I slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, head downstairs, and out of my front door. The first thing I notice is that there are two cars I don’t recognise on the drive, and when I go through Max’s back door, I hear voices.
I walk into the kitchen to find Max talking to a tall, blonde woman.
“All I’m saying is a call would’ve been appreciated,” Max bites out.
My heart rate accelerates. I’m not sure why yet, but it instinctively knows to prepare itself.
“She wanted to surprise you,” the woman replies with an American accent.
“Yeah? Well, I’m not a big fan of her surprises, the last couple she dropped were to tell me she was having an affair, that she was moving out, and, oh yeah, let's not forget her biggest fucking bombshell, there was a strong possibility Layla wasn’t mine. So, yeah, not a fan of Whitney and her surprises.”
“I’m sorry, Max, real sorry for what she’s put you through, and I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but so is she.”
“I don’t give a fuck what she is or is not. What I do give a fuck about is the fact she’s here in my house, almost a week earlier than I was expecting, with you and a nurse in tow, and she didn’t even have the common courtesy to let me know she was coming.”
Whitney’s here.
His wife . . . is here.
I knew she was coming back to stay for a couple of weeks. I’d just put it out of my mind as much as I could and pretended that Max wasn’t married, that he didn’t have a wife. I’d been living in my little bubble of denial, dreaming and fantasising about all things Max Young and what I thought, hoped but apparently imagined, was evolving between us.
All of the joy and happiness I woke up feeling this morning evaporates in an instant. My bubble bursts, and so does my heart. Deflated, it sinks helplessly and hopelessly to the pit of my stomach, as all of the paranoia and self-doubt from my teenage years resurface.
Max has a wife.
She’s a supermodel.
I’m not.
These are the reasons he’s held back, why he hasn’t kissed me. It’s not because I’m Cal’s little sister, nothing to do with our history and family ties. It’s because I’m me, and I look nothing like her.
I’m just a stupid, stupid girl, still hanging on to dreams about her childhood crush.
I feel like an idiot. I need to woman-up and move on.
I hear Layla cry, and as I turn to move towards her crib, I attract Max’s attention, his wide eyes land on mine. He rakes his hand through his hair and visibly relaxes as he takes me in.
“Bamm,” he says, relief apparent in his voice. He’s pleased to see me, and the realisation makes me feel a little light-headed. “Thank fuck. Can you sort Layla for me? I’m late with her feed. She’s not had a bath either . . . actually, would you mind taking her over to your place?”
My eyes slide from his almost pleading gaze to the steely-eyed glare of the woman standing with her arms folded across her chest, next to him. The tension in the air is palpable, and I’m curious as to why he appears so wound up.
“Of course . . . you okay?”
He shakes his head and rubs his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “I’ve had better mornings. Take the baby over the road, and I’ll come over in a bit when I’ve sorted shit out here.”
“You want me to call anyone?”
He moves towards me, and a small smile now joins the look of relief on his face. “I think I’ve got it covered.” When he gets close, he says very quietly, “Call Aaron. Tell him Whit’s arrived early.”
I nod.
“Just get Layla out of here for me.”
I want to lean in and kiss his cheek, wrap my arms around him, and reassure him everything will be okay. I don’t. Of course, I don’t. Instead, I give another quick nod and say, “Don’t stress. You deal with this and come over when you can. I’ve got Layla, and you’ve got this, okay?”
He reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Is there any chance Whitney can see Layla before she goes anywhere? I’ve not even met her yet,” the blonde calls out.
Max gives an instant and emphatic no at the same time gesturing with his head for me to get Layla out of there.
I wrap her in a couple of blankets from her crib, and when I turn around, Max is waiting with her change bag, which he hooks over my shoulder.
“There are a couple of bottles in there, all of her nappy stuff, and a couple of clean babygros.”
He walks with me part way to the back door but stops in his tracks when his name is called from the room he has set up as a bedroom for his wife.
His. Wife.
My stomach lurches, probably because my deflated heart is still flailing around in the pit of it somewhere. “Go deal with that. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Holding Layla against me, I head out of the back door towards my flat, and that’s when the shouting starts.
“This way, love. Just look this way.”
“Whose baby?”
“Is that Max Young’s kid?”
“Can we get a look at the baby?”
“Who are you?”
“Can we get a name?”
“Can you confirm Whitney Federov is out of hospital and back home?”
“Have the Young’s separated?”
I keep my head down as question after question is called out from the reporters and photographers situated at the gate at the end of the drive, and I wonder if Max knows they’re there.
As soon as I get through my front door, I call my brother.
“Kid?”
“Whitney’s turned up early. Her sister and a nurse are with her, and there are paps at the front gate. Max sent me back to my flat with the baby but wants me to call Aaron. I’ve called you first, though, because . . . Cal, he looks really shook up.”
“Shit, right. Drop all your blinds and pull your curtains that face the street. Stay in the flat. I’ll call Aaron from the car. You okay?”
“I think so. I just wasn’t expecting all the photographers. Max already looks worried, and I don’t think he’s aware they’re out there yet.”
“He’s probably stressing about what she might be up to. Keep your head down, and I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
“Drive careful. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
On shaky legs I head upstairs, take Layla to my bed, settle her in the centre of it—surrounded by pillows and cushions—and then proceed to drop my blinds and draw my curtains.
My parents doing the job they did and my brother being who he is means I’ve been raised amongst a certain level of celebrity, but attention from the press has rarely been aimed directly at me. What just happened as I crossed the drive has my stomach churning, my body shaking, and an unsettled feeling constricting my chest.
Max
I lean against the doorframe of the room Whitney’s in. She’s sitting back in the speciality hospital bed I’ve had imported from Germany, and the nurse she arrived with earlier is taking her blood pressure and writing up notes.
I went into an absolute blind panic when they pulled up my drive in two cars this morning. I’d met Whit’s sister, Deana, before, but I had no clue who the other woman was, and my first thought was that she was a lawyer or social worker.
I thought my biggest fear was about to become a reality.
I thought they’d come to take my daughter away from me.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think of who to call first. Even when Whitney had smiled as she was wheeled from the back of the adapted car, telling me she’d been released from the rehab facility early, I couldn’t relax. I could barely fucking breathe.
She’d then introduced Kasia, her nurse, to me, and the adrenaline I’d had coursing through my body had nowhere to go, I thought I might throw up.
I’ve spent the last few days regretting my decision to invite Whitney to complete her rehab here before she flies back to the State
s. I’d planned on talking to Aaron and Len today to see what their thoughts were on setting her up in a flat until I serve her with the divorce papers. I wanted to tell them that now that I’ve had a bit of time to consider everything, I don’t really give a fuck what the press think of me, what bullshit they might report, or what an arsehole I’ll be portrayed as for divorcing my crippled wife. As soon as news of the divorce gets out, I’ll probably be publicly crucified anyway.
What I do care about is my child, and I don’t want to provoke Whitney into doing anything that might jeopardise my chances of being awarded full custody of her. Although, since arriving almost two hours ago, Whitney hasn’t once asked after Layla or even to see her, so I’m not sure she would fight me on it anyway.
There’s something seriously wrong with that.
Her cold stare hits me from across the room before she turns to her nurse and says, “Kas, do you think you could give me some privacy so I can talk to my husband please?”
“Of course. Your blood pressure is normal after the car ride, how’s the pain?” the nurse asks in her Eastern European accent.
Whitney’s eyes flash to me then back to her nurse. “The pain’s pretty bad in my lower back.”
“Okay, well, we can give you something for that. Stay in bed for a while and we’ll wait until this afternoon before using your chair.”
Kasia sorts through a bag for pills and hands a couple in a small plastic cup to Whit, along with a bottle of water. Whit knocks them back, and Kasia leaves, passing by me with a smile. I close the door and head towards the bed my wife is sitting in, my jaw hurting as I release some of the tension in it to speak.
“What the fuck’s going on? Why no call to tell me you’d be here early?”
“I thought I’d surprise you. Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
“No, to be perfectly honest. I could live the rest of my life quite happily never seeing you again.”
The smile is wiped from her face and her chin tips up, a gesture I’m all too familiar with, and one I know means Whit is pissed off and mentally preparing her come back. “Max, I know things were bad before the accident. I know I made some mistakes, said some things—”
“Ha! Things were bad? You made some mistakes? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Max, please? I just want—”
“Whitney, please?” I mimic her tone. It’s childish, but my blood is boiling through my veins, so I don’t care. “Shall I tell you what I just want?” I don’t wait for her response. “I just want you to fuck off. I want you gone. I want you out of my life, out of Layla’s life, and I want to forget about the biggest fuck up I ever made so I can move the fuck on.”
Even after I mention Layla, Whit doesn’t ask after her. No, how is she or can I see her? Nothing.
For a few long moments, I want to cry, but not for me, for Layla. And then I think about her over with Billie—Billie, who only met my baby girl three days ago and who I’m already positive would lay down her life for her. I remember the way Cal kissed the top of her head yesterday, the way Mum stares down at her with absolute wonder in her eyes, and I know. I fucking know that my daughter might grow up without her birth mother in her life but that she will be loved. She will never, ever feel that loss. She will be raised confident and with the knowledge the problem is Whitney’s, the loss is Whitney’s.
“I fucking hate you, Whit. I need you to be clear about that. You are here for no other reason than to rehab before you go back to the States. I don't know what I was thinking when I made that offer. Clearly, I was delirious through lack of sleep, or maybe I’m just plain fucking stupid, but there ya go. I made the offer, and here you are, and I can’t wait for you to be fucking gone.”
“She’s my baby too. I have rights. You can’t just expect me to leave the country and not take her with me.”
“Your daughter? Your fucking daughter?” I spit as I speak. I’m so fucking angry I’ve forgotten to swallow. “Now, suddenly, after weeks of no contact, not a single call asking how she is, she’s your daughter? You walked away Whit. You think now you’ve been left with nothing you can stake your claim? Well think the fuck on. Layla is not your backup plan. It ain’t happening, she stays with me. End. Of.”
I slash my hand through the air as I say the last two words, and take a step back, rage burning so intensely inside me that I don’t trust myself to be near this woman. My wife? What a fucking joke. How? How did I not see her for what she is? How?
“No matter what I have or haven’t done, she will always be my daughter. There’s nothing, Max, nothing, that you can do to change that.”
“You gave birth to that little girl, and that’s about where and when your relationship with her ended. The fact that you created her with me is the only, the only, fucking reason you are here. When she grows up, I want her to know that when you needed it, I helped you out. I was the bigger person. That when her birth mother was involved in a car accident with her lover, that her dad paid for her mum’s private hospital care, for her rehab in a private facility, and that he gave her somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks to get better before he paid for her flight back to the States because her birth mother had no money to cover any of that due to the fact she’d spent every penny she had on supplying her lover with the drugs he was addicted to—the drugs he was high on when the crash happened.”
“Max!” I turn my head to see Cal, who’s standing in the now open doorway. “Can I have a word, mate?”
“I. Have. Rights!” Whitney screams as I move towards the door. “I’m her mother! You can’t just take her.”
I spin back to face her, my shaking arm out, finger pointing, but I’m paralysed with anger. Pain shoots through my temples as I clench my teeth. Even if I could formulate a cohesive sentence, I’m wound too tight to release my jaw and get the words out.
Cal grabs my shoulders and steers me out of the room, down the hallway, and into my laundry. “Dude! You need to calm the fuck down.”
He’s a blur. He’s standing directly in front of me, but he’s a blur. I’m so angry, have that much adrenaline and rage coursing through me, I literally can’t see.
Car tyres crunch on the gravel and Cal leans around me to open the laundry door, which leads to the drive at the side of my house.
“Thank fuck,” he huffs out. “The cavalry has finally arrived.”
I follow Cal out the door. My drive’s now filled with cars. Micky Doyle, head of the band's security, climbs out of the driver's side of the black SUV parked behind the other vehicles. Aaron steps out of his Audi, which is parked behind Cal’s monster truck, just as Lennon Layton climbs from his red-and-black Land Rover.
Micky has three other blokes with him, all built like brick shithouses, who he directs over to the gates at the front of my house. It’s only then I notice the reporters, photographers, and the two policemen outside the gates. As soon as they catch sight of me, the shouting starts, and all fucking hell breaks loose.
“Max.”
“Max, this way.”
“What’s happening with you and Whitney?”
“Are you getting a divorce?”
“Why was Whitney in a car with Alix Gardener?”
“Is the baby yours, Max?”
“Does she look like Gardener, is that why we can’t see her?”
“Who’s the redhead, Max?”
“Fuckers,” Cal and I respond in unison to the last two questions.
“Get the fuck inside,” Len orders as he moves between the line of luxury cars.
My head begins to pound as my breathing slows. As much as I hate the intrusion and the speculation, which will probably follow the arrival of these men on my doorstep, I know with one hundred per cent certainty that each of them will have my back. I can now relax a bit and let them deal with this shitshow.
“Let’s go over to the flat,” Cal says quietly. “Unless you’d rather—”
“Get me the fuck away from her,” I interrupt him. “I fucking hate
her,” I grit out, my teeth still clenched, only my lips moving.
“I know, dude. I think the whole fucking street knows.”
“Can we take this inside boys, like right now?” Len demands. “Don’t really care where just as long as it’s not in front of the circus going on out the front.”
“Head down,” Cal says. “Just keep walking. I’ve text Billie. The front door’s open.”
I’m not sure if it’s wrong or right, but when I step into Billie’s living room to find her standing in the middle of it holding Layla, my heart rate instantly slows.
Her wide blue eyes meet mine. “You okay?” she asks quietly as she moves towards me. Before I can answer, I watch her gaze dart over my shoulder then back to me.
“You all right, kid?” I hear Cal ask from behind me.
Billie’s eyes are still on me, but she answers her brother with a quick, “Yeah.”
Without a single word, she knows exactly what to do. Silently, Billie places my baby girl in my arms. I breathe in the scent of a freshly bathed Layla and, for a few seconds, everything in my world is right.
Billie did that. Without my asking her, she knew exactly what it was I needed.
I hear Aaron and Len come up the stairs behind Cal, and the small space is soon filled. Billie doesn’t waver with the intrusion and calls out, “Does anyone want a tea or coffee? It’ll have to be green or black if you want tea because I have no milk, and if you want coffee, it’ll be black and instant because I still have no milk, and my boss is a tight arse and hasn’t provided me with a decent coffee machine.”
I pull one of the bar stools out from the worktop and sit on it as Len, Aaron, and Cal call out orders for black coffee.
“I’d be reporting him to your union,” Aaron says.
“Who?” we all ask.
“Billie’s boss. No coffee machine and being forced to drink instant is probably a violation of her human rights.”
“Maybe I should sue him?” Billie adds.
Cal pulls out the stool next to me and sits.
All the Forbidden Things Page 21