Baby Be Mine

would have thought it’s a slippery slope.’
    His face breaks into a grin. ‘You’re so cute, Nutmeg.’
    ‘Don’t start that again, and don’t change the subject, Johnny. You know you can talk to me about this.’
    ‘What makes you think that?’
    ‘Who else do you have to talk to about it?’
    ‘My girlfriend,’ he replies bluntly, stubbing out his cigarette.
    ‘Your drug-addicted girlfriend?’ I ask pointedly, trying to ignore the sting.
    ‘You know nothing about Dana.’
    I know it hurts to hear him defend her.
    ‘Is it serious?’ I find myself asking.
    ‘You could say that,’ he replies.
    ‘Do you love her?’ A buzzing starts up inside my head, but Johnny never gets to answer that question because Barney lets out an almighty cry from the living room. I run through to where I’d left him playing on the floor. His face is bright red and tears are pouring down his cheeks. He’s clutching the back of his head with his hand. I scoop him up and cuddle him. Johnny joins me a moment later.
    ‘What happened?’ he asks with alarm.
    ‘I think he must’ve fallen over,’ I say loudly over the noise of crying.
    Johnny holds his arms out in an offer to take him, but I clutch Barney to my chest and shake my head. Eventually his cries subside.
    ‘He’ll be tired,’ I say. ‘I should take him for a walk to get him to sleep.’
    Johnny nods, looking slightly helpless. I quickly get my things together and put Barney in the buggy before heading out of the cottage and down the dirt track.
    It’s quiet outside, and I need the peace to think. I stride purposefully down the road as thoughts whizz around my head. I shouldn’t be here. It was safer in France with my parents around. Maybe I should cut this trip short and go back early.
    No. I can’t let him get to me. I can’t believe I’m letting him get to me.
    I swallow the lump in my throat and glance into the buggy. Barney is starting to doze off, but I don’t want to go back to the cottage yet. Or maybe I do. And therein lies the problem.
    Johnny’s bedroom door is closed when I return. I transfer Barney to his cot and go downstairs with my book. I lie on the sofa, looking at the words but not taking them in.
    I wonder what he’s doing.
    After an hour, I can stand it no longer. I go upstairs on the pretence of checking on Barney. Johnny’s door is still closed and there’s no sound coming from inside. He’s probably gone back to bed. Barney is still fast asleep. I return downstairs, but can’t be bothered to try to read. I decide to make an early start on dinner. Fifteen minutes later, I hear footsteps on the stairs and look around with surprise to see Johnny carrying Barney into the kitchen.
    ‘Did he wake up?’ I ask, going over to them. ‘Oh, God, I forgot to bring his monitor downstairs!’
    ‘You’re a terrible mother,’ Johnny jokes, handing him over to me.
    ‘Where have you been?’ I ask.
    ‘Chilling out in my room. Trying to write.’
    ‘You like writing here.’ I place Barney on the floor with a wooden spoon and a saucepan to bang it on. He immediately starts making a racket.
    ‘Must be the fresh air,’ Johnny replies sardonically, then: ‘Jesus, please tell me you’re not cooking?’
    I whack him on his stomach and he clutches it in fake agony. ‘You’ll get what you’re given and you’ll act happy about it.’
    He grins and leans his elbows against the counter behind him. He hasn’t done the buttons up at the bottom of his dark-blue-almost-black shirt and I catch a glimpse of his navel with the Johnny Cash lyric tattooed across it. I look up to find him watching me.
    ‘Need a hand?’ he asks.
    ‘You can chop that carrot,’ I reply, handing him a knife but not meeting his eyes.
    This is not right . . . This is not right . . .
    ‘What are we having?’ he asks.
    ‘Chicken stew.’
    I wait for the teasing remark, but it doesn’t come.
    ‘Next!’ he calls after a minute.
    I pass him the celery and he cracks on with the job.
    ‘Who needs Rosa?’ I say with a small smile.
    He laughs quietly and shakes his head.
    ‘If only your fans could see you now . . .’ I add: ‘Super-cool rock god Johnny Jefferson chopping vegetables.’
    ‘Meg, did you just call me a super-cool rock god?’
    I laugh. ‘I’ve called you that before, remember?’
    ‘I do remember,’ he replies.
    An image suddenly fills my head of me encircling his waist with my arms and smiling up at him, as if we’ve been together for