The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson (33 page)

Thank you to the lovely ladies in my local coffee shop for keeping me topped up with tea at my favourite table in the corner: Wendy, Becky, Milly, Jo, Sarah, Clare and Wendy’s daughter Paige (yes, it is very confusing to hear your mum talking about you!).

Thanks always to my parents, Jen and Vern Schuppan for their unwavering belief in me, and my lovely in-laws, Ian and Helga Toon for all of your help and support. And also of course, my amazing husband Greg Toon and my cheeky little children Indy and Idha. We really do make a great team and I love you all very, very much.

‘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 90,000-strong 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!

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.’

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 Johnny like mad just makes it even more exciting.

Davey drives through the gates into Bel Air, the haven of the rich and famous.

‘That’s where Elvis used to live,’ he points out, as we start to climb the hill via ever-more-impressive mansions. I try to catch a glimpse of the groomed gardens behind the high walls and hedges.