So, sitting at the table, feeling like all eyes were on me, I said, “Of course, I’d love to come and live with you, to look after Layla, to fantasise about you sleeping, showering, simply breathing right across the drive from me every night. Coz that won’t be torture, will it?”
Okay, I didn’t say all of that, but I might as well have.
Max was already pretty smashed when he asked me. He then proceeded to get absolutely shit faced, so maybe he won’t even remember.
I open the fridge door and pull out two bottles of water. Opening the cupboard, I find a box of tea bags and a jar of instant coffee. I’ve known since a young age that I live a privileged lifestyle. I’d travelled the world numerous times by the age of three, spent weekends in French chateau’s, Colorado cabins, and Chelsea mansions. My dad was a session musician for some of the world’s top bands, and my mum, a backing singer. They met on tour. I was conceived on tour. Spent most of the first five years of my life on tour. All those miles travelled. All those planes, the take-offs, the landings. All those tour buses, driving on icy roads, during blizzards and torrential rain. All of the countries we visited where the water was unsafe to drink and the mosquito’s carried any number of diseases . . . They kept me safe throughout it all, and then when we were enjoying something as simple as a family holiday, sitting in the lobby of a five-star resort in Bali, a terrorist blows himself into tiny pieces and takes my parents out with him. Despite all of that, and knowing I’ve still lived a life of privilege, not once, not ever, have I taken any of it for granted. I’m not a diva, and I don’t expect or demand special treatment, but I will gladly admit to being a coffee snob, and I will own that shit. So, no, just nope, there is no way I can bring myself to drink the instant I’ve just found.
I stand and stare blankly into the cupboard as I hang on to the door handle. I always feel a little light-headed when I think about my parents in any great detail, and it can be the simplest of things to trigger my recollections . . . like instant coffee.
I take a moment to swallow the familiar twisted knot of sadness and anger that has lodged in my throat at the memories.
As soon as I feel more in control, I head back to the bedroom, place a bottle of water on the bedside table for Kenz, pull on my jeans and boots, and find my phone. It’s almost seven, so not too early. Kenz will have to be up for school soon, and since she’s not yet passed her driving test, Mel or I will have to take her. Because considering the state the boys were in when we went to bed last night, I’m guessing it definitely won’t be Cal.
It’s still dark when I step outside. Cold, crisp, and dark. Not pitch dark, but that charcoal kind of colour, grey with wishy-washy lighter streaks scudding through it as the early morning winter sun attempts to make its presence known. Because I already have my hand and wrist in a cast, and my broken ribs have yet to heal, I err on the side of caution and use the torch app on my phone to help make my way to the back door of Max’s house, which we deliberately left unlocked last night. I needn't worry, though, because two steps out from the door of the apartment, motion sensor lights kick on, and the whole place lights up like Christmas.
I hurry across the driveway and head inside. The house is warm but still and silent, no sense of anyone awake yet. I come to a stop when I spot Max sitting at his kitchen table, a bottle of water in front of him, a mug of something hot and steaming cradled in his hands.
He’s staring down into his drink, a look of absolute devastation marring his handsome face. He looks so alone and isolated that I decide to back out of the room rather than interrupt his contemplations. But before I can take even one step, he looks up and catches me.
I feel like my entire being is being coated in syrup or something else that’s equally sweet and sticky as his eyes glide from my toes to the top of my head before settling on my face. My body feels heavy. My limbs become languid. My feet feel glued to the floor. I might possibly even sway slightly because of the way his gaze makes my head spin.
He blinks those golden eyes of his a couple of times before a small smile lifts the right corner of his mouth. “Morning, Bamm,” he says very quietly.
I lick my dry lips and prepare to speak, but all and any words leave me when he says, “I forgot how beautiful your hair is. I’ve always wanted a little girl with red hair; although, yours isn’t red, is it? If you take the time to look close, you’ll see it’s made up of gold and auburn, blondes, and so, so many other colours. It’s stunning, Bamm. You . . . you’re stunning. Gorgeous.”
I don’t move. I barely even breathe. “I—It’s—That’s—Thank you,” I whisper. My eyes and nose burn, my throat feels clogged, and I’ve no clue why. Why do his words make me want to cry? Most girls would take the compliment, flip their stunning hair over their shoulder, and totally own the fact a rock star had even noticed them. Me? I stand there like a complete twat before drawing in a shaky breath and forcing myself forward on even shakier legs.
I go to the fridge, find the milk, and fill the milk frother while a million and one thoughts collide inside my head. Eventually, I’m able to organise my brain cells enough to ask, “Would you like another coffee?”
He lets out a long breath before answering, “Yeah, please, another coffee would be good.”
I add more milk to the frother then top up the water dispenser before reattaching it to the coffee machine. “You’re up early. What time did you lot get to bed?”
“I’ve no clue. I went up but couldn’t sleep, so came back down and made Layla’s bottles, which probably wasn’t a good idea because I still feel half cut—more than half. Three-quarters? Actually, I’m still pretty smashed if I’m being honest.”
I turn to face him. His eyes are wide, brows raised as he looks up at me guiltily.
“You haven’t slept at all?” My voice rises with the question.
He shakes his head slowly and stares down into his coffee cup.
“You should’ve made the most of your Layla-free night.”
He looks back up at me and almost floors me again when he admits, “It’s because she wasn’t there I couldn’t sleep. How sad am I?” He shrugs.
Bloody hell, I have to ball my hands into fists to stop from reaching out to him. “Max.” I meant to say his name on a huff, but it sounds more like a sigh, which is also kinda what I meant. “How you gonna cope all day on no sleep?”
He shrugs again. “I’ll cope. I’m fucked, but I’ll cope. I’ll just sleep when she does.”
I finish making his coffee as I consider the offer I’m about to make. Handing him a fresh cup, I tell him, “Take this up to bed with you. Shower and try and get some sleep. I’ll stay with Layla today. It’ll be a good chance for me to get to know her. You know, if I’m gonna be looking after her for you. Just go and try and sleep.”
He looks from me to his coffee, stands slowly from the table, leans in, kisses my cheek, and mumbles, “Thanks, Bamm, you’re a lifesaver.”
I watch him leave, steadying myself on the worktop as I blow out a long slow breath.
What the fuck was that all about?
Cal, Mel, and Jake have just left when I hear the alarm notifying me someone has tapped in the code for the front door. I managed to grab a shower and change into the clean clothes Mel brought for me before they left, and I’m about to take Layla up for a bath but pause at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for whoever it is to come in. A slim, older lady with dark hair appears, pauses, looks from me to Layla, and then smiles. “Hello, I’m Wendy.”
I smile back, her name not telling me anything. “Hey, Wendy. I’m Billie, the new nanny.”
Wendy’s mouth opens wide as her brows rise. She tilts her head to the side and smiles. “Billie, so glad to meet you, sweetheart. I’m the DoFor Lady.”
My mouth opens, but I say nothing for a few seconds while attempting to figure out what she’s talking about. I give in and question. “DoFor Lady?”
“Yeah, DoFor. Whatever Max needs, I do it for him. Well, within reason.” She flaps
her hands around and laughs as she continues, “No funny business, mind you, nothing like that. I made that clear when I started working for him. You can’t be too careful with these rock-star types, so I let him know, made myself clear right from the get-go.”
She must take in my glazed expression as I imagine Max getting up to “funny business” with Wendy—who talks a lot like the teapot lady in a Disney film I’ve seen a million times but can’t think of right now—so she continues to explain. “I’m the housekeeper. I’m here a few days a week, depending on what Max needs. I clean, do the washing, a bit of ironing, change the beds . . . well, the sheets, not the actual beds, of course.” She places one hand on her hip and leans forward and laughs again, and I can’t help but smile right along with her. “’Coz that’d just be bloody daft, changing the beds every week, wouldn’t it? So, are you coming in daily, or you live-in?”
“Yes, yeah, I’m living in.”
“Oh, in the house, or over in the flat above the garage?” she asks.
“The flat.”
“Oh, lovely. Give you a bit of privacy, won’t it?” She winks and Mrs Potts is all I can think of for a few seconds before I realise, she’s waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, it’s great. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know—”
“I wish someone had bloody told me. There’s no spare bedding or clean towels over there. I didn’t even stock the cupboards.”
She moves deeper down the hallway towards me and starts taking off her coat.
“How have you managed? Did you find everything you need? I can’t even remember if the—”
“It’s fine. It was fine,” I interrupt. “It was only decided yesterday, so no problem, honestly. Last night was my first night staying over, but clean bedding and some towels would be good, just until I can pick myself up some bits.”
“Well, Max could’ve still let me know. I would’ve come in earlier and given the place a freshen up for you. There’s some brand-new bedding in the laundry room that I washed and ironed a couple of weeks ago to put over there.”
“Honestly, it was just one night. I’ll help you get it straight today, but to be honest, I’d like to buy some stuff of my own to put in there if that’s okay?”
“Makes no difference to me, sweetheart, and I don’t suppose Max’ll care either. Where is he, anyway? I’m glad he’s finally come to his senses in getting some help with Layla. Don’t get me wrong, he’s done a great job, and Karen’s been a star, stepping up the way she has and helping him out, but the little love needs some stability, what with him being a rock star and all that goes with it, he just can’t be expected to do it all on his own.”
I feel out of breath just listening to her talk. She pauses before moving closer to stare down at Layla, who’s now sleeping in the crook of my arm, and continuing in her strong East London accent, “Such a wicked shame what her mother’s done, not just to her but to poor Max as well. He turned his life right around for her, tamed his ways and calmed right down. Where did you say he was again?”
I stare at her for a few moments as my brain attempts to catch up with everything she’s just said. She raises her brows in an expectant gesture just as I finally catch up.
“Sleeping. The boys had a bit of a long night . . .” I trail off, worrying that I’m revealing too much, but then, she does seem to know just about everything there is to know about Max and his life already.
“Well, good for him.” Her head jerks back and she frowns then smiles. “Bloody hell, you’re Billie. I just realised who you are. You’re Callum and Melissa’s girl, right?”
And, it would appear, the life of his friends too.
“Sister,” I correct.
“Aw, what a gorgeous little thing you grew up to be. Sister, yeah, that’s right, sister, but he raised ya, didn’t he? So, he’s sorta like your dad. How you doing, love? Terrible what happened to you. Karen told me all about it when I was here the other week. Ya know what? We all moan about all them guns they’ve got in America, but how lucky was you, eh? Excuse my French, but that fucker got exactly what he deserved. Glad his missus blew his bloody head off. And after everything you’ve been through, you had to put up with that nonsense, still, brought you back home to your brother and Mel. They’ve been so good to Max, too, he’s lucky to have them two. Still, hopefully, everything can settle down a bit now he’s got you here.”
“Hopefully,” I say. The woman’s like a whirlwind, a hurricane. Hurricane Wendy.
“I’m about to take Layla up for a quick bath. Mel, Cal, Makenzie, Jake, and I all stayed here last night, so her routine’s been a bit messed up.”
“Aw, that’s lovely. Like I said, he’s lucky he’s got his mum and friends to look out for him. You go and get that baby sorted, and I’ll make a start down here. Try not to make too much noise, though, it’ll do Max good to have a nice long sleep.”
I fight to keep my mouth from dropping open and from responding by telling her the house was, in fact, silent before she arrived.
“I’ll keep the noise level down,” I promise, and start heading up the stairs.
Wendy leaves at around four. I now know that she started working for Max back when he was living in his apartment in St Katherines Dock, which he still owns but rents out. When he bought this place and moved Whitney in, he told her he probably wouldn’t need her anymore and gave her “a nice little drink” in her wages on what she thought would be her last day. When it became apparent Whitney wasn’t one for housekeeping or cooking, he’d called and asked her to come back. Wendy agreed as long as he sent a car to pick her up and bring her home on the days she worked since driving to “his neck of the woods was a bloody nightmare.”
I felt a certain warmth in my chest that Max had agreed to this. There were probably plenty of locals who could do what Wendy does for him, but he wanted her and was prepared to pay for a car service twice, sometimes three times a week, to have her come in, clean, and cook for him.
Wendy is fifty-six. She has four grown-up children, three boys and one girl. All are either married or live with their partners, and she has five grandchildren and another on the way. Her husband, Tony, is a black cab driver. She doesn’t really need to work as the mortgage on their five-bedroom house in Chingford is paid off, but if she didn’t work, all she’d be doing is looking after her grandchildren. Working for Max is her “me” time and gives her the money to pay for the numerous romance books she regularly downloads onto her Kindle. It also goes towards attending book signings around the country and, occasionally, overseas—with her fellow “book hoes” to meet her favourite authors. She also spends time in various Facebook groups discussing and perving over the leading male characters from these books. She’s promised to add me as a friend and send me a list of all her favourite books and links to join some of these fangirl, perving groups.
I never knew that not participating in a conversation could be so exhausting. Wendy was still talking a mile a minute when her phone pinged with a text message telling her the driver from the car service was at the gate waiting. She went through the front door, calling out to me that she’d see me Wednesday and to try not to wake Max up.
Enjoying the silence, I make myself a coffee and put Layla’s bottle in the warmer because I know she’s due a feed at any moment. Taking both into the living room, I place my cup and her bottle down on the coffee table and collapse into the corner of the sofa. Reaching for the TV remote, I flick it on and pull up Netflix and find a film to watch. I’ve barely finished my coffee when I hear Layla stir. She’s such a good baby. I know things will change as she gets older, but for now, she’s in that eat, sleep, poo, routine with the occasional wide-awake spell in between.
She smiles and throws her arms in the air, her tiny fists clenched, as I look down into her crib.
“Well, good afternoon, Miss Layla. Did you have good sleeps? Shall we change that nappy or get you fed first?” She gives a little cry while smiling at the same time before forcing almost her entire fist
into her mouth and sucking on it. “I think you’re hungry, so we’ll get that bot in your belly while it’s still warm, shall we?”
I lift Layla to my chest, breathe in her baby scent, which I already love so much, and then settle back down on the sofa with her in my arms.
Max
My eyes open at almost the same instant my brain registers I’m awake. The shutters at my bedroom windows are closed, but the slats are open just enough to allow grey, watery light to slither through. Having absolutely no clue how long I’ve slept, I reach for my phone, which tells me it’s four forty-eight. I’m assuming that however dull the light is, knowing that it’s early November, it must be the afternoon because it’s not this light in the morning at such an early hour.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed in a panic when it hits me that I left Layla with Mel last night. “What the fuck?” I question, wondering exactly how long I’ve slept.
I’m wearing just a pair of boxers and note the dirty pair on the floor next to the jeans I was wearing yesterday and the bath towel laying across the end of my bed. I sniff my pits and nod. “Not bad,” I announce to no one in particular and assume, considering the evidence spread around me and the fact I don’t stink, I must’ve showered before I crawled into bed.
I walk into my wardrobe, find a pair of joggers and pull them on. Grabbing a T-shirt from my drawer, I walk back out to my bedroom with it in my hand, and that’s when I notice the coffee cup sitting on the chest of drawers beside my phone. I pause in my stride as a memory sparks. I came up to bed with a coffee earlier . . . Billie. Billie made me a coffee and sent me up to bed with it.
Fuck, this is why I’ve not drunk too heavily since the day Whitney left. Exhaustion and alcohol are never a good combination, but especially not when you have an eight-week-old baby to look after.
I open my bedroom door, and the smell of oregano and maybe basil fills my nose as soon as I step out onto the landing. My stomach rumbles loudly. I’m fucking starving. Other than that, I feel great, fucking amazing, in fact. Totally rested. That was possibly the best sleep I’ve had since before Layla was born.
All the Forbidden Things Page 16