Baby Be Mine

it in a panic. What the hell am I going to do with this? I look down at the magazine in my now-sweaty hands. I could tear out the page? It’s the centre spread, so that could work. No, there’s another feature on the back of one of the pages – what if Christian tries to read it and discovers half of it is missing?
    I’ll have to bin the whole thing. But where? I can’t put it in the kitchen bin. I’ll have to walk to the big waste bins down the road. It’ll take me a few minutes, so I’m going to have to hurry. I run out through the door, hoping Christian doesn’t come back inside and notice my absence.
    Johnny Jefferson is one of the world’s most recognised celebrities. He’d barely turned twenty before his band, Fence, was catapulted into global superstardom. But three years later, when the band split, Johnny spiralled out of control before falling into a dark depression. It was another two years before he was ready to reinvent himself as a solo artist, but when he did, it was one of the most successful comebacks of all time. Now thirty-three, he’s had more platinum-selling records than any other rock star in history.
    As for my part in all this – well, before I was stupid enough to mix business with pleasure, I worked for Johnny as his personal assistant. Occasionally I can remember the excitement I felt when I got the job; how thrilling it was being able to tell my best friend Bess that I was going to work for him in LA. She screamed so loudly it almost split my eardrums. I wasn’t even a very big Johnny Jefferson fan, unlike Bess. She was always into that alternative-rock stuff, but I was more of a pop girl. Of course I grew to love rock music, mostly because I grew to love my boss.
    I met Christian when I was working in LA. He’d known Johnny since childhood. They went to school together, lived close to each other in their hometown of Newcastle upon Tyne, and were best friends for over fifteen years until Johnny was stupid enough to sleep with Christian’s girlfriend. They eventually patched things up and became mates again, and that’s how Christian ended up with the job of writing his famous friend’s biography. I liked Christian instantly. He was such a good guy – not like his pal, who treated women appallingly and yet they still came back for more. I was as bad as any of the groupies, and that’s not something I can easily admit. It was so hard to resist him. Of course I knew he was gorgeous – I’d seen countless pictures of him in magazines – but I didn’t properly understand his attraction until I met him face to face. I still remember that first time. It was outside by the swimming pool at his LA mansion. At six foot two he was taller than I expected him to be, and his green eyes were almost luminous with the light of the pool reflected in them. His dirty-blond hair fell messily around his chin and he had a few freckles across his nose that I’d never noticed in photographs. I was so on edge that I knocked my beach towel into the water and I recall the muscles on his bare arms flexing as he wrung it out. My eyes were drawn to his famous tattoos, etched into his tanned skin with black ink. I soon found out that he is also incredibly charismatic: rooms fall silent when he walks into them, and something is inexplicably lost when he leaves. Plus, he has an astonishing talent for music. It’s not hard to understand how I fell for him.
    When things crashed and burned with my boss, Christian and I just kind of fell into step with each other. Christian would probably describe that differently. Apparently he’d had feelings for me for a long time.
    I am in love with Christian. I don’t need to convince myself of that. And I’m not in love with Johnny anymore. But somewhere deep inside there’s a part of me that’s connected to him. I wish I could disconnect myself for good. But I can’t. I will never be able to. Because my son is his son. I feel so sick I could throw up.

 
  Chapter 3  
    ‘Bloody hell, it’s hot,’ Christian says. We’re sitting on the beach near Perpignan. Barney is playing with his new dumper truck in the sand a few feet away and Christian is propped up on his elbows to my left. I’m sitting up so I can keep an eye on my little boy.
    ‘I should introduce a swear box,’ I say drily. ‘Then you’ll be sorry.’
    ‘And you’ll be rich.’
    ‘Exactly,’ I reply with a grin.
    ‘Shall we go for a swim?’ Christian turns to Barney, not