Holly re-emerges. ‘What did he say to you?’ she asks, alarmed when she sees my face.
‘Nothing.’
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Oh, something he just said made me think of Will.’
‘Aah, okay.’ She pats my arm in sympathy. ‘Do you want to come outside to the grid? Maybe it’ll take your mind off it.’
‘No, I think I’ll just stay here.’
It happens again. The exact same thing that used to happen when I watched Will race. When the red lights go out and Luis roars away from the starting grid, I start to feel dizzy almost immediately. It’s the fear of losing him, the fear I had of losing Will.
Holly catches on quickly and leads me to the back of the garages before anyone notices. Luis’s family are all too caught up in the action. He overtook Benni Fischer on the first lap and is now running second. Kit Bryson is first, but if Luis can beat him, he’ll win the championship, so the pressure is on.
‘I think you should return to the hospitality area, don’t you?’ Holly says.
‘No. I can’t. I have to watch this race.’
‘Are you sure?’ She looks concerned.
‘Yes, I’m sure. I’ll just stay here for a moment.’
‘Okay, then.’ She pulls up a chair beside me and we stare up at the television screens.
Fear clutches my stomach as Luis attempts to outbreak Kit into a corner. The cameras show spectators waving Brazilian flags in grandstands all around the circuit. There’s so much support for him here. What if something happened to him at his home race? I start to feel light-headed again.
Is this how Laura used to feel? Is this why she didn’t come to many of the races? She knew Will almost all her life and now he’s gone forever. Someone help me. I’m finding it difficult to breathe.
Oh, Will, no, no, no. All the pain I felt at the time of his death violently overcomes me. I loved him and I lost him. I can’t go through that again. I have to get as far away from here as possible.
To Holly’s astonishment, I bolt out of the garage. I spot a team scooter parked up by one of our trucks and climb on and start it up, speeding away from the pits and paddock as I try to block my mind from my memories.
Tears fill my eyes and start pouring down my cheeks. And then, after threatening rain all weekend, the heavens finally open and it pours down. I try to wipe away my tears, because it’s impossible to see, and then my wheel hits a pot hole and suddenly I’m flying through the air and crashing down on the road. I cry out with pain as the shock from the asphalt shoots all the way up my leg. And then I see the lights. An enormous truck is coming towards me and, as I try to get to my feet, I have a sense in that very moment of what it would feel like to know that I’m going to die.
I stagger backwards and the truck misses me by a few inches. I will never forget the feeling of its hot air rushing past and the tyres kicking out rain and mud onto my face. I make it to my feet and stumble off the road, collapsing onto the green grass nearby. And then I sob, and there’s no one there to comfort me, no one there to pick up my scooter, no one there to check me for cuts and bruises. I’m all alone.
And then I think of Luis and his family and the warmth I felt at his house. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want to be with him.
In the far-off distance I see a big screen televising the race. The camera pans in on Luis. He’s right behind Kit Bryson, and they’re both lapping backmarkers.
I stand up and watch. Go on, Luis. You can do it. Win the championship. Do it for Will.
He pulls out from behind Kit and outbreaks him into the corner. I scream for joy before the sound is ripped from my throat in horror as I watch a backmarker lose grip in the wet and crash into a wall. He spins back across the track and slams into Luis, whose car shatters as he hits a wall on the other side of the track. Kit makes it through the carnage unscathed.
In desperation I try to make out what’s happening on the big screen through the rain and the mist, but I can’t see if Luis is moving inside the cockpit. Oh, God, please, no, please, no. And then I’m running, as fast as my feet can take me, swiping my access-all-areas pass as I push through gates that allow me back to the pits, drenched, muddy, bleeding, but I don’t care. Please don’t take him from me, I beg. Please, no. He’s mine. He’s mine. He’s mine to lose.
I run all the way down the paddock and burst into our garages. ‘WHERE IS HE?’ I scream. Everyone spins around to look at me, and then I hear Holly’s words telling me it’s okay. I look up at the television screens in a panic to see Luis walking down the pit lane and then I’m pushing through the crowd in the garages and running to him.
He’s surrounded by camera crews and journalists, trying to catch a word from the guy who almost became world champion in his debut season. But there will be more races to win, more world championships to conquer, and I want to be here for Luis, by his side, supporting him so he’ll never feel alone. Life can be snatched away from you in an instant, but if you don’t give yourself up to love, even with all the risks of losing it, life isn’t worth living.
I barge through the camera crews, ignoring the complaints, because I just want to hold him again, to check that he hasn’t been hurt, to make sure he’s real.
I reach him and fling my arms around his neck. And then he’s holding me tightly, my face pressed into his racing overalls, as tears stream down my wet and muddy cheeks.
‘Hey!’ someone shouts. ‘We’re trying to conduct an interview here!’
‘It’s okay,’ Luis tells the camera crews. ‘It’s my girl. My girl.’
Epilogue
I’m sitting on Luis’s white designer chair in the bay window of his Hampstead home. Or should that be, our Hampstead home? I’m drinking a cup of espresso coffee and reading the Sunday papers, because they don’t scare me anymore, even though I sometimes appear in them now with Luis by my side.
It’s March, and the next racing season hasn’t yet begun, but soon we’ll be jetting off to Melbourne. I’m hoping my recent therapy sessions will help with my fears, but we’ll see. I certainly won’t be getting on any more scooters. I’ve promised that much to Luis, at least. Luckily Simon didn’t make me pay for the last one I crashed. I guess he was still experiencing a guilt trip.
My tutors at catering college have agreed to let me have the time off to attend the races this year, due to my ‘exceptional circumstances’. It’s going to be hard juggling lessons with being a supportive girlfriend, but I’m up for the challenge. One day, Luis has promised me we’ll open up our own restaurant, but first things, first. I need to get some proper hands-on experience before we think about taking that step.
Holly sold up her place in Berkshire and moved to Chiswick in west London. We’ve seen a fair bit of each other since we quit the Grand Prix scene, but not as much as I’d like because she’s been holed up in bed with the new man in her life. Pete’s younger brother, of all people. Pete made the introductions. I kind of hoped she’d end up with Pete himself, but it wasn’t to be, and Adam is definitely a cutie.
Catalina is pregnant with triplets, so she and Simon will both have their work cut out for them. I hope they make it. Perhaps their children will bring them closer together, but hmm, I don’t know. . .
Luis and I spent Christmas with my nonna in the mountains and we fixed the walls for her ourselves. Luis is quite a handy man, even though he could have paid for someone to do the job several million times over, but we always knew Nonna would never have allowed that.
She passed away just after New Year and my mother and I attended her funeral together. She’s promised me she’ll go back to Italy with me to help me sort out Nonna’s things. Nonna left her house to me. I still can’t think of her without crying so I won’t say any more about that.
Yesterday I bumped into Laura. I was tempted to put my head down and keep on walking, but I decided to stop and talk to her. She said she’s doing well, but she still misses Will. The darkest part of me wanted to let
her know that she wasn’t the only one he left behind, but I could never do that to her. She told me that with blessing from his parents, she now heads a charitable foundation in Will’s name which helps underprivileged children around the world. Later that day I arranged an anonymous bank transfer of 10 million dollars, plus all the interest that I’ve accrued over the last few years. I think that Will would have been proud of me.
I can see him clearly, now, and I know that’s a good thing. It means that I’m over him. A part of me will always love him, but Luis owns my heart now.
Some might say that Luis and I have gone too fast by moving in together, but I believe life is too short to wait and see. He told me he fell for me the moment I shouted at him from across the street when he almost ran me off my scooter. I told him it took me longer than that. He doesn’t care. I love him now, and that’s all that matters.
Acknowledgements
Thank you first and foremost to my readers. Your Facebook messages, online reviews and overwhelming support are what make this already impossibly great job of mine even greater.
Thank you to my lovely, lovely editor Suzanne Baboneau for never dropping the ball, even though it’s been really bloody heavy at times. You’re nothing short of amazing. Thanks always to my friend and publicist Nigel Stoneman, who I still owe seven Bellinis to . . . And thank you to the rest of the team at Simon & Schuster – I appreciate your hard work and enthusiasm more than you will ever know.
A massive thank you to Rebecca Finn – one time ‘waitress in a car park’ (her words, but I stole them), for sharing her experiences of being a bun tart with me. Thank you to mechanic Alastair Roome for allowing me to run down the battery in his mobile phone while I picked his brains about all things F1. (I decided I’m allowed some artistic licence so any mistakes are absolutely, entirely, one hundred per cent intentional. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it.) And thank you to Neil Trundle for taking my whole family on a tour around the ridiculously cool McLaren Technology Centre – I borrowed only a little of the inspiration for my nowhere-near-as-good fictional team from it.
Thank you to the following friends for being fabulously foulmouthed at my request: Giulia Cassini (grazie), João and Carol Bruno (obrigada), Blandine Jeunot (merci), and a big ‘cheers’ to Susan Rains for all her Americanisms.
Thank you to Ian and Helga Toon, Bridie Tonkin, Naomi Dean, Miranda Ramsay, Jane Hampton, Emma Guest, Tina Fox, Sarah Canning, Kath Moulds, Rachel Lissauer, Suzie Zuber and Ellie Samuels for their help and feedback on various things. And thank you to Kath Moulds for the proof reading, and Jassiara Sooma for sharing her knowledge about Brazil, and in particular, São Paulo.
Thank you – so much – to my mum, dad and brother, Jenny, Vern and Kerrin Schuppan, for giving me the best upbringing anyone could wish for. But it hasn’t all been fun: the near-death accident story that Will recounts to Daisy is borrowed from my dad. I remember seeing his crash live on television when I was a little girl, and I’ll never forget how my mum managed to stay so strong for us. I am overwhelmingly proud of both her and my dad, who, with all his success, is still the nicest person I’ve ever known.
Most of all, thank you to my gorgeous, super-talented husband Greg. From Lucy in the Sky (‘Another lump in her throat? She should get checked out for cancer’) to Chasing Daisy (‘They could give Roger Moore a run for his money with all their raised eyebrows’), his often hilarious, sometimes annoying advice has without a doubt made my books better than they would have otherwise been. You’re the best.
Last but not least, thank you to my son, Indy, who has done absolutely nothing to contribute to this book, but who makes me laugh my head off every single day. Love you, cutie.
Simon & Schuster and Pocket Books proudly present
Paige Toon’s sensational novel
Available to buy in bookshops now!
ISBN 978-1-84739-044-8
Turn the page to read a sample chapter of
Johnny Be Good . . .
Prologue
‘Sing! Sing! Sing!’
No. I can’t.
‘Sing! Sing! Sing!’
No! Stop it! And for God’s sake, cut that bloody music!
‘SING! SING! SING!’
Argh! My palms are so slippery I almost dropped the mic. I’m in bad shape. I can’t sing. I can NOT sing. But they won’t stop. I know they won’t stop until I deliver. And I shouldn’t disappoint my audience. Okay, I’m going to sing! Here comes the chorus . . .
I’m locked inside us
And I can’t find the key
It was under the plant pot
That you nicked from me
That’s not my song, by the way. And when I say I can’t sing, I mean I really can’t sing. When you’re as drunk as I am, you could be forgiven for thinking that if only Simon Cowell were in the room, he would say, ‘Girl, you’ve got the X Factor.’ But I’m under no illusions. I know I’m, in his words, ‘distinctly average’.
As for the audience . . . Well, I’m not singing to a 90,000strong crowd at Wembley, but you’ve probably guessed that by now. I’m in the living room of my flatshare in London Bridge. And the music comes courtesy of my PlayStation SingStar.
The person who’s just grabbed the mic from me is Bess. She’s my flatmate and my best friend. She can’t sing either. Jeez, she’s hurting my ears! Next to her is Sara, a friend of mine from work. And then there are Jo, Jen and Alison, pals from university.
As for me? Well, I’m Meg Stiles. And this is my leaving party. And that song we’re making a mockery of? That’s written by one of the biggest rock stars on the planet. And I’m moving in with him tomorrow.
Seriously! I am not even joking.
Well, maybe I’m misleading you a little bit. You see, I haven’t actually met him yet.
No, I’m not a stalker. I’m his new PA. His Personal Assistant. And I am off to La-La Land. Los Angeles. The City of Angels – whatever you want to call it – and I can’t bloody believe it!
Chapter 1
Ouch. My head hurts. What sort of stupid person has a leaving party the night before starting a new job?
I’m not usually this disorganised. In fact, I’m probably the most organised person you’re ever likely to meet. Having a leaving party the night before I had to board this plane to LA is very out of character. But then I didn’t have much choice. I’ve only just got the job.
Seven days ago I was a PA at an architects’ firm. My boss, Marie Sevenou (early fifties, French, very well-respected in the industry), called me into her office on Monday morning and asked me to shut the door and take a seat. This had never happened in the nine months I’d been working there and my initial reaction was to wonder if I’d done anything wrong. But I was pretty sure I hadn’t so, above all, I was curious.
‘Meg,’ she said, her heavy French accent laced with despair, ‘it pains me to tell you this.’
Shit, was she dying?
‘I do not want to lose you.’
Shit, was I dying? Sorry, that was just me being ridiculous.
She continued, ‘All of yesterday I toyed with my conscience. Should I tell her? Could I keep it from her? She is the best PA I have ever had. It would devastate me to let her go.’
I do love my boss, right, but she ain’t half melodramatic.
‘Marie,’ I said, ‘what are you talking about?’
She stared at me, her face bereft. ‘But I said to myself, Marie, think of what you were like thirty years ago. You would have done anything for an opportunity like this. How could you keep it from her?’
What on earth was she going on about?
‘On Saturday night I went to a dinner party at a very good friend of mine’s. You remember Wendel Redgrove? High-powered solicitor – I designed his house in Hampstead a couple of years ago? Well, anyway, he was telling me how his biggest client had lost his personal assistant recently and was having a terrible time trying to find a new one. Of course I empathised. I told him about you and how I thought
I might die if I ever lost you. Honestly, Meg, I don’t know how I ever managed before . . .’
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.’