Baby Be Mine

a couple of seconds. He remains silent and I sure as hell don’t know what to say to him.
    ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
    Question? What question? Oh, boyfriend question . . . I’m find ing it difficult to focus.
    ‘No, I don’t have a boyfriend.’
    ‘Why not?’ he bats back immediately, before taking another long drag on his cigarette.
    ‘Er, well, I did have one but we broke up six months ago. Why?’
    He grins, stubbing out his fag. ‘Just curious.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Want a drink?’
    I stand up quickly. ‘I’ll get it.’
    He gives me a wry look over his shoulder as he wanders over to the other side of the terrace where there’s an outdoor bar area. ‘Chill out, chick, I’m perfectly capable of getting myself a drink. What are you having?’
    I opt for a Diet Coke.
    He returns with two large whiskies on the rocks and hands one over. I look down at it and back up at him. His expression is blank. Did he hear me?
    ‘Um . . .’ I say, but the next thing I know he’s dragging his T-shirt over his head. Oh my God, I don’t know where to look. I take a large gulp of whisky as he stretches out on a sunlounger.
    Right then and there, the ridiculousness of the situation hits me. This is nuts. Johnny Jefferson – the Johnny Jefferson! – is here in front of me, so close that I could actually reach out and touch him. I could tweak his nipple, for crying out loud! Imagine if I sent Bess a picture of this view. A small snort escapes me at the thought.
    ‘You alright?’ He glances over at me.
    ‘Yes,’ I answer. But, embarrassingly, I start to giggle.
    ‘What’s so funny?’
    ‘Nothing,’ I quickly reply, but inside my head my mind is going into overdrive . . .
    Nothing? A week ago I was working in an architects’ studio in London and now I’m in LA, in a rock star mansion, sitting on a sunlounger next to a half-naked rock star! If that’s not surreal, I don’t know what is.
    He knocks back his whisky in one and I hold out my hand for the glass.
    ‘Another?’
    He hesitates for a moment before offering it up. ‘Why not.’
    About time I start doing my job. I get up and hurry to the bar area, finishing the rest of my drink. I survey the bottles in the cupboard under the bar, searching for the whisky. I spot a can of Diet Coke and consider switching but think better of it. What I need right now is some Dutch courage. And a few shots of tequila wouldn’t go amiss . . . Ooh, there is a bottle of tequila in here, actually. I glance over at Johnny Jefferson, sprawled out on a sun-lounger and facing away from me, oblivious to my beverage dilemma.
    No, Meg, no. No tequila for you.
    Oh, bugger it, I’ll just have one.
    I take a quick swig from the bottle and almost spit the booze back out as it sears the back of my throat. I desperately, desperately want to cough. Instead I swallow furiously and choke back the tears.
    I need water. Water!
    Or perhaps another swig of tequila would help?
    Oddly, it does.
    ‘You know what you’re doing over there?’ Johnny calls out.
    Whoops, I’ve been ages.
    ‘Yes, just coming!’
    I approach the sunloungers, trying not to get distracted by the sight in front of me.
    ‘Cheers.’ Johnny chinks my glass and takes a gulp as I sit down.
    His chest is toned and smooth and he has a dark tan. There’s a tattoo of some writing right across his trouser line. I can’t read what it says, but phwoar . . .
    Oi! Focus, Meg, focus!
    ‘So Rosa said you were away on a writing trip?’
    ‘Yeah. Trying to get everything together for next week.’
    ‘What’s happening next week?’ I ask.
    He looks a little surprised. ‘The Whisky?’ he replies.
    ‘More whisky?’ I ask. Jesus, he really does have a drink problem.
    ‘No, the Whisky,’ he says.
    ‘I don’t understand.’ I look at him blankly.
    ‘Girl,’ he says, ‘don’t tell me you don’t know about my comeback gig at the Whisky – you know, the venue ?’
    ‘No, sorry, I don’t.’ My face heats up. ‘Should I have heard about it?’
    He laughs in disbelief.
    ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘but I don’t really know much about you.’
    And then I begin to ramble like a lunatic . . .
    ‘I mean, I’m not really a fan.’
    Shut up, Meg.
    ‘I don’t mind some of your songs but, well, you know, I kind of prefer Kylie, to be honest.’
    Why the bloody hell did I admit that ?
    ‘But at least you haven’t ended up with a mad stalker,’ I continue. ‘I could know anything and everything there is to