by Toon, Paige
Then she got frowned at for taking a personal call during work hours so we agreed to touch base on the weekend for a proper chat.
I unpacked after that and actually spent some time putting make-up on.
Not that I should have bloody well bothered.
And now I’m sitting here, behind this big desk, reading the manual left behind by Johnny’s last PA, a girl called Paola. It seems pretty straightforward. Book doctor’s appointments, manage finances and liaise with accountants, buy everything from shaving foam to zit cream, and obviously book flights, reserve tables and all that other stuff.
Earlier I managed to work out the voicemail system. I listened to the old outgoing message first and it was a bit weird hearing Paola’s efficient-sounding voice. She’s American. For some reason I assumed she was Italian. I recorded a new message and felt strangely jubilant until I played it back and heard how dreadful I sounded. So I recorded it again. And again, until eventually I gave up and decided to make do.
I also sent out a mass email introducing myself to Johnny and Paola’s contacts and my inbox has since been filling up with requests from journalists, business people and countless ‘friends’ requesting interviews and photoshoots and asking if their names can be put down on the guest list for next week’s comeback gig. I’ve been making a note of everything to run through with Johnny later.
I look at the time on my computer again. Three-fifteen. Hmm. Another message pops up so I click on it.
hey, meg! pleased to digitally meet you. i’m kitty. i’m a cpa too. you on msn?
cpa…cpa…Oh! Celebrity Personal Assistant–dur! Exciting. I wonder who she works for?
I quickly reply that I am on MSN and we hook up to have a proper chat.
hi! pleased to meet you too. who do you work for?
rod freemantle
Rod Freemantle…I vaguely recognise the name, but can’t place him. Before I have a chance to reply she writes to me again.
actor. was in grass grows green and the violent light
I still can’t picture who she means. Again she hits me back before I can profess ignorance. She sends through a picture of a slightly balding, dark-haired man of about forty, with his arms around two tall leggy blondes. He’s leering down at one of their cleavages.
Nice. I tell Kitty I recognise him, before asking if she’s one of the girls in the pic. She replies, ‘hell no,’ and sends through another picture. A gorgeous woman of, I’m guessing, about thirty, beams at the camera. Brilliant white teeth, dark ringletted hair, encased in an embrace with a tall, blond, good-looking man.
Holy shit, it’s Brad Pitt!
holy shit, it’s brad pitt!
ha ha, that rhymes!
but it’s brad pitt! brad pitt!!!!
i can’t deny it. sorry, i don’t usually show off like that but i just couldn’t resist. met him at a party last week and still a bit beside myself with excitement. you’ll meet him soon enough though won’t you?
will i?!
for sure! you can’t work with johnny jefferson and not meet celebs. so what’s it like? working with him i mean?
i don’t really know yet. only started yesterday
i’ve been wondering how long it’d be before they’d replace paola. it’s been a month. you’ve got the most coveted job in cpa-land, you know…
have I?
oh, yeah. i know a couple of people who went for it. so
where did you come from?
england
no, i mean who did you work for before?
oh sorry! marie sevenou. she’s an architect
you didn’t work in the business?
no
which agency did you go through?
agency?
yeah, cpa agency
oh, I didn’t. my boss just recommended me to johnny’s solicitor.
wow! talk about a lucky break. well, we should go for a coffee sometime. can be lonely, this business, especially if you’re not from around here
that’d be great!
cool. I’ll be in touch–maybe next week? better go now though. the rodster will be back soon and i’ve got fan mail to get through…
Speaking of fan mail…There are two giant postbags of it sitting next to my desk. I gaze down at it, mournfully. I’ve already calculated it’s going to take me about a week to sort through it all, let alone any more that comes in. And then there’s Johnny’s MySpace and Facebook pages to manage. Looks like a royal pain in the arse to me. I avoided Facebook like the plague back in London because I knew I’d probably become addicted and would never get any work done.
Again I listen out for any sound of the rock star and recheck the time on my computer before looking back down at the fan mail. I guess I should get started on it.
The first letter I pull out of the bag nearest to me is pink and decorated with little red hearts.
Johnny baby!
How would you like some of this?
‘This’, I’m presuming, refers to the woman in the enclosed photograph: a stunning brunette wearing black, lacy knickers, posing doggy-style on a red satin bed-sheet. Her pert arse is in the forefront of the picture, while she looks over her shoulder at the camera.
Charming. I return my attention to the letter.
No strings attached. I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want any commitment. But you can have exactly what you want–wherever you want it. Call me on…
Urgh.
I slam the photo down on the desk in disgust and reach for the Rolodex.
Anton Seacroid–accountant
Bill Blakeley–manager
Brad Pitt
Brad Pitt! He’s here! He’s here, he’s here, he’s here! Who else, Tom Cruise? Oh my God, Tom Cruise is in here! Next to Penelope Cruz, though. That’s a bit out of date, Paola, naughty, naughty. Not for the first time that day, I wonder who Paola was and why she left–before I come across Madonna’s name and my jaw hits the desk once more.
‘Perusing the Rolodex, hey?’
Johnny’s voice makes me jump out of my skin.
‘You scared the life out of me!’
He’s leaning on the doorframe, wearing the same outfit he had on last night. He looks rough and unshaven. Sigh…
‘Glad to see someone’s made a start on that.’ He gestures towards the fan mail. ‘It was the bane of Paola’s life,’ he says, adding, ‘well, except for me of course.’
He wanders into the room and stands by my desk. He picks up the photo and studies it with interest, then reaches for the letter.
‘You want me to reply to it?’ I ask, warily.
‘Hmm…’ He considers my question for a moment. ‘No, better not,’ he decides eventually, and puts the letter and photograph back down.
‘So, I’ve been reading this manual that Paola left,’ I tell him, trying to sound professional. ‘And I also have some photoshoot and interview requests for you.’
‘Mmmhmm.’
‘Oh, and some people want to be put on the guest list for next week.’
‘What’s happening next week?’ he asks.
I’m confused. ‘Your gig at the Whisky?’
‘Just checking,’ he says, straight-faced.
I look back down at the desk and shuffle some papers. Just because yesterday I didn’t know about your gig doesn’t mean I have a memory like a sieve, I think, annoyed.
‘Shall I take you through them now?’
‘Fuck, no. Later. I’m knackered.’
‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’
He pauses for a moment then pulls up a chair beside me. I freeze. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol, and I swear there’s a hint of Chanel No 5 in there, too.
‘Yeah, actually. Check out Samson Sarky.’
I do as he says, logging onto the internet site for the camp celebrity gossip blogger.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ I ask.
‘Scroll down,’ he directs me.
I skip
past scandalous stories about Britney Spears and Paris Hilton until he calls out, ‘Stop.’
‘Mandy Periwalker’s latest botched boob job?’ I ask, mouse hovering over the link for that story.
‘No, next one.’
I scan the headline: ‘While the cat’s away…’
If the rumours are true about their relationship, Serengeti Knight had better keep a tighter leash on bad boy Johnny Jefferson, who was last night spotted getting up close and personal with a lithe redhead…
Johnny takes a deep breath, because presumably the rumours are true.
Serengeti Knight: teen star turned sexy starlet. Tipped for big success this year having scored the leading role in a romantic comedy opposite the gorgeous Timothy Makkeinen. Bess and I have been dying to see the film ever since we saw the trailer a couple of months ago. Mr Makkeinen is hot with a capital H.
But enough about him…I’ve always liked Serengeti Knight. She’s talented and beautiful; the sort of girl you’d give anything to be. I religiously watched Highlights & Lowlifes in my teens, the television show that shot her to fame when she was just fourteen. That was nine years ago, but I still remember the rave reviews she received. She starred in the drama for five years, and the world watched her grow from an adolescent teen into a nineteen-year-old sex bomb. When the show was dropped by the TV channel, Serengeti disappeared off the scene for a year or so, before she started cropping up in indie films, building up her cred until finally she scored a couple of back-to-back supporting roles in big-budget blockbusters. This new film, Just Juliet, is her first major part, and the fact that she stars opposite Timothy Makkeinen should surely send her into the stardom stratosphere.
So she’s seeing Johnny. Talk about Hollywood power couple. I’m starting to feel a little sick. Who could compete with Serengeti Knight?
Meg! Did you just use the word ‘compete’? As if!
I sneak a sideways glance at him. He’s peering closely at the computer screen, dark-blond hair partly obscuring his face. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top and I catch a glimpse of his tanned chest. I shudder and tear my eyes away as I recall the sight of him half-naked in the hot afternoon sun yesterday.
‘Scroll down,’ he orders me again.
He reads the rest of the piece, but it doesn’t really say much more apart from touching on Serengeti’s whereabouts. She’s in Las Vegas, publicising her film, and apparently was shocked and disturbed when she heard about Johnny’s supposed infidelity.
He slumps back in his chair.
‘Would flowers help?’ I suggest, tentatively.
His laugh is laced with sarcasm. ‘I don’t do flowers, chick. You need to know that.’
I feel my face turn red.
‘Oh, that’s right, you don’t know anything about me,’ he says, coolly. ‘You’re not a star-fucker, right?’
‘No,’ I bite back. ‘But I know where to find one for you if you want.’ I prod the photo of the brunette in lacy underwear, irritation searing through me.
He throws his head back and laughs, the first genuine laugh I’ve heard from him since we met. I look at him, defiantly, still annoyed by the fact that he keeps reducing me to a blushing fool.
‘Tempting,’ he says, ‘but I think I’m in enough trouble as it is.’ He grins. ‘Better go call her.’ He stands up and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a mobile phone. ‘Phone ran out of juice last night and she’s probably left me a dozen voicemails. You got the charger?’
‘Erm…’ I open desk drawers and hurriedly search through them. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Feeling useless, I flick through the manual. Where the hell would Paola have left a charger?
‘Sorry.’ I glance up at his face, which is now a picture of impatience. ‘You wouldn’t have any idea where it would be?’
‘No,’ he says, shortly.
I get up and go to the other desk, again opening drawers and riffling through them, my head buzzing with adrenalin.
Calm down, Meg, it’s only a bleeding phone charger, for goodness’ sake.
A thought suddenly occurs to me. ‘Hang on, haven’t you charged your phone since Paola left?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, brow furrowing as he racks his brain for a moment. ‘Bedside table,’ he informs me and promptly leaves the room.
Bedside bloody table, I mutter inwardly, and set about tidying six now very disorganised drawers.
A couple of hours later I’m still in the office and Johnny hasn’t reappeared. Rosa pops her head around the door.
‘I’m off, honey. I’ve left you a couple of pizzas in the fridge.’
‘Lovely, thanks!’
‘Did I hear Johnny come home?’ she asks.
‘Yes, a couple of hours ago. He went upstairs to call Serengeti.’
‘Aah,’ Rosa says, knowingly. I wonder how much attention she pays to the gossip-mongers.
‘Have you met her?’ I ask, referring to the actress.
‘Oh, yes, she’s been here a few times.’
I nod, wanting to find out more, but sensing it’s not really the done thing to pry.
‘Well, then, honey, I’ll be off. See you in the morning.’
‘Bye, Rosa. Thanks again!’
I call it quits for the day soon after that, and head out of the office. I stand at the foot of the stairs for a moment, listening for Johnny, but can’t hear anything. I wonder if I should go upstairs and ask him if he wants any pizza. Should I? Oh, I don’t know. I stand there for a moment, wavering. I probably should. I walk up a couple of steps, then pause and go back down again. No, I don’t want to bother him. He’ll come down if he’s hungry.
I go into the kitchen and turn on the oven, taking the pizzas out of the fridge. Rosa has made one with chicken, green peppers and red onion on what looks like a barbeque sauce, and another with buffalo mozzarella, tomatoes and basil. I wonder which one Johnny would prefer. Is he a vegetarian? I doubt it. But I can’t be sure. Did it say anything like that in the manual?
I go to the foot of the stairs again and listen. No sound. This is ridiculous. I walk up the stairs with determination and turn left at the top, but get five paces towards his room and cop out. I meekly return downstairs and look in the fridge to see if there’s anything else I could eat to save me making a decision.
I suppose I could just have a jacket potato. I’m not really much of a cook. In fact, maybe I should just go up to my room and use the kitchenette there. I don’t want to be in his way.
Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll leave the oven on in case he wants the pizzas. Or maybe I should put them in for him?
I run my hands through my hair with frustration. I’m too tired for this. I’ll wait another half an hour and see if he reappears.
An hour and forty minutes later, I’ve been upstairs to my room and back downstairs to the kitchen about a dozen times. And I’m still no closer to making a decision.
I know it sounds like I’m being a nutcase. After all, it’s not exactly a critical question: to eat pizza or not to eat pizza?
Right, that’s it. I’m cooking them.
I open the oven and put them inside. A few seconds later I change my mind and take them back out.
‘What are you doing?’
Oh, here we go again. Meg looks like idiot in front of new boss. I turn around and plaster a smile on my face.
‘Nothing. I was just cooking some pizzas that Rosa left.’
‘Or not cooking them, as the case may be,’ Johnny says, nodding to the pizzas on the countertop.
I laugh, embarrassed, and pick up the baking tray they’re resting on and slide them back into the oven.
‘You want one?’ I figure it’s best to skip over any details that make me look like a moron.
‘Sure. What have we got?’
I tell him the options.
‘Halves?’ he asks.
Johnny suggests we eat out on the terrace, and a short while later I head out there with our dinner. He’s sitting on one of the sunloungers, str
umming an acoustic guitar. I hold my breath when I realise he’s singing, too. He has the most beautiful voice: deep and melodic. I know he can belt them out when he wants to, but here and now he’s singing slowly, softly. I’m rooted to the spot.
Please, please, please, let me get what I want…
He sees me and stops, resting his guitar next to the sunlounger and looking up at me with those piercing green eyes. Butterflies swoop into my stomach.
‘Is that one of your new ones?’ I try to keep my voice even as I stand in front of him with two very large plates.
‘No, Meg, that one’s by The Smiths.’
‘Oh, I was gonna say, why don’t you look around you, misery guts, haven’t you already got enough?’ I try to cover up my ignorance.
He chuckles. ‘I don’t think that sentiment occurred to Morrissey.’
‘What’s that old git got to do with it?’
‘He was the lead singer of The Smiths, Meg. Jesus, you really don’t know anything about music, do you?’
‘I know that The Spice Girls sold more albums than you when they were at their prime. And that was before they re-formed.’
He shakes his head at me in wonder. ‘How the hell did you ever come to work for me?’
‘Funny you should say that,’ I say. ‘I was talking to Rod Freemantle’s PA earlier—’
‘Talking?’
‘Well, MSN-ing. Anyway, I was talking to her–Kitty, her name is–and she said it took a month for you to replace Paola.’
