonAuthor. Also, stay tuned to www.paigetoon.com because I have some exciting plans for 2014 . . .
Big thanks to the brilliant children’s team at Simon & Schuster, but specifically to my editor, Jane Griffiths, and also Kat McKenna, Elisa Offord, Catherine Ward, Nick Stearn, Laura Hough, Sam Webster, Dominic Brendon, Becky Peacock and Maurice Lyon. Thank you also to my editor Suzanne Baboneau and Emma Capron on the adult team.
Thanks to Isla Bell for reading an early manuscript for me and feeding back, and also to Susan Rains for her help with my Americanisms. And thank you also to my new YA agent Veronique Baxter from David Higham – I’m excited to be working with you from here on in!
Thank you to my friend and fellow author Ali Harris for giving me the idea to branch into young adult books in the first place – I’d be lost without our weekly catch-ups over tea and biscuits!
And, yes, I know this is a little bit weird, but thanks to Meg – the character who kicked off the Johnny madness in the first place. I hope you don’t mind Jessie taking your story forward! (Please note: faithful readers of Johnny Be Good, Baby Be Mine and ebook short Johnny’s Girl, don’t worry – you will hear from Meg again. Just stay tuned to www.paigetoon.com for forthcoming details . . .)
Thank you to the lovely ladies in my local coffee shop for keeping me topped
up with tea at my favourite table in the corner: Wendy, Becky, Milly, Jo, Sarah, Clare and Wendy’s daughter Paige (yes, it is very confusing to hear your mum talking about you!).
Thanks always to my parents, Jen and Vern Schuppan for their unwavering belief in me, and my lovely in-laws, Ian and Helga Toon for all of your help and support. And also of course, my amazing husband Greg Toon and my cheeky little children Indy and Idha. We really do make a great team and I love you all very, very much.
‘Sing! Sing! Sing!’
No. I can’t.
‘Sing! Sing! Sing!’
No! Stop it! And for God’s sake, cut that bloody music!
‘SING! SING! SING!’
Argh! My palms are so slippery I almost dropped the mic. I’m in bad shape. I can’t sing. I can NOT sing. But they won’t stop. I know they won’t stop until I deliver. And I shouldn’t disappoint my audience. Okay, I’m going to sing! Here comes the chorus . . .
I’m locked inside us
And I can’t find the key
It was under the plant pot
That you nicked from me
That’s not my song, by the way. And when I say I can’t sing, I mean I really can’t sing. When you’re as drunk as I am, you could be forgiven for thinking that if only Simon Cowell were in the room, he would say, ‘Girl, you’ve got the X Factor.’ But I’m under no illusions. I know I’m, in his words, ‘distinctly average’.
As for the audience . . . Well, I’m not singing to a 90,000-strong crowd at Wembley, but you’ve probably guessed that by now. I’m in the living room of my flatshare in London Bridge. And the music comes courtesy of my PlayStation SingStar.
The person who’s just grabbed the mic from me is Bess. She’s my flatmate and my best friend. She can’t sing either. Jeez, she’s hurting my ears! Next to her is Sara, a friend of mine from work. And then there are Jo, Jen and Alison, pals from university.
As for me? Well, I’m Meg Stiles. And this is my leaving party. And that song we’re making a mockery of? That’s written by one of the biggest rock stars on the planet. And I’m moving in with him tomorrow.
Seriously! I am not even joking.
Well, maybe I’m misleading you a little bit. You see, I haven’t actually met him yet.
No, I’m not a stalker. I’m his new PA. His Personal Assistant. And I am off to La-La Land. Los Angeles. The City of Angels – whatever you want to call it – and I can’t bloody believe it!
Ouch. My head hurts. What sort of stupid person has a leaving party the night before starting a new job?
I’m not usually this disorganised. In fact, I’m probably the most organised person you’re ever likely to meet. Having a leaving party the night before I had to board this plane to LA is very out of character. But then I didn’t have much choice. I’ve only just got the job.
Seven days ago I was a PA at an architects’ firm. My boss, Marie Sevenou (early fifties, French, very well-respected in the industry), called me into her office on Monday morning and asked me to shut the door and take a seat. This had never happened in the nine months I’d been working there and my initial reaction was to wonder if I’d done anything wrong. But I was pretty sure I hadn’t so, above all, I was curious.
‘Meg,’ she said, her heavy French accent laced with despair, ‘it pains me to tell you this.’
Shit, was she dying?
‘I do not want to lose you.’
Shit, was I dying? Sorry, that was just me being ridiculous.
She continued, ‘All of yesterday I toyed with my conscience. Should I tell her? Could I keep it from her? She is the best PA I have ever had. It would devastate me to let her go.’
I do love my boss, right, but she ain’t half melodramatic.
‘Marie,’ I said, ‘what are you talking about?’
She stared at me, her face bereft. ‘But I said to myself, Marie, think of what you were like thirty years ago. You would have done anything for an opportunity like this. How could you keep it from her?’
What on earth was she going on about?
‘On Saturday night I went to a dinner party at a very good friend of mine’s. You remember Wendel Redgrove? High-powered solicitor – I designed his house in Hampstead a couple of years ago? Well, anyway, he was telling me how his biggest client had lost his personal assistant recently and was having a terrible time trying to find a new one. Of course I empathised. I told him about you and how I thought I might die if I ever lost you. Honestly, Meg, I don’t know how I ever managed before . . .’
But she regained her composure, directing her cool blue eyes straight into my dark-brown ones as she said the words that would change my life forever.
‘Meg, Johnny Jefferson needs a new personal assistant.’
Johnny Jefferson. Wild boy of rock. Piercing green eyes, dirty blond hair and a body Brad Pitt would have killed for fifteen years ago.
It was the chance of a lifetime, to go and work in Los Angeles for him and live in his mansion. To become his confidante, his number one, the person he relies on more than anyone else in the world. And my boss, in a moment of madness, had suggested me for the job.
That very afternoon I met up with Wendel Redgrove and Johnny Jefferson’s manager, Bill Blakeley, a cockney geezer in his late forties who had managed Johnny’s career since he split up with his band, Fence, seven years ago. Wendel drew up a contract, along with a strict confidentiality clause, and Bill asked me to start the following week.
Marie actually cried when I told her it was all done and dusted; they’d offered me the job and I had accepted. Wendel had already persuaded Marie to waive my one-month-notice period, but that left me only six days, which was daunting, to say the least. When I raised my concerns, Bill Blakeley put it bluntly: ‘Sorry, love, but if you need time to sort your life out then you’re not the right chick for the job. Just pack what you need. We’ll cover your rent here for the first three months and after that, if it all works out, you can have some time off to come back and do whatever the hell it is that you need to do. But you’ve got to start immediately, because frankly, I’m sick to fucking death of buying Johnny’s underpants since his last girl left.’
And so here I am, on this plane to LA, with a shocking hangover. I glance out of the window down at the city. Smog hangs over it like a thick black cloud as we fly towards the airport. The distinctive white structure of the Theme Building looks like a flying saucer or a white, four-legged spider. Marie told me to look out for it, and seeing it makes me feel even more spaced-out.
I clear Customs and head out towards the exit where I’ve been told there will be a driver waiting to collect me. Scanning the crowd, I find a placard with my name on it.
‘Ms Stiles! Well! How do you do!’ the driver says when I introduce myself. He shakes my hand vigorously as his face breaks out into a pearly white grin. ‘Welcome to America! I’m Davey! Pleased to meet you! Here, let me take that bag for you, ma’am! Come on! We’re this way!’
I’m not sure I can handle this many exclamation marks on a hangover, but you’ve got to admire his enthusiasm. Smiling, I follow him out of the terminal. The humidity immediately engulfs me and I start to feel a little faint so it’s a relief to reach the car – a long black limo. Climbing into the back, I slump down into the cool, cream leather seats. The air-conditioning kicks in as we exit the car park and my faintness and nausea begin to subside. I put the window down.
Davey is rabbiting on about his lifelong ambition to meet the Queen. I breathe in the outside air, less humid now that we’re on the move, and start to feel better. It smells of barbeques here. The tallest palm trees I’ve ever seen line the wide, wide roads and I’m amazed as I stick my head further out of the window and gaze up at them. I can’t believe they haven’t snapped in half – their proportions are skinnier than toothpicks. It’s the middle of July, but some people still have sad little Christmas decorations hanging out in front of their tired-looking homes. They twinkle in the afternoon sun – no wonder they call this place Tins
eltown. I look around but can’t see the Hollywood sign.
Yet.
Oh God, how can this be happening to me?
None of my friends can believe it, because I’ve never been that fussed about Johnny Jefferson. Of course I think he’s good-looking – who wouldn’t? – but I don’t really fancy him. And when it comes to rock music, well, I think Avril’s pretty hardcore. Give me Take That any day of the week.
Everyone else I know would give their little toe to be in my position. In fact, make that their whole foot. Hell, throw in a hand, while you’re at it.
Whereas I would struggle to give up more than my big toenail. I certainly wouldn’t relinquish a whole digit.
That’s not to say I’m not thrilled about this job. The fact that all my friends fancy Johnny like mad just makes it even more exciting.
Davey drives through the gates into Bel Air, the haven of the rich and famous.
‘That’s where Elvis used to live,’ he points out, as we start to climb the hill via ever-more-impressive mansions. I try to catch a glimpse of the groomed gardens behind the high walls and hedges.
The ache in my head seems to have been replaced by butterflies in my stomach. I wipe the perspiration from my brow and tell myself it’s just the side effects of too much alcohol.
We continue climbing upwards, then suddenly Davey is pulling up outside imposing wooden gates. Cameras point ominously down at us from steel pillars on either side of the car. I feel like I’m being watched and have a sudden urge to put my window back up. Davey announces our arrival into a speakerphone and a few seconds later the gates glide open. My hands feel clammy.
The driveway isn’t long, but it feels like it goes on forever. Trees obscure the house at first, but then we turn a corner and it appears in front of us.
It’s a modern architectural design: two storeys, white concrete, rectangular, structured lines.
