All the Forbidden Things

by Jones, Lesley

  “Yep.”

  We both sip at our fresh drinks.

  “I’m not gonna be able to walk if I finish both of these,” I declare.

  “I’ll carry you, keep talking.”

  I nudge him with my shoulder. “Listen, I’m telling you this as my friend Dan. I’m trusting that this will go no further. No matter what comes out over the next few weeks or months, you’ll say nothing.”

  “Baby girl.” His brows rise, and he tilts his chin down, looking up at me through his lashes in a way that makes me feel reprimanded.

  “He got a rush paternity test done as soon as she left him. The baby’s his. He’s divorcing her and petitioning for full custody of Layla.”

  “And that’s where you come in . . .”

  “And that’s where I come in, and it’s been great. Fantastic. I love that little girl already, and as for her dad”—I shrug—“It’s not even been a week, but the chemistry between us crackles, Dan. It’s so powerful I’m sure that everyone around us must receive little shocks, and nothing’s even happened.”

  “So why’s she back? Federov, why’s she there?”

  “She’s broke, her legs still don’t work, and she has no money, so both physically and financially, she’s broke.”

  “What? How? She’s one of the world’s highest-paid models.”

  “Gardener had a drug problem; Whitney also likes to dabble. They were both high when the crash happened.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  “Max is just worried about the way he’ll be portrayed to the public if he doesn’t at least put on a show of trying to help out his wife in her time of need. His team will be putting out a statement after he serves her next month sometime.”

  “This story is gonna go off.”

  “I think Max is hoping that, because he’s offered to help her out financially, she’ll go away quietly without contesting the divorce or the custody.”

  “Wow! Things are gonna get a little crazy town around you, baby girl. You ready for that?”

  “We’re all going down to the New Forest to stay with Jay and Marnie for a while. Hopefully, the press won’t find us. I’m not sure of the exact plans, just that they have to be married for a year under UK law before you can file, their anniversary is next month. So, Max will come back to London, serve her with divorce papers, sort out the fine print, and then, I don’t actually know. I’m assuming he’ll hide out till things calm down.”

  I finish my drink, and when I put my glass down, Dan leans in and takes hold of my chin, turning my face to meet his. “Fuck, Billie, I’ll defend you to the death, you know that. But things are gonna get nasty if you go there with him.”

  I throw myself back against the bench, fold my arms across my chest, and let out a long slow breath. “I know that, but right now, I don’t even know myself what’s going on or what’s gonna happen. I thought something was happening but, then, yesterday, he spent the day with her, and the night for all I know.”

  “It doesn’t sound like he knows what he wants. Please be careful. He’s a lot older and more experienced than you, Billie. I’d fucking hate for you to come away from all this with your reputation and your heart in tatters.”

  I pick up my next drink and take a large gulp.

  “For someone who leads such a quiet life, you sure do attract the drama.”

  Dan slides his arm across my shoulders and pulls me in for a cuddle. I rest my cheek on his chest, and he kisses the side of my head just as a man I’ve never seen before walks right up to our table and takes a photo of us on his phone.

  “Fuck off, mate,” Dan tells him.

  “Drink up, princess, time to go.”

  Max

  After not crashing till after midnight, I woke with the bottle of Forty-Three lying beside me and a starving Layla screaming from her cot, a little after six. And I’m totally ashamed to admit I was still drunk when I gave my daughter her first bottle of the day.

  I feel like a fucking hypocrite. I’m going to court to fight for sole custody of Layla, declaring that Whitney is an unfit mother if I have to, and here I am, drinking myself into oblivion while my baby girl’s in my care.

  Once I had Layla fed, and in a clean nappy, I crawled back into bed and slept until the crunch of tyres on my drive woke me again. From my bedroom window, I saw Billie climb into the Rover Micky was driving and watched them leave.

  I showered, gave Layla a quick bath, dressed her in a clean outfit, fed her, and then lost my mind and called Micky. I knew she was in the car with him. I knew my call would be answered via the car’s Bluetooth system and she’d hear everything I said.

  I was hoping Billie would answer my questions, that she’d take over the conversation and tell me she never went anywhere last night, that she didn’t have a hot date, and that she didn’t spend the night with another man. But as I paced my bedroom floor, gripping at my hair, she remained totally silent, letting Micky do all the talking. And now, I’m stressed the fuck out thinking that she’d already asked Micky to lie for her before I’d even called.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and watch Layla kicking and gurgling at the mobile that Billie and I had chosen together and ordered online.

  “Daddy’s a psycho, Layla. I’m sorry, baby girl, but you’ve really not been blessed with the best genes. Daddy’s a raving lunatic, and your mother’s a lying, cheating, neurotic, nymphomaniac, crack whore.” I shrug and shake my head as I talk. “Okay, I might’ve exaggerated about your mother, but she’s not a nice person.”

  I can’t lie here all day, stressing over what Billie may or may not be doing, or who she may or may not be doing it with, and I do not want to be alone in the house with Whitney and her sister. I took Layla in to see Whit last night. I left it right up until five minutes before her bedtime so I wouldn’t have to stay long, and it all got a bit weird.

  Whitney started flirting with me, and it creeped me the fuck out. I mean, what the fuck? She leaves me for a junkie she’s been fucking for months, years even, and she really thinks I’d be interested in going there again with her? The woman’s delusional.

  My dick might be desperate to be dipped inside something warm, wet, and tight, but it’s definitely not Whitney’s warm, wet, tightness I want to be dipping it in. Not now. Not ever.

  For over a year, that woman had me. I was hers, one hundred per cent invested in our relationship, our marriage, our family, and our lives together. I did my utmost to be the best husband and the best father, and she shit all over that. Never again will I be led around by my dick . . . says the man losing his shit over who his twenty-two-year-old nanny is spending the day with. I’ll rephrase that, never again will Whitney lead me around by my dick. Billie, though, she can drag me by my nut sack and pubes if she wants.

  “Daddy’s a comedian.” I chuckle to myself as I wrap Layla in a blanket, gather up her headphones, baby change bag, my notebooks, and guitar. After grabbing a couple of bottles of formula from the fridge, I head over to my studio. At this rate, I’m gonna have a whole other album ready to go before we’ve even got the new one down. And it’s only when Layla starts to get fidgety that I realise it’s past three o’clock and I’ve been fucking around with riffs and lyrics for five hours.

  “I’m sorry, hungry bug, I’m the worst dad ever today.”

  Layla pulls up her knees, scrunches up her face, balls her fists and gives an angry little yell. I pull her in and blow raspberries onto the rolls around her neck, enjoying her scent, and the absolute comfort I get from simply holding her close. Aside from back slaps from my mates and pecks on the cheek from my mum and Mel, I’ve had very little physical contact with another human in weeks, and I’ve missed it. I don’t mean that in a sexual way, I mean, just a touch, a cuddle.

  As I boil the kettle to heat Layla’s bottle, I’m overcome with a wave of loneliness. I’m the lead singer and guitarist for one of the world’s biggest bands, and here I am, planning on spending my Saturday night alone because I have no one I can call and
talk to about what’s going on in my life.

  I can’t call Cal because of Billie.

  I can’t call Jake because of Cal and Billie.

  I can’t call Jay because of Cal and Billie.

  So, I settle on feeding my daughter, and singing “Autumn Sun,” to her, and she actually doesn’t cry.

  Once Layla’s fed and rocking a clean nappy, out of boredom, I decide to go to Billie’s and set up the new cot we got for if the baby ever stays over at her place. I had it dropped there when it was delivered and promised I’d get it set up for her. It’s possibly a bit—a lot—creepy to do it while she’s not home, but I don’t want to go back to my place.

  Luckily, I have a key on the set I have for the studio, but I press on the intercom first just to check the flat’s empty. I already know she’s not home because I would have heard the gate alarm sound, the gravel crunch, and possibly her front door close—sounds I may or may not have been listening out for most of the day.

  As I head up the stairs, I’m enveloped in the scent of Billie. There’s a citrusy smell in the air from her perfume, a floral scent from the fabric softener Wendy buys, and I like that I smell the same scent on my and Layla’s skin too. Obviously spending too much time only in the company of my baby girl has me getting in touch with my feminine side because, fabric softener? How very fucking rock star.

  Layla has crashed out against my chest in the short time it’s taken me to reach Billie’s, so I lay her in the corner of the sofa surrounded by cushions and open the large box the cot came in. The furniture we have in Layla’s room over at the house is all custom made, but I let Billie choose and order this online and, unfortunately, it’s flat packed.

  I connect my phone to the sound system and play my music down low as I start reading through the instructions. The very first song up is “All I Want” by Kodaline, and like the absolute pussy I’m apparently turning into, a lump forms in my throat.

  An hour later, I have lengths of white timber spread all over Billie’s living room floor, a pile of nuts, bolts, washers, and an Allen key, sitting on her coffee table, which, to make room, I’ve pushed over into a corner. What I don’t have is anything built. There’s a reason I was blessed with a decent singing voice, the ability to play guitar, and a love of music—I’m absolutely crap at anything else.

  Except making beautiful babies.

  And right on cue, Layla stirs, and after the shit night’s sleep I had last night, I make the executive decision, for safety reasons, to take a nap before continuing the process of building the cot.

  Totally disoriented, I blink a few times as searing light attacks my retinas.

  “What the—What the fuck are you doing on my sofee—”

  My eyes finally focus on a swaying Billie standing over me.

  “What’s a sofee?”

  “Isa thing . . . what you lay on.” Her arm limply waves about in the general direction of her sofa.

  “It’s called a sofa, or a settee, but never a sofee,” I correct her with a smile.

  She frowns. “S’whatisaid, sofee.”

  I sit up and swing my legs around, placing both my feet on the floor. Billie looks down at me. I stare up at her.

  Layla has been sleeping on my chest but has woken at some stage and is now staring at me with her big eyes while sucking on her thumb.

  My gaze shifts from Layla to Billie, who’s still frowning and swaying. She licks her lips before raking her teeth over her bottom one.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Shopping, pub, home. Why are you here?”

  I note there are at least a half-dozen bags piled at the top of the stairs, before answering her.

  “I had nothing to do so came to build Layla’s cot. I didn’t get much sleep last night, and crashed out—”

  Her eyes widen and shine with tears as she steps back, shaking her head.

  “Why?” she asks on a sob.

  Shocked at her reaction, my mouth falls open, but no words come out.

  “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

  “Bamm? What the fuck?”

  I shift Layla so I can hold her with one arm, stand, and pull Billie into me with the other. “Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.”

  I awkwardly move the three of us back to the sofa. Billie across my lap, and Layla in the crook of my arm and slightly across Billie’s lap.

  “Why, Max? I thought . . . the crackle . . . it was there. I felt it. I know you did too.” She’s almost heaving out sobs between her words, and I’ve no clue why or how to stop it.

  “Bamm, take a deep breath and tell me what you’re on about.”

  She’s scaring me. So many thoughts and conclusions as to what might’ve happened to her are hitting me at once that my head has started to pound.

  As if sensing the tension, Layla starts to cry too. Billie draws in a few deep shuddering breaths, rubs at her eyes with the heels of her hands, and looks down at Layla.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I’m s-sorry.” She hiccups as she talks, and if she weren’t so upset, it’d be as cute as fuck. “Billie’s just a stupid girl. A s-stupid, stupid girl.”

  “Will you stop saying that and tell me what the fuck is wrong?”

  She shifts from my lap and stands on unsteady legs. “I need . . . I need you to go.” She raises her hand and points towards the stairs that lead down to her front door. “It hurts to have you here . . . I can’t . . . I’ll get hurt.”

  “You’re hurt? Who hurt you?”

  Layla screams, but right now I need to work out what’s going on with Billie. I take Layla to the bedroom, lay her in the middle of the bed, leave the door open, so I can see her, and go back to Billie.

  Wrapping her in my arms, I hold her against me while she just stands there limp.

  “It hurts Max. It already hurts and nothing’s even happened, if you stay, it’ll be so much worse. I need you to go” She whispers.

  “What hurts?”

  “My heart . . . you . . . you hurt my heart.”

  “Me? What did I do?” I step back but hold on to her by her shoulders.

  She stares at my chest, her face wet with tears.

  “Baby, please just tell me what I did to hurt you?”

  Taking me by surprise, she twists out of my hold and shouts, “You need to go. You need to stop calling me baby, and you need to go.”

  “I’m going nowhere. You can shout all you fucking like, but I’m going nowhere.”

  Layla’s screaming, and I feel like my head’s about to erupt. Kicking the lengths of wood that make up the cot out of the way, I take Billie’s hand in mine, pull her over to the kitchen, and sit her on a stool at the worktop.

  I fill the kettle with water and flip it on then fetch Layla from the bedroom. Her cries stop as soon as I lift her, but in the exact same way Billie is, she continues to let out little sobs.

  “I’m going to change her and get her a bottle, and then you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on.” As much as I try to rein it in, my tone is angry.

  Staring at the floor, Billie shakes her head. “Did you fuck Whitney last night?” She turns her tear-stained face until her watery, blue eyes meet mine.

  My mouth drops open, and it takes a few moments before I respond. “What?”

  Her breaths come in short choppy pants like she’s in pain, and her face is suddenly the saddest sight I’ve ever witnessed. She nods and breathes in deeply through her nose as I watch her attempt to pull herself together.

  “I’m sorry, Max, it’s my fault. I felt the crackle, and I thought you felt it too. I’m sorry.”

  “What are you talking about? No, absolutely not. I did not fuck Whitney last night. I’ve not fucked Whitney in months, since before Layla was born.”

  She frowns, her narrowed eyes brimming with disbelief.

  “Bamm”—I step towards her— “I swear I have not fucked anyone, not in a long while
. Why would you think that? Why would you think I’d fuck Whitney?”

  She closes her eyes and presses her fingers into her forehead.

  I have a horrible, horrible sensation starting to bubble in my belly. Billie remains silent as I retrieve a bottle from Layla’s bag, place it in a jug I found in one of the cupboards, and proceed to pour the hot water around it.

  My eyes dart between what I’m doing and the forlorn look marring Billie’s pretty face. The only sound is Grover Washington’s soulful voice singing about just the two of us. And when I sway and sing into Layla’s ear while waiting for the formula to heat, I feel Billie’s eyes on me. I turn to catch her gaze creeping from my toes, up the length of my body, and stopping when it eventually meets mine. It’s there, instantly, that arc of electricity.

  “The crackle, Bamm, you feel it? ’Coz I sure as fuck do.”

  I don’t hesitate this time. I move and position myself between her legs, where she sits on the stool. I still have Layla held in place against my chest with my left hand, and with my right, I reach out and cup the side of her face, brushing my thumb gently across her cheekbone and swiping away the tears still sitting there.

  “Did someone tell you I slept with Whitney last night?”

  She leans into my touch and gives the barest shake of her head while sliding her wide blue eyes from mine to stare at the floor.

  “No, Bamm, I want you to look at me and tell me why you thought I’d do such a thing. You know how I feel about Whitney, and I thought you knew how I feel about you.”

  I take her chin between my thumb and index finger, lifting it until her eyes once again meet mine. Emotion spills from them as she blinks slowly, tears still clinging to her dark lashes.

  “Tell me you know,” I whisper against her ear.

  I step back to watch her reaction. Her eyes are closed, her long damp lashes fan out across her cheeks, and I’m hyper-aware of the fact that I’m holding my baby girl against me as my dick grows hard for this woman.

  “I thought I did, but now I’m not sure,” she says very quietly.

  I nod. “I’m gonna feed, Layla. Why don’t you go and splash your face with cold water because, when I’m done, I’m gonna show you exactly how I feel, and I’m telling you right now, there’ll not be a single shred of doubt left in that beautiful mind or body of yours.”