Baby Be Mine

know about you. I could know your favourite colour, the brand of sham poo you use . . .’
    Christ Almighty, ZIP IT! Nope. It just gets worse . . .
    ‘At least I’m not a star-fucker.’
    ARGH!
    ‘I should hope not, Meg,’ he says, stubbing out his second cigarette in five minutes. ‘That would be going above and beyond the call of duty.’
    ‘Another drink?’ I offer weakly, the reality of everything I’ve just said starting to sink in. I’m going to lose my job. I’m going to lose my job before it’s even started.
    ‘Nah, I’ve got to shoot off.’ He stands up. ‘I’m going to hook up with some pals in town. Ring the Viper Room and reserve us a table for eight.’
    ‘Sure. Er, where . . .’
    ‘In the Rolodex in the office. You’ll find all the numbers you’ll need in there.’
    ‘Is that eight people or eight p.m.?’
    ‘Eight people. Get them to hold the table. I don’t know what time we’ll be there.’
    So I’m still employed, then? I get up hastily and take his empty glass from him, unable to meet his eyes. I turn away and notice in the reflection of the glass window that he’s watching his new PA’s departing derrière as she makes her way inside to the office.
    Half an hour later Johnny Jefferson comes downstairs and finds me tapping my fingers on one of the two big desks in the office. I’m still feeling nervy, despite the tequila, and I’m not quite sure what to do next.
    ‘Table all booked?’ he asks, hooking his thumb casually into his jeans pocket. They’re the same ones he was wearing earlier, but he’s changed into a fitted cream shirt with silver pinstripe.
    ‘Yes, and champagne chilling on ice. I didn’t know if you wanted the car so I called Davey just in case. He’s waiting on the driveway.’
    ‘Cool.’ He nods. ‘Thought I’d have to take the bike.’
    At least I got that right.
    He stays standing in the doorway for a moment, staring at me, his hair still damp from the shower.
    ‘Right then, I’m off.’ He pats the palm of his hand on the door with an air of finality.
    I try to resist asking, but can’t. ‘When will you be back?’
    ‘Tomorrow,’ he answers. ‘Probably.’
    And then he’s gone. And suddenly the house feels very empty indeed.

 
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