Baby Be Mine Read online

  Johnny leaves before we do. He’s not the sort to stand and wave goodbye.

  ‘Thank you for all your help this last couple of days,’ I say as he sits astride his Ducatti with his helmet still on the handlebars. I feel awkward trying to convey my appreciation. ‘Have a good flight home. I hope Dana’s gig goes well.’ It’s hard to say the last part, but I feel it’s necessary.

  Johnny nods towards Barney. ‘I want to come back and see him again soon.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Your parents are in Grasse, is that what you said?’

  ‘Yes. The nearest airport is Nice.’

  ‘I’ll call you next week to sort something out.’

  ‘Okay.’ I feel pleased.

  He pulls his helmet on, leaving the visor up. ‘See ya, buddy,’ he says to Barney, ruffling his hair. ‘See ya,’ he says to me and his green eyes look more intense because that’s all I can see of his face. Then he flips his visor down and starts up the ignition. He roars away, leaving me alone with my son.

  We’re going to have to get used to this. But I appreciated the distraction while we had it.

  Buckled into our respective car seats, I stare out of the window at our little house in Cucugnan. Lonely though it was at times, I did love it here. I don’t know if I’ll ever return.

  I breathe in deeply and the smell of the new leather interiors fills my nostrils.

  ‘Okay, baby?’ I say to Barney in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Da-da-da-da-da,’ he babbles.

  My heart splinters into pieces and I drive away from the kerb.

  Chapter 19

  My parents live in a two-storey cream-coloured villa with dark-wood shutters and leafy green vines creeping up the walls. It’s situated in the hills south of the medieval town’s centre and the view across the valley is spectacular, especially at sunset, which is when Barney and I pull up. He’s already dozed off. I’m glad my parents have a travel cot because I should be able to put him straight into it and pray that he stays asleep until morning. Mum, Dad and I have a lot to talk about.

  My Barney plan works – just. I take a few minutes to make sure he’s settled properly before going downstairs to the living room to discover that Dad has already unpacked most of our belongings from the car.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say quietly.

  My mum comes in. ‘I didn’t know if you’d eat on the way, but I saved some dinner for you just in case.’

  ‘I’m not really hungry,’ I tell her.

  ‘Come out to the terrace,’ Dad urges. ‘You should eat something and I’ll get you a glass of wine as well. Red? White?’

  ‘I don’t know, whatever’s open. Thank you!’ I call after him.

  ‘So I’ll get you some dinner?’ Mum persists.

  I nod. ‘I guess so. Thank you,’ I add, feeling compelled to be particularly polite to my parents.

  We go outside and sit at the glass table on the stone-tiled terrace. There’s a decent-sized rectangular-shaped swimming pool in front of us and, beyond that, neatly mown grass. The property is bordered by trees – palms, pines, lilacs – which offer some privacy from the surrounding villas, but, as we’re on a slope, they don’t interfere with the view of the valley from the terrace.

  ‘How was the drive?’ Dad asks when we’re seated. My dad is of medium height and build, with greying brown hair. Just like Mum and me, he also has brown eyes. My mum is slightly taller than him when she wears heels, which isn’t very often. Her hair is a darker shade of blonde than mine. They’ve been married thirty-odd years after meeting in their early twenties. My mum used to work in a dry-cleaner’s in Guildford, where we’re from. Dad used to get his business suits done there. He worked in a bank – arranging mortgages was his speciality – until he retired a few years ago and they moved here.

  ‘Fine. Good,’ I tell him.

  ‘What’s with the car?’ he asks. ‘Bit too nice for a rental, isn’t it?’

  I swallow my food, hard. ‘Johnny bought it for me.’

  They both reel backwards and glance at each other with surprise.

  ‘It’s not a big deal,’ I tell them. ‘He insisted. He said it was like a – and I quote – “drop in the ocean”.’

  ‘Hmm,’ my mum says wryly.

  ‘Well, if he can afford it, why shouldn’t he buy my little girl a car? You are the mother of his child, after all.’ The cheeriness in my dad’s tone is forced. It’s clear he’s finding it hard to make light of the situation.

  ‘Oh, Meg . . .’ my mum says. Here we go.

  ‘I know, Mum,’ I respond. ‘I don’t blame you for being disappointed, but I’m trying to do the right thing, now.’

  She nods, tears in her eyes. I look down at my food. I have absolutely zero appetite, but I don’t want to let Mum’s cooking go to waste.

  She shakes her head disapprovingly. ‘I knew something was up that time we came to see you in Paris.’

  ‘Nothing had even happened between us then!’ I respond indignantly.

  ‘No, but I could see it, the way you were running around after him.’

  It was when we were on tour. Johnny went haywire and I had to leave my parents having dinner at the Pompidou centre to go after him.

  ‘It was my job,’ I say wearily. ‘It had nothing to do with my feelings for him.’

  ‘But, still,’ Mum says.

  I pick at my food.

  ‘How’s Christian?’ she asks.

  ‘Not good,’ I admit, looking down at the table because I can’t face her expression. ‘He’ll never forgive me.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Dad says kindly.

  ‘You’re wrong about that,’ I tell him. ‘But thanks, anyway.’

  ‘Goodness me.’ Mum sighs. ‘Goodness me.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, because this is a different tone from the ‘Oh, Meg’ I’ve been getting so used to.

  ‘Johnny Jefferson. What will Barbara say?’

  Barbara is one of my mum’s ex-pat bridge buddies.

  ‘You can’t tell her,’ I say fervently. ‘You can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Well, we’re going to have to tell people sometime,’ Mum says, slightly put out.

  ‘Not yet. Not until it’s right. That goes for Susan and Tony, too,’ I say of my older sister and her irritating husband. ‘I don’t want them blabbing about it to all and sundry.’

  ‘They wouldn’t do that,’ my mum snaps.

  ‘Yes, they would,’ I insist.

  ‘You’re going to have to tell them at some point. They’re family. They have a right to know.’

  ‘Yes, but we need time to get used to all this. It’s a very strange situation for Johnny, too. He wants to spend some time with Barney, get to know him without the press interfering.’

  ‘Has he got any other kids?’ Dad asks.

  ‘No!’ I exclaim.

  He shrugs. ‘I just thought, well, these rock stars . . . They often have secret offspring hidden away. They do get around a bit.’

  ‘Dad!’ I cry.

  ‘Geoffrey!’ Mum cries simultaneously.

  My dad looks defensive. ‘It wouldn’t be that surprising, I didn’t think.’

  I feel sick again. Can you imagine? If Barney weren’t his only illegitimate child . . . If there were more mothers like me out there, that he’s been looking after, paying off . . . But, no. I would have known it. I was his PA – he couldn’t have kept that from me. Could he? And that look on his face . . . I’m sure Barney is his first. I hope for all our sakes he’ll be his last.

  God, how horrid, though. As if this doesn’t feel tainted enough.

  ‘You alright, love?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Actually, I’m very tired. Would you mind if I turned in?’ I push my chair out from the table.

  ‘Of course not,’ Mum says, getting up and taking my plate.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she responds brightly. ‘Next door’s dog can finish it off. He’s always hanging around out at the front
.’

  ‘I didn’t mean my dinner,’ I say, ‘although I am sorry about that, too. I’m sorry for . . . all this.’

  Mum nods. Dad gives me a sympathetic smile and rubs my shoulder.

  ‘These things are put here to challenge us,’ he says. ‘But you’ll make it through. Better the truth comes out now than in a few years.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum agrees.

  ‘I just wish I hadn’t done it.’ I stare ahead in a daze.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Mum says shrewdly.

  I look at her with astonishment.

  ‘If you hadn’t done it, Barney wouldn’t be in our lives. None of us would change that for the world.’

  Chapter 18

  It smells of flowers, here. Jasmine and roses and lavender. Grasse is the perfume capital of the world, and it’s beautiful. I only wish I could enjoy it under better circumstances.

  Barney and I have been here for three weeks. Last week, he took his first steps. I felt like both Christian and Johnny should have been there, but at least my parents were here to share the moment – even if it was a touch bittersweet.

  Barney loves having his doting grandparents around. It’s nice to have their company – and their help – but it’s also harder in some ways. I feel a bit useless when I’m not running my own household. That sounds very Women’s Institute, but it’s true. Plus, I have far too much time on my hands to reflect on the mess I’ve made of things.

  I’ve had no contact with Christian. He doesn’t answer my calls. I’ve only tried him three times, but I daren’t call him again. I can’t bear to endure the torture of an endlessly ringing phone.

  True to his word, Johnny calls me soon after we arrive in Grasse. He makes arrangements to come and visit us in the middle of August. My parents are horrified to hear that he’s planning on staying in a hotel.

  ‘He can stay here,’ my mum insists.

  ‘No!’ I hastily brush her off.

  ‘What, is our house not good enough for him? Not five-star enough?’ Dad chips in.

  ‘It’s not that,’ I reply.

  ‘What is it, then?’ Mum asks sarkily.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ I respond. ‘What if people realised he was here?’

  ‘People are far more likely to recognise him if he stays in a hotel,’ Mum points out.

  ‘Not if Lena manages to secure all the rooms.’

  ‘Oh, well, if he’s got a whole hotel to himself . . . Who’d want to stay in a measly four-bedroom house?’ Dad snipes.

  ‘Who’s Lena?’ Mum asks.

  ‘His PA,’ I say as an aside, then to Dad: ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘His PA?’ Dad changes the subject. ‘Is he having it off with her, too?’

  ‘No, Dad!’ I cry. ‘She’s married!’

  ‘Didn’t stop him when Christian was around.’

  ‘Christian and I weren’t married.’ I try to stay cool.

  ‘You may as well have been,’ Dad says gruffly. ‘Christian was his best friend. If he does that to his best friend, why wouldn’t he start on another man’s wife?’

  ‘This is why I don’t want him here!’ I finally erupt. ‘You two! All you’d do is nit-pick at him the whole time. It’s embarrassing!’

  There go my gold stars for good behaviour.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Mum says, entirely unimpressed. My dad humphs.

  I close my eyes for a few seconds and open them again. ‘I’m sorry. You’ll see enough of him when he’s here. I’m sure we’ll hang out at the house rather than risk being seen around town.’

  That seems to pacify them somewhat. God knows why – it’s not like they’re big Johnny Jefferson fans.

  I turn to my dad, all of a sudden overcome with the need to explain something. ‘What you said . . . about Johnny stealing his best friend’s girl . . . Johnny and I were together first.’ It feels important that my parents know this. ‘So you could say that Christian stole me from him,’ I add stupidly.

  ‘Is that true?’ Mum’s eyes widen.

  ‘Well, not strictly speaking,’ I backtrack. Got a bit carried away. ‘We weren’t actually together when Christian and I . . . Oh, maybe I don’t want to talk about this, after all.’

  ‘Why not? I think we should know the whole shebang,’ Mum says indignantly.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake, I moan inside my head. ‘I fell for Johnny, he apparently fell for me, but was scared of commitment . . .’ That’s the diplomatic way of saying that he came onto women right in front of me and shagged someone I really, really didn’t want him to shag. Even now I wince at the memory. I continue, ‘I quit my job as his PA, stayed friends with Christian, got together with Christian, then Johnny came back for me.’

  My parents lean forward in anticipation.

  ‘Johnny came back for you? What happened next?’ Mum pries, addicted to this unexpected gossip fix.

  I sigh. ‘Johnny and I . . . you know . . .’ I give them a look and they shift in their seats. I cannot believe I’m telling them this. ‘He wanted me to go back to LA to live with him—’

  ‘Really?’ Mum interrupts.

  ‘Well, why wouldn’t he?’ Dad says, puffed up full of misguided pride for his daughter.

  ‘And I said no.’

  ‘Oh.’

  That was both of them speaking.

  ‘A month later I found out I was pregnant and the rest is history . . .’

  Silence as they contemplate this information.

  ‘You can’t tell any of this to Barbara,’ I warn my mum.

  ‘As if I would!’ she snorts, but I know her.

  ‘And you won’t be able to have any of your friends over while he’s here,’ I tell them strongly. ‘In fact, you can’t tell anyone that he’s here at all.’

  ‘Goodness me, what a palaver,’ Mum sniffs. ‘I’ll have to make up some excuse about us all coming down with something.’

  ‘You don’t need to stop seeing your friends,’ I say. ‘But if you could please go to their houses instead of inviting them here for a few days, that would be grand.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we’d be happy to do that,’ Dad says. ‘Anything to make the famous rock star feel at home.’

  Oh, God, this is going to be a nightmare.

  I go to pick up Johnny from Nice airport in the GTI. He flew first class instead of bringing the jet this time – and after a quick conversation on the phone the other night, we agreed that he won’t need alternative transport while he’s here. We want to keep this whole thing as low-key as possible.

  I park the car and go inside to Arrivals, wondering blithely what disguise Johnny will be wearing to make sure he’s not recognised. I check his flight’s arrival time and see that it has just landed, and then I go to stand behind the barriers.

  It starts as a buzz before turning to screams. Flashes are popping off all over the place and people begin to push and shove to get closer to the barriers. I’m being crushed among the throng and I know that all of this can only mean that, one, Johnny is in the vicinity and, two, the disguise didn’t work.

  The last time I experienced anything like this was when I was travelling with him on tour; but then I was with him and under the protection of his security guards, not being squashed to smithereens by a bunch of perfect strangers.

  I push back against the crowd as hard as I can and somehow manage to get away from the people and into fresh air. The screams grow louder and if I follow the light of the flash bulbs I can just make out the top of Johnny’s head as he walks through the Arrivals hall. What on earth am I supposed to do now?

  He must be surrounded by security, otherwise he’d no longer be walking.

  This is hopeless. There’s no way he’ll be hopping into the Golf under these circumstances. I make a decision to go and get the car and then try to contact him.

  One of his security team calls me before I get out of the car park.

  ‘Meet us in Sainte-Hélène, just off the A8. We’ll pull up on the approach to town. We’re in a black Merc, licence plate
. . .’ He reels off some numbers, but they go straight in one ear and out of the other. I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it.

  As soon as I exit the motorway on my way to Sainte-Hélène, I get another call.

  ‘We’re being tailed by the paps. Wait at the location while we try to lose them.’

  I recognise that voice.

  ‘Is that you, Samuel?’ Samuel was one of Johnny’s security guards when I worked in LA.

  ‘Hello, Meg Stiles,’ he replies in a deep American accent. ‘Gotta go. See you in a bit.’

  I hang up and smile to myself. It’s strange to be back in this world. Strange and momentarily exhilarating.

  I wait on the side of the road for twenty minutes before I’m contacted again.

  ‘Have you lost them?’ I’m referring to the paparazzi.

  ‘Yeah, but we’re no longer near the motorway. Permission to take the subject direct to the location?’

  I sigh. All this waiting for nothing. ‘Yes, of course,’ I reply.

  When I finally reach Johnny’s hotel, the black Mercedes is nowhere to be seen. I go inside and approach the reception desk. The receptionist – long, dark, silky-smooth hair and immaculately made up – regards me with suspicion.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I say.

  ‘Hello,’ she replies in English.

  Fine, if she’s going to play it that way. Makes my life a whole lot easier.

  ‘We’re fully booked,’ she says snootily.

  ‘I know. I’m here to meet someone. Has Mr Jefferson arrived yet?’

  She shrugs, playing dumb. ‘I don’t know who you mean. Who is this “Mr Jefferson”?’