Baby Be Mine

so he’s in a good place, all in all.
    Johnny and I got married in December and it snowed. The whole place was lit up with fairy lights and candles and it truly was magical. I always used to dream of a summer wedding, but I wanted to get married before I started to show. That’s another thing I forgot to mention. I’m pregnant. Again. But this time there’s no uncertainty, no hurt or pain or fear. Only love. Love, love, love. Just like The Beatles said – and yes, I do know who they are – that’s all you need.

 
  Acknowledgements  
    Thank you – always – to my lovely, lovely readers. Your Facebook messages and friendship requests make me smile so much that my face aches – and I’m not even joking! I hope you continue to enjoy reading my books as much as I enjoy writing them.
    Thank you to my brilliant editor, Suzanne Baboneau – it’s such a pleasure to work with you and the whole team at Simon & Schuster. Believe me, I know how lucky I am.
    Big thanks to Jo Willitt for all her help with the Goodwood-related questions. Thank you to Giles Wright and his mother Ann for the Newcastle low-down. Thanks also to Zoe Paramor for the book title brainstorming session – and the alcohol that went with it . . .
    Thank you to all my friends and family – but especially my parents, Jen and Vern Schuppan and my brother Kerrin and my parents-in-law, Ian and Helga Toon.
    And thank you to my darling husband Greg and my beautiful children, Indy and Idha. This winter threw all sorts of ‘fun’ at us, from chicken pox and seemingly never-ending sleepless nights to sickness bugs and four bouts of tonsillitis, but – phew! – we got there in the end. I love you all so very much.



 
    Read more about Johnny in Paige Toon’s brilliant novel
Johnny Be Good
    978-1-84739-044-8
    £7.99
    Available in paperback from your local bookshop or direct from the publisher.
    Turn the page for a sneak preview . . .

 
Chapter 1
    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 hap pened 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.