Baby Be Mine

security, otherwise he’d no longer be walking.
    This is hopeless. There’s no way he’ll be hopping into the Golf under these circumstances. I make a decision to go and get the car and then try to contact him.
    One of his security team calls me before I get out of the car park.
    ‘Meet us in Sainte-Hélène, just off the A8. We’ll pull up on the approach to town. We’re in a black Merc, licence plate . . .’ He reels off some numbers, but they go straight in one ear and out of the other. I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it.
    As soon as I exit the motorway on my way to Sainte-Hélène, I get another call.
    ‘We’re being tailed by the paps. Wait at the location while we try to lose them.’
    I recognise that voice.
    ‘Is that you, Samuel?’ Samuel was one of Johnny’s security guards when I worked in LA.
    ‘Hello, Meg Stiles,’ he replies in a deep American accent. ‘Gotta go. See you in a bit.’
    I hang up and smile to myself. It’s strange to be back in this world. Strange and momentarily exhilarating.
    I wait on the side of the road for twenty minutes before I’m contacted again.
    ‘Have you lost them?’ I’m referring to the paparazzi.
    ‘Yeah, but we’re no longer near the motorway. Permission to take the subject direct to the location?’
    I sigh. All this waiting for nothing. ‘Yes, of course,’ I reply.
    When I finally reach Johnny’s hotel, the black Mercedes is nowhere to be seen. I go inside and approach the reception desk. The receptionist – long, dark, silky-smooth hair and immaculately made up – regards me with suspicion.
    ‘Bonjour,’ I say.
    ‘Hello,’ she replies in English.
    Fine, if she’s going to play it that way. Makes my life a whole lot easier.
    ‘We’re fully booked,’ she says snootily.
    ‘I know. I’m here to meet someone. Has Mr Jefferson arrived yet?’
    She shrugs, playing dumb. ‘I don’t know who you mean. Who is this “Mr Jefferson”?’
    ‘Johnny Jefferson,’ I say, looking her straight in the eye.
    ‘I don’t know who this person is that you are speaking of, but I’m sure that if you are supposed to be meeting him, you would know of his whereabouts.’
    Oh, for God’s sake. She clearly suspects me of being a demented fan.
    ‘I guess I will have to try calling him again,’ I reply, giving her a look through narrowed lashes. I turn and walk away, choosing to ignore whatever it is that she’s bitchily muttering under her breath.
    Now feeling pretty peeved, I get back into the car and dial his number. I expect Samuel to answer, so when Johnny picks up, sounding happy as Larry, I’m a bit taken aback.
    ‘Where are you?’ I ask.
    ‘At your parents’ house,’ he replies with surprise.
    ‘What are you doing there?’ I’m aghast. Johnny with my parents? Alone?
    ‘Didn’t you hear Sam? He said he was taking me to the location.’
    ‘The location? I thought he meant the hotel.’
    ‘Crossed wires,’ he replies merrily.
    ‘Have you been drinking?’ I ask suspiciously.
    ‘Had a few on the plane. And your dad’s got a lovely bottle of red on the go, here.’
    ‘Don’t drink any more!’ I tell him, horrified.
    ‘Why not, Nutmeg? We’re having a whale of a time . . .’
    Oh, Jesus. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour!’
    ‘See you later, alligator,’ he says happily.
    Bollocks.

 
  Chapter 20  
    Samuel, and whoever else joined Johnny on this jaunty little security mission, have already left by the time I arrive. I don’t suppose it would help if their slick black Merc were parked on my parents’ driveway in full view of everyone. I wonder if Samuel will be sticking around in France while Johnny’s here, or if this was just a one-off due to Johnny catching a commercial flight instead of his private jet. Even if he did have first class all to himself, word can – and clearly did – get around about who was up at the front.
    I park the car and hurry inside, full of apprehension. The feeling doesn’t ease when I hear what sounds like a mini party going down in the living room. I walk along the corridor towards the noise and see Johnny lounging on the sofa opposite my parents, a half-full glass of red wine in his hand.
    ‘Here she is,’ my dad booms, leaping to his feet. The wine in his glass sloshes dangerously close to the edge.
    ‘Hello, darling!’ Mum says tipsily. ‘Been on a bit of a wild goose chase, we hear.’
    ‘Yes.’ Through no fault of my own.
    ‘Hello, Nutmeg.’ Johnny waves from across