Johnny Be Good Read Online Free PDF

prefer. Is he a vegetarian? I doubt it. But I can’t be sure. Did it say anything like that in the manual?
    I go to the foot of the stairs again and listen. No sound. This is ridiculous. I walk up the stairs with determination and turn left at the top, but get five paces towards his room and cop out. I meekly return downstairs and look in the fridge to see if there’s anything else I could eat to save me making a decision.
    I suppose I could just have a jacket potato. I’m not really much of a cook. In fact, maybe I should just go up to my room and use the kitchenette there. I don’t want to be in his way.
    Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll leave the oven on in case he wants the pizzas. Or maybe I should put them in for him?
    I run my hands through my hair with frustration. I’m too tired for this. I’ll wait another half an hour and see if he reappears.
    An hour and forty minutes later, I’ve been upstairs to my room and back downstairs to the kitchen about a dozen times. And I’m still no closer to making a decision.
    I know it sounds like I’m being a nutcase. After all, it’s not exactly a critical question: to eat pizza or not to eat pizza?
    Right, that’s it. I’m cooking them.
    I open the oven and put them inside. A few seconds later I change my mind and take them back out.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    Oh, here we go again. Meg looks like idiot in front of new boss. I turn around and plaster a smile on my face.
    ‘Nothing. I was just cooking some pizzas that Rosa left.’
    ‘Or not cooking them, as the case may be,’ Johnny says, nodding to the pizzas on the countertop.
    I laugh, embarrassed, and pick up the baking tray they’re resting on and slide them back into the oven.
    ‘You want one?’ I figure it’s best to skip over any details that make me look like a moron.
    ‘Sure. What have we got?’
    I tell him the options.
    ‘Halves?’ he asks.
    Johnny suggests we eat out on the terrace, and a short while later I head out there with our dinner. He’s sitting on one of the sunloungers, strumming an acoustic guitar. I hold my breath when I realise he’s singing, too. He has the most beautiful voice: deep and melodic. I know he can belt them out when he wants to, but here and now he’s singing slowly, softly. I’m rooted to the spot.
    Please, please, please, let me get what I want…
     
    He sees me and stops, resting his guitar next to the sunlounger and looking up at me with those piercing green eyes. Butterflies swoop into my stomach.
    ‘Is that one of your new ones?’ I try to keep my voice even as I stand in front of him with two very large plates.
    ‘No, Meg, that one’s by The Smiths.’
    ‘Oh, I was gonna say, why don’t you look around you, misery guts, haven’t you already got enough?’ I try to cover up my ignorance.
    He chuckles. ‘I don’t think that sentiment occurred to Morrissey.’
    ‘What’s that old git got to do with it?’
    ‘He was the lead singer of The Smiths, Meg. Jesus, you really don’t know anything about music, do you?’
    ‘I know that The Spice Girls sold more albums than you when they were at their prime. And that was before they re-formed.’
    He shakes his head at me in wonder. ‘How the hell did you ever come to work for me?’
    ‘Funny you should say that,’ I say. ‘I was talking to Rod Freemantle’s PA earlier—’
    ‘Talking?’
    ‘Well, MSN-ing. Anyway, I was talking to her–Kitty, her name is–and she said it took a month for you to replace Paola.’
    ‘Yep,’ he says, getting up and heading to the far right of the terrace where there’s a polished-concrete table with bench seating. I follow him.
    ‘Red wine okay?’ he asks, going to the outdoor bar.
    ‘Cool,’ I say, placing the pizzas on the table. He brings the wine over, along with a couple of glasses and a bottle opener.
    ‘So why did Paola leave?’ I ask, going to sit down.
    ‘Sit there,’ he says, indicating where with the bottle opener. ‘See the view.’
    I do