Baby Be Mine

warn.
    ‘He’s alright,’ she says. ‘In case you want to know.’
    ‘I don’t.’
    She continues, ‘They’re saying he’ll be going back into rehab.’
    ‘He should never have left the bloody place,’ I mutter. ‘Bess, I’ve got to go. Barney has woken up. I’ll speak to you soon.’
    ‘Okay. Lots of love.’
    ‘You too.’
    I end the call. The baby monitor is silent. Barney hasn’t woken up – that was a lie. Another one.
    I stare out of the French windows to the mountains in the distance.
    I was right to choose Christian . . . Johnny wouldn’t have changed for me.
    Or maybe he would have . . .
    No. I made the right decision. It’s just a tragedy biology made the wrong one.
    The baby could have been Christian’s. It’s possible, even though we used protection. I wanted it to be Christian’s. I knew Johnny would have run a mile if I’d told him I was pregnant and that the baby was his, or at least might have been his. The same sentence would have probably gone down equally as well with Christian: ‘Hey, honey, you know that kid you’ve always wanted? Well, get this! I’m knocked up! And the good news is, it might be yours!’ I don’t think so. Christian would have joined Johnny on his marathon to get as far away from me as possible. Don’t get me wrong: I would have deserved it. But my baby wouldn’t have. And I wanted to give my child the best possible upbringing I could hope for. Christian is a good dad – when he’s around. Johnny would have been a terrible one.
    I’d better not turn on the radio for the next few days. They’ll be playing his songs incessantly as a result of this. I should leave the telly off, too. I glance at my laptop. No. No. No.
    My resolve lasts until late that evening, when Barney is tucked up in bed and I still haven’t heard from Christian. He was supposed to call me when he landed, but he hasn’t, and I’ve allowed my bitterness to eat away at me so it’s easier to justify my actions. I turn on my laptop, my head tingling with anticipation.
    Google: Johnny Jefferson.
    Millions of hits come up. I nervously click on the first news link:
    Superstar Johnny Jefferson and his partner, Dana Reed, have been hospitalised following a suspected overdose. The pair were discovered yesterday morning at Jefferson’s Beverly Hills mansion. His manager confirmed that the overdose was accidental.
    Stupid, stupid idiot!
    How could he do this to himself?
    I saw at first hand the effects drugs had on Johnny. It got to a point where he was in such a bad way that I could bear it no longer. I took him to a house in the Yorkshire Dales in the north of England and made him go cold turkey. It wasn’t the smartest idea I’d ever had, but it worked. For a while, at least.
    A memory comes back to me of sitting in front of the log fire in the house. His green eyes staring into mine, his lips trailing down my neck . . . I shiver.
    Stop. Stop thinking about it.
    I can’t.
    His warm chest pressing into me . . . my fingers tracing the tattoo across his navel: ‘ I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel . . .’
    ‘Johnny Cash lyric,’ he explained.
    ‘You wouldn’t ever hurt yourself now, would you, Johnny?’
    Stupid, stupid!
    Another memory slams into me, this time about when he came to see me after he found out I was dating Christian.
    ‘Nutmeg . . .’
    That was my nickname. The name he gave to me.
    He runs his thumb down the side of my neck.
    ‘Stop it!’ I bat his hand away. ‘Why are you doing this? I’m happy, Johnny. I like Christian.’
    ‘There!’ He practically shouts, pointing at me. ‘You said “like”!’
    I step backwards. ‘I love him,’ I say determinedly.
    He shakes his head and leans back against the corridor wall. ‘You said “like”,’ he says again, this time more slowly. ‘You love me.’
    Sobs well up inside me.
    I still love him. I love him even now.
    I cry my heart out, stifling the noise with my fingers so as not to wake my little boy. Oh, God, what am I going to do?
    It’s too late . . . It’s too late . . .
    I cry for a long, long time, curled up on the sofa as the sun dips below the horizon and the mountains change in colour from sunset orange to pitch black. Eventually my tears subside, but my curiosity doesn’t. I want to find out about Dana Reed.
    I click on another link.
    They met in rehab back in March during Johnny’s third stint there. Relationships in rehab are discouraged, but Johnny and Dana flouted that rule.