Baby Be Mine

says cheerfully.
    ‘Look, check this out,’ I say proudly, standing Barney on the floor in front of me. He grips my fingers, but I gently extricate myself. ‘Go to Johnny,’ I urge. Barney takes a few unsteady steps before falling backwards on his nappy-clad bottom.
    ‘Wayhey!’ Johnny exclaims, lifting him to his feet again. ‘Clever boy.’ Barney babbles up at him and toddles towards his guitar, propped up against a wall.
    ‘Thought I might be able to get some writing done,’ Johnny explains, still grinning at Barney’s achievement.
    ‘That’d be good.’ I give him an encouraging nod.
    ‘You’re so funny, Nutmeg.’ He reaches over and ruffles my hair.
    ‘Get off!’ I wave him away. ‘Jesus, what am I, your sister?’
    He looks sad. ‘I never had a sister. Always wanted one.’
    ‘You can have mine, if you like.’ I’ll get to that news in a minute . . .
    He smiles again. ‘You sounded chirpy on the phone.’
    ‘Yep. Receptionist downstairs was being a cow.’
    His face falls. ‘Really?’
    ‘Mmm. Thought I was a stalker, I think.’
    ‘That’s crap. Want me to get her fired for you?’
    I laugh. ‘No, you’re alright, thanks.’
    ‘I will,’ he says casually.
    ‘Yep, I’m aware of how powerful you are,’ I say this in a comedy fashion. ‘But no need to put people out of work just yet.’
    He shrugs. ‘Whatever you want.’
    ‘Barney, don’t touch that, baby,’ I call. He’s reached Johnny’s guitar.
    ‘It’s okay,’ Johnny says, going over to him. ‘You like this?’
    I slump down on one of the ridiculously comfy sofas. Johnny crouches next to Barney and lets him pluck the strings.
    ‘Why don’t you play him something?’ I suggest.
    Most people would modestly decline, but Johnny doesn’t. It’s refreshing.
    He spins his guitar around and sits cross-legged on the floor. His chest is still bare and there’s not an ounce of fat on his stomach. Barney watches, fixated as he starts to strum.
    ‘Sing, too,’ I urge from my comfy sofa position, smirking now because I’m probably pushing my luck.
    Johnny glances up at me and raises one eyebrow before looking back at Barney. He plays a different, jaunty tune.
    ‘Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O . . .’
    I laugh as Barney starts to clap.
    ‘And on that farm he had a pig. E-I-E-I-O . . .’
    Johnny stops playing and chuckles, shaking his head. ‘Nah, you can do the nursery rhymes, but I want my son to be raised on real music.’
    I watch him, amused, as he starts to play something else. I recognise it, but don’t know what it is until he gets to the chorus:
    ‘Hey, Mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me . . .’
    ‘Isn’t that about drugs?’ I tease over the music. Johnny rolls his eyes and carries on playing. I smile to myself and listen to his deep, beautiful voice. Barney, next to him, is absolutely enthralled. For the first time in way too long, I feel content.
    It’s at times like this that I remember why I loved Johnny.
    A feeling of déjà vu strikes me, and I recall thinking the same thing about Christian only a few weeks ago. I interrupt him before the song comes to an end.
    ‘So,’ I say, all business-like. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem.’
    Johnny stops playing and puts his guitar down. ‘What?’
    ‘My sister and her husband have besieged us.’
    ‘Hey?’
    ‘My sister, Susan, and her husband, Tony, have landed on my parents’ doorstep in search of fame and fortune. Your fame and fortune, to be more precise.’
    ‘Ah.’
    Barney starts to pluck the guitar strings, distracting Johnny. He strokes his hair affectionately.
    ‘Johnny.’ I try to regain his attention.
    ‘What? Oh, yeah. What’s the big deal?’
    ‘Have I never told you about my sister before? Scrap that, I know I haven’t. She’s a pain in the arse. We won’t be able to go to the house now. We’ll have to hang out here.’
    ‘Why?’ He pulls a face. ‘Is she going to knife me through the heart?’
    ‘Unlikely,’ I say wryly. ‘She and Tony will just spend the whole time pretending that they’re not interested in you in any way whatsoever and that they don’t care that you’re some big celebrity – even though they clearly do.’
    ‘So? It’s not like I haven’t dealt with that sort of thing before.’
    ‘It’s embarrassing,’ I point out.
    ‘Fuck it. Whoops,’ he apologises. ‘Don’t worry about it, Nutmeg. Let’s go and meet them.’
    I hesitate. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Don’t