Chasing Daisy

. . .’
    But she regained her composure, directing her cool blue eyes straight into my dark-brown ones as she said the words that would change my life forever.
    ‘Meg, Johnny Jefferson needs a new personal assistant.’
    Johnny Jefferson. Wild boy of rock. Piercing green eyes, dirty blond hair and a body Brad Pitt would have killed for fifteen years ago.
    It was the chance of a lifetime, to go and work in Los Angeles for him and live in his mansion. To become his confidante, his number one, the person he relies on more than anyone else in the world. And my boss, in a moment of madness, had suggested me for the job.
    That very afternoon I met up with Wendel Redgrove and Johnny Jefferson’s manager, Bill Blakeley, a cockney geezer in his late forties who had managed Johnny’s career since he split up with his band, Fence, seven years ago. Wendel drew up a contract, along with a strict confidentiality clause, and Bill asked me to start the following week.
    Marie actually cried when I told her it was all done and dusted; they’d offered me the job and I had accepted. Wendel had already persuaded Marie to waive my one-month-notice period, but that left me only six days, which was daunting, to say the least. When I raised my concerns, Bill Blakeley put it bluntly: ‘Sorry, love, but if you need time to sort your life out then you’re not the right chick for the job. Just pack what you need. We’ll cover your rent here for the first three months and after that, if it all works out, you can have some time off to come back and do whatever the hell it is that you need to do. But you’ve got to start immediately, because frankly, I’m sick to fucking death of buying Johnny’s underpants since his last girl left.’
    And so here I am, on this plane to LA, with a shocking hangover. I glance out of the window down at the city. Smog hangs over it like a thick black cloud as we fly towards the airport. The distinctive white structure of the Theme Building looks like a flying saucer or a white, four-legged spider. Marie told me to look out for it, and seeing it makes me feel even more spaced-out.
    I clear Customs and head out towards the exit where I’ve been told there will be a driver waiting to collect me. Scanning the crowd, I find a placard with my name on it.
    ‘Ms Stiles! Well! How do you do!’ the driver says when I introduce myself. He shakes my hand vigorously as his face breaks out into a pearly white grin. ‘Welcome to America! I’m Davey! Pleased to meet you! Here, let me take that bag for you, ma’am! Come on! We’re this way!’
    I’m not sure I can handle this many exclamation marks on a hangover, but you’ve got to admire his enthusiasm. Smiling, I follow him out of the terminal. The humidity immediately engulfs me and I start to feel a little faint so it’s a relief to reach the car – a long black limo. Climbing into the back, I slump down into the cool, cream leather seats. The air-conditioning kicks in as we exit the car park and my faintness and nausea begin to subside. I put the window down.
    Davey is rabbiting on about his lifelong ambition to meet the Queen. I breathe in the outside air, less humid now that we’re on the move, and start to feel better. It smells of barbeques here. The tallest palm trees I’ve ever seen line the wide, wide roads and I’m amazed as I stick my head further out of the window and gaze up at them. I can’t believe they haven’t snapped in half – their proportions are skinnier than toothpicks. It’s the middle of July, but some people still have sad little Christmas decorations hanging out in front of their tired-looking homes. They twinkle in the afternoon sun – no wonder they call this place Tinseltown. I look around but can’t see the Hollywood sign.
    Yet.
    Oh God, how can this be happening to me?
    None of my friends can believe it, because I’ve never been that fussed about Johnny Jefferson. Of course I think he’s good-looking – who wouldn’t? – but I don’t really fancy him. And when it comes to rock music, well, I think Avril’s pretty hardcore. Give me Take That any day of the week.
    Everyone else I know would give their little toe to be in my position. In fact, make that their whole foot. Hell, throw in a hand, while you’re at it.
    Whereas I would struggle to give up more than my big toenail. I certainly wouldn’t relinquish a whole digit.
    That’s not to say I’m not thrilled about this job. The fact that all my friends fancy