Baby Be Mine

won’t lie to me again?’
    ‘No.’ I stare back at him, confused.
    ‘I am so going to use that against you.’
    My face heats up and he chuckles. I look away to the desk. ‘I think I’ll call it a night.’
    ‘Change the subject . . .’
    I glance back at him and smirk. ‘Can you blame me?’
    ‘Did you fancy the cook?’
    ‘He was alright.’
    ‘You’ve already used that word to describe him.’
    ‘Because it’s true. Not a lie, you see.’
    ‘Yeah, but would you?’
    ‘Would I what?’ I laugh, outraged.
    ‘You know.’ He whistles to signify naughty business.
    ‘Get out of here, Johnny Jefferson.’ I poke him on his arm.
    ‘I thought you were leaving?’ he says.
    ‘Maybe I’ve got a bit more work in me, but hey, if we’re both staying, let me show you this one.’ I riffle through the stack of fan mail and pull out a red envelope. ‘It’s freakin’ hilarious.’ I’m already sounding more American. I open it up and show Johnny the photographs that one bonkers fan has enclosed of her five previous boyfriends. Each and every one of them has a strikingly bad resemblance to Johnny.
    ‘Check out this guy.’ I show him a picture of a skinny forty-something dude with wiry dyed blond hair and leather trousers.
    ‘Fuck me,’ Johnny says, studying it.
    We both crack up laughing.
    ‘Is this the best you’ve got?’ he asks when we’ve calmed down.
    ‘It takes some beating,’ I reply, digging into the stack for another one of my favourites, this time from a foreign fan who tries to describe what she’d like to do with him in bed, but who can’t speak English to save her life. I put on a silly accent and read it to him and soon we’re both in hysterics again.
    ‘That is fucking funny,’ he says. ‘We should be drinking while reading these.’ He looks at me. ‘Actually, I could do with a whisky and a fag. Come to the terrace with me?’
    I hesitate.
    ‘Nutmeg, you’re not going to be able to stop me from drinking,’ he says. ‘So you may as well join me.’
    I sigh and smile. ‘Alright, then.’ The truth is I could do with some down time with Johnny. And a drink wouldn’t go amiss, either. I haven’t had one for ages.
    I follow him out to the terrace and in the direction of the outdoor bar. The pool fence has been fitted – if you can call it a pool fence; it’s so far removed from the metal bars that I envisaged. It’s clear glass with very few joins so there’s hardly any interruption to the view. No wonder Lena thought these installers were worth waiting for.
    Johnny opens up the outdoor fridge and light spills onto his face.
    ‘What’re you having?’ he asks. ‘Bubbles?’
    ‘Ooh, yeah, that sounds good.’
    He cracks open a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé without even blinking. I shudder to think of the cost.
    ‘What do you want me to do about the car, by the way?’ It’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask for ages.
    ‘Which car?’
    ‘The GTI.’ I left it with my parents in Grasse. It was such a manic time getting ready for our trip that I forgot to ask Johnny if he wanted me to sell it.
    ‘Oh, that. Nothing. Your parents can have it.’
    ‘No, Johnny, that’s too much.’
    ‘It’s fine. Darn sight better than that shitty pile of junk that they drive.’
    I smile. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’
    ‘Yep. How do you like the Panamera?’
    ‘Amazing. Seriously amazing.’ I drove the family-sized Porsche this afternoon when I went to see Kitty. Scared the hell out of me at first – it’s properly powerful and there’s a weight behind it that I’m not used to – but I loved it. ‘Thank you so much, again.’
    ‘S’okay. Wanted my boy to be safe.’
    I smile at him. ‘You’re an old softy, really.’
    ‘Shut the fuck up and pass me the whisky.’
    I shake my head and pass it to him while he lights up. He takes a swig straight from the bottle then chinks it against the champagne bottle.
    ‘Am I not getting a glass?’ I ask him drily.
    ‘Come on, Nutmeg, you’re what – twenty-six?’
    ‘Twenty-seven next week.’
    ‘So live a little.’ He chinks the bottles together again before taking another swig. I follow his lead and drink straight from the champagne bottle. The bubbles hit the back of my throat and immediately add warmth to the heat that’s already inside my stomach because he remembered what age I am. He grins at me and indicates the polished concrete bench table overlooking the city. We walk over there, bottles in hand, and sit