Baby Be Mine Page 3

  Chapter 4

  ‘Did Christian get away okay?’ Mum asks a few days later. Christian set off this morning to return to LA for tour rehearsals. He’ll be there for a week.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply into the receiver. We’re talking on the phone.

  ‘Barney will miss him,’ Mum says.

  ‘Not as much as I’ll miss him.’

  ‘Oh dear, I hope you don’t mind me not coming.’

  ‘No, of course not. Don’t worry.’

  I asked my parents if they’d keep me company while Christian was abroad this time, but Mum had some important bridge game to attend.

  ‘It’s a shame he has to be away so often,’ she comments. ‘I don’t like the thought of him mingling with all those sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll types. Why he can’t just stick to writing fiction, I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do know,’ I say with annoyance. ‘He didn’t get a new book deal.’

  ‘But why? I thought his first one was quite good.’

  ‘I thought it was great!’ I hear my dad chip in, in the background. ‘I want to know what happened to Dr Whatshisface!’

  ‘Tell Dad he’ll find out in March.’

  ‘You’ll find out in March, apparently,’ I hear my mum say.

  ‘March?’ my dad exclaims. ‘That’s almost a year away! I thought his next one was coming out in September?’

  ‘Put Dad on,’ I tell my mum. She does so. I explain: ‘The first one came out last September and flopped, so his publishers want to try releasing the next one in a different season.’

  Around the time I found out I was pregnant, Christian’s Johnny Jefferson biography was published and was a huge success. His publishers had released it in the autumn against the other heavy hitters in the lead-up to Christmas, and a year later, they assumed his first book in his new crime series would be able to hack it in the same competitive market. They were wrong.

  They’ve pushed back the release of his second book to next March and are yet to offer him a new book deal. His dream of writing fiction has had to be put on hold for now, hence his saying yes to another celebrity biography.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be a huge success!’ Dad booms, slightly too buoyantly.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I reply, with a small smile that he can’t see.

  ‘Give me the phone,’ I hear my mum say. She comes back on the line. ‘Let me know if you want me to come down on Saturday.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, Mum. Christian will be back on Monday so it’s probably not worth you making the trip for the sake of a day and a half. I’ll take Barney to the beach or to a playground or something. I’ll be alright.’

  ‘Call me if you want to chat.’

  ‘I will do if I can find the time,’ I promise. We hang up and I sigh loudly. ‘Alone Again’ . . . That bloody song is driving me nuts. I switch on the radio, hoping to find something else to get stuck in my mind. An instantly recognisable tune fills the living room and a shiver travels all the way up my spine and into my head. I fumble for the off switch, but it’s too late. I’ve heard it now. The damage is done.

  That was the song Johnny wrote for me.

  He said he loved me. He once told me he’d never loved anyone.

  The phone rings, making me jump. I snatch it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Meg?’

  ‘Bess!’ I exclaim. It’s so good to hear from my friend.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’

  ‘I’m alright.’ I sigh, unable to project enthusiasm into my voice.

  ‘You’ve heard, then,’ she says.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘About Johnny?’

  Silence.

  ‘Oh, you haven’t heard,’ she says.

  Apart from Christian, Bess is the only other person who knows about my relationship with Johnny – if you can call it that. There were rumours in the industry when I quit working for him so suddenly, but no one knows for sure what happened, and my confidentiality clause prevents me from telling anyone, even if I wanted to. I shouldn’t have told Bess, but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Tell me,’ I urge Bess, dread seeping into the pit of my stomach.

  She cuts to the chase. ‘He and his girlfriend are both in hospital after overdosing.’

  My heart jumps.

  ‘It was an accident, apparently.’

  I can’t speak.

  ‘Meg?’

  ‘I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend,’ I say dully.

  ‘They met in rehab.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that did them.’ I manage a bitter laugh.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Bess’s voice is hesitant.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reply curtly. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I know you don’t mean that,’ she says gently.

  ‘Stop. Just stop,’ I warn.

  ‘He’s alright,’ she says. ‘In case you want to know.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  She continues, ‘They’re saying he’ll be going back into rehab.’

  ‘He should never have left the bloody place,’ I mutter. ‘Bess, I’ve got to go. Barney has woken up. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  ‘Okay. Lots of love.’

  ‘You too.’

  I end the call. The baby monitor is silent. Barney hasn’t woken up – that was a lie. Another one.

  I stare out of the French windows to the mountains in the distance.

  I was right to choose Christian . . . Johnny wouldn’t have changed for me.

  Or maybe he would have . . .

  No. I made the right decision. It’s just a tragedy biology made the wrong one.

  The baby could have been Christian’s. It’s possible, even though we used protection. I wanted it to be Christian’s. I knew Johnny would have run a mile if I’d told him I was pregnant and that the baby was his, or at least might have been his. The same sentence would have probably gone down equally as well with Christian: ‘Hey, honey, you know that kid you’ve always wanted? Well, get this! I’m knocked up! And the good news is, it might be yours!’ I don’t think so. Christian would have joined Johnny on his marathon to get as far away from me as possible. Don’t get me wrong: I would have deserved it. But my baby wouldn’t have. And I wanted to give my child the best possible upbringing I could hope for. Christian is a good dad – when he’s around. Johnny would have been a terrible one.

  I’d better not turn on the radio for the next few days. They’ll be playing his songs incessantly as a result of this. I should leave the telly off, too. I glance at my laptop. No. No. No.

  My resolve lasts until late that evening, when Barney is tucked up in bed and I still haven’t heard from Christian. He was supposed to call me when he landed, but he hasn’t, and I’ve allowed my bitterness to eat away at me so it’s easier to justify my actions. I turn on my laptop, my head tingling with anticipation.

  Google: Johnny Jefferson.

  Millions of hits come up. I nervously click on the first news link:

  Superstar Johnny Jefferson and his partner, Dana Reed, have been hospitalised following a suspected overdose. The pair were discovered yesterday morning at Jefferson’s Beverly Hills mansion. His manager confirmed that the overdose was accidental.

  Stupid, stupid idiot!

  How could he do this to himself?

  I saw at first hand the effects drugs had on Johnny. It got to a point where he was in such a bad way that I could bear it no longer. I took him to a house in the Yorkshire Dales in the north of England and made him go cold turkey. It wasn’t the smartest idea I’d ever had, but it worked. For a while, at least.

  A memory comes back to me of sitting in front of the log fire in the house. His green eyes staring into mine, his lips trailing down my neck . . . I shiver.

  Stop. Stop thinking about it.

  I can’t.

  His warm chest pressing into me . . . my fingers tracing the tattoo across his navel: ‘I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel . . .’

  ‘Johnny Cash lyric,’ h
e explained.

  ‘You wouldn’t ever hurt yourself now, would you, Johnny?’

  Stupid, stupid!

  Another memory slams into me, this time about when he came to see me after he found out I was dating Christian.

  ‘Nutmeg . . .’

  That was my nickname. The name he gave to me.

  He runs his thumb down the side of my neck.

  ‘Stop it!’ I bat his hand away. ‘Why are you doing this? I’m happy, Johnny. I like Christian.’

  ‘There!’ He practically shouts, pointing at me. ‘You said “like”!’

  I step backwards. ‘I love him,’ I say determinedly.

  He shakes his head and leans back against the corridor wall. ‘You said “like”,’ he says again, this time more slowly. ‘You love me.’

  Sobs well up inside me.

  I still love him. I love him even now.

  I cry my heart out, stifling the noise with my fingers so as not to wake my little boy. Oh, God, what am I going to do?

  It’s too late . . . It’s too late . . .

  I cry for a long, long time, curled up on the sofa as the sun dips below the horizon and the mountains change in colour from sunset orange to pitch black. Eventually my tears subside, but my curiosity doesn’t. I want to find out about Dana Reed.

  I click on another link.

  They met in rehab back in March during Johnny’s third stint there. Relationships in rehab are discouraged, but Johnny and Dana flouted that rule. There’s a picture of them coming out of a club in the early hours of the morning a few weeks ago. She has long, dark hair and is wearing a lot of make-up: black eyeliner around her eyes, heavy metallic black eye shadow and red lipstick. Her skin is pale, considering she lives in LA, and Johnny towers above her so she must be petite. She’s beautiful, in a rock-chick kind of way. She suits him, I realise, and jealousy surges through me. I angrily rub away my tears and read on.

  She’s an up-and-coming singer songwriter who, according to the music press, is the Next Big Thing. She’s twenty-five, eight years younger than Johnny and a year younger than me. They haven’t been apart since they met – there have been no rumours of Johnny messing around. ‘Could she finally be The One?’ one journalist asks. ‘They’re a bad influence on each other. It will all end in tears,’ another states.

  They got that right.

  I’m done. I’ve had enough. I push the laptop lid down and put the machine back on the side-table before wearily getting to my feet.

  That’s the reason why I don’t do this very often.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Barney rouses me from a deep sleep. I lie there in bed, as exhaustion weighs down every part of my body. I would give anything to be able to stay here all day, but, after a while, his happy babbling turns into whining and I drag myself from bed and stumble through to him.

  ‘Good morning.’ I try to sound bright and breezy.

  His face breaks into a toothy grin and all my bad feelings instantly evaporate. He’s the most important person in my life. I can’t fall back into that black hole. I lift him up onto the baby-change station in his room and proceed to change his nappy.

  Last night seems surreal. I feel strangely detached about the whole thing now. Johnny’s just another idiotic celebrity to end up in hospital after a drug overdose. Of course I don’t still love him.

  Weight lifts from my stomach. I smile down at Barney – a genuine smile.

  ‘Shall we go up into the village and get some croissants for breakfast?’ I don’t expect him to answer, but I like talking to him in any case.

  I throw on some shorts and a T-shirt and quickly get Barney dressed before buckling him into his buggy and bumping him down the stone steps to the front gate. Cucugnan is a beautiful, medieval village situated on a hill. Said hill is small in comparison to the mountains that encircle it, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it as I manoeuvre the buggy up the steep road towards the village centre. We pass the town hall and post office on the left, and a bar and a couple of shops on the right and then the road starts to wind as we make our way up to the seventeenth-century windmill at the top of the hill. Sometimes there’s a break between the buildings and I can see the mountains beyond. I use these viewpoints as an excuse to catch my breath and let the burning sensation in my thighs die down. No wonder Christian was able to comment on my figure the other day – these hills are hardcore.

  Long before we reach our destination we can hear the machinery whirring and chugging as it grinds the flour. The bakery is located right underneath the old windmill and it looks like something out of Elle Deco with its wooden beams and cupboards painted in neutral tones. Classy blackboards detail current specials, and cakes, biscuits, bread and almond meringues are laid out on display tables at the entrance. I go inside to order, then return to the bright sunlight with our purchase. There are bench tables outside, but instead of sitting at one we head past the windmill and around the corner to the rocks at the very top of the hill. I have to park the buggy with the brake on and carry Barney and our breakfast the rest of the way. I pause for a moment when I realise there’s a blonde girl sitting on the dry yellow grass in the distance. She has her back to us and is facing the surrounding mountains. It dawns on me that she’s doing yoga.

  I reluctantly drag my eyes away and sit on a rock, nursing Barney on my lap. The morning sun is casting a glow over the mountains and down below there’s a patchwork of lime-green vineyards and the small village cemetery. Opening the paper bag from the bakery, I pull out a biscuit – I forgot they do croissants only on weekends – and hand Barney a small piece. We can have some proper breakfast when we get back home.

  This area is full of crumbly old castles. I stare up at the Château de Quéribus on top of a mountain peak. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been transported back in time to a place where Aragorn is king, and elves and goblins roam the land. Yes, I know The Lord of The Rings is fictional, but, honestly, living here it’s hard to believe it. Anyway, Aragon did rule this land. Aragon as in Spain, not Aragorn as in sexy Viggo Mortensen. I’ve read up on my history, I’ll have you know. There’s nothing else to do here.

  Joke.

  Barney wriggles on my lap. I suppose we should set off home.

  I get to my feet and turn around, clocking the lone blonde doing yoga. I feel envious. What it must be like to sit up here doing yoga with no concerns, no big secrets that could destroy a family . . . It’s so beautiful here, so inspirational.

  I wonder why Christian never comes up here to write.

  Johnny would . . .

  I scramble over the rocks with Barney in my arms and buckle him back into his buggy. Then I set off down the steep hill towards home, trying not to think about anything.

  It’s quicker on the return journey, although my arms feel like they’re being pulled out of their sockets with the weight of the buggy and gravity. I’m going to end up like Barney’s favourite Mr Men character: Mr Tickle with his ‘extraordinary long arms’.

  The smile on my face suddenly feels like it’s been slapped off and I come to an abrupt stop outside a shop. Johnny’s face blazes out from multiple newspapers. I stare, sickened, at the frontpage photos of him leaving hospital.

  He looks awful, pale and deathly. He’s not wearing his trademark sunglasses and it doesn’t help his appearance. I don’t imagine he had his sunglasses on when they found him.

  I put my head down and push on, but the image won’t leave me. Thoughts buzz around my mind like persistent blowflies.

  I wonder who did find him. Would it have been his lovely cook, Rosa? I was so fond of her – and she adored Johnny. It would have killed her to see him like that. Or perhaps it was one of his security guards. Then there was Santiago, the pool boy, who became a friend of mine. I wonder what happened to him after I left.

  Barney falls asleep on the way home and I should wake him so I don’t mess up his routine, but I don’t have the energy. I park him in the hallway and slump onto the sofa in the living
room, crossing my arms over my face and lying there for a while, trying to let my mind go blank. Fat chance.

  Eventually I get up and go outside and around the corner to the pool. I kick off my shoes and stand on the first step, staring at the water sparkling in the hot sunshine. And then I’m back in LA again, looking down at the spectacular view of the City of Angels from Johnny’s super-cool mansion. It was my first day. Johnny was supposed to be away on a writing trip, but he turned up after I’d fallen asleep by the pool.

  ‘Is this what I pay you for?’ he drawled. Later he removed his black T-shirt to reveal a toned, tanned torso decorated with the occasional tattoo and I’d thought: maybe I have a crush on Johnny Jefferson, after all.

  I wonder if he’s okay. I get a sudden image inside my head of me calling him to ask if he’s alright.

  Crazy! I could never do that.

  But I want to.

  I wonder if Christian has spoken to him. I should ring him and ask.

  No! You can have nothing to do with Johnny Jefferson – ever again!

  I’m a mess. I can’t bear this.

  I wish Bess hadn’t told me. But then I still would have seen it on the front of those newspapers today, not to mention heard it on the telly and on the radio. There’s no escaping news this huge about a star so big.

  I wonder if Christian has seen him. They’ve been best friends for years. He wouldn’t have stayed away, surely. How is Christian feeling? He must be upset by all of this. I should call him. I should call him.

  I go back inside and pick up the phone before I can talk myself out of it. Christian answers on the fourth ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’