Baby Be Mine

appears.
    ‘Meg,’ she breathes.
    ‘Who are they?’ I ask quietly, stupendously aware of their eyes on me, but particularly on my son.
    ‘People from the record companies, publicists . . .’
    ‘I didn’t even know Johnny had a publicist.’ He always hated that sort of thing. ‘Record companies?’ I acknowledge the plural.
    ‘Dana’s also. They want to minimise the damage.’
    ‘Or maximise it,’ I say under my breath.
    She gives me a sympathetic smile and pats my arm. ‘It’ll be okay.’
    I recognise Bill Blakely – Johnny’s manager – as he steps away from the crowd and comes over to me.
    ‘Meg Stiles,’ he says knowingly in his inimitable cockney accent.
    ‘Hello, Bill.’
    We don’t see eye to eye. He never forgave me for whisking Johnny off to the Dales on a ‘rehab adventure’ when he should have been at his end-of-tour party. Loads of important people from the industry and the media had given up their Christmas Eves to be there.
    ‘Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again, darlin’,’ he says.
    ‘Surprise,’ I say wryly.
    ‘So this is the little chap?’ He looks at Barney.
    ‘It is indeed.’ I swivel Barney around to face him.
    ‘Jesus,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘He does look like him. The pics don’t do it justice.’
    ‘Pics? What pics?’ I ask with alarm.
    ‘In the paper.’
    ‘There are pictures?’
    He looks at me like I’m mad. ‘Of course.’
    I shake my head manically. ‘I haven’t seen the piece yet. Excuse me, Bill.’
    I hurry over to Lena, waiting a few feet away. She ushers me into the office.
    ‘I’ll take Barney,’ Bess offers, but I hug him tighter.
    ‘No. Thank you,’ I add. ‘I want to keep him with me.’
    She sinks down onto a chair and looks over my shoulder as Lena passes me the paper.
    It’s front-page news. A whole front page. The photograph they’ve used is one of me carrying Barney out of the Halloween party. My heart clenches. He’s dressed as a pumpkin, the little soul. We must’ve been caught in the background of another shot – the resolution is grainy and a touch blurry. I scan the article. They know about me; how I used to work as Johnny’s PA. Inside the paper there’s another photograph of Johnny and me from when we got snapped at the Ivy one time. There was nothing in it – he just wanted to go out for a bite to eat and it was my job to accompany him – but even I have to admit that we look suspicious, arriving together on his motorcycle. No wonder his girlfriend at the time was angry. Now this journalist is making out that we had a sleazy affair while she was still on the scene. I read on and my nausea triples. I put down the paper and stare up at Lena.
    ‘Our lawyers are on it,’ she quickly assures me.
    ‘It’s already been printed,’ I whisper with horror.
    Apparently I’m living here now as Johnny’s second wife . . . Dana, him and me, all under the same roof as one big happy, sordid household. The journalist has spun a tale of debauchery – he seems to know all about the drug-fuelled party on Saturday night – but nothing of the facts. Bess has been painted as our live-in nanny, hired to give me more time to devote to my lovers . . .
    I nod at Bess. She can take Barney now, because I don’t have the strength to hold him. She leaps up and relieves me. Just then, Johnny walks into the room.
    ‘Nice bit of bedtime reading,’ he says jauntily, nodding at the paper.
    ‘I don’t know how the’ – I almost say ‘fuck’ – ‘hell you can joke about this!’
    Bess, thankfully, takes Barney out, which is a huge relief because then Dana appears and there’s no way I’ll be able to contain my anger now.
    ‘What the hell are YOU still doing here!’ I practically scream at her. ‘Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’
    ‘She couldn’t leave now, even if she wanted to,’ Johnny drawls.
    ‘I do want to,’ she points out.
    ‘Why? Have you got an appointment with your drug dealer that you just can’t cancel?’ I ask bitterly.
    She laughs and it makes me so angry I could slap her. None of this is bothering her at all. She feeds off the drama. I get the feeling that that’s what she thrives on in life. Trouble and strife. That’s cockney for ‘wife’, I think distractedly to myself. Is there something in that? Back to the present.
    ‘You’re pathetic,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Both of you. One of your fucked-up friends leaked this story—’
    ‘Who’s to say it was one