“Are the band splitting up?”
I look for Micky in the Rover, my first instinct is to give them nothing. Taking a deep breath in at the same time thinking, “fuck it,” I raise my arms to silence the group of about twenty reporters and paparazzi.
“Move,” Mick appears at my side and roars after his phone gets knocked out of his hand and smashes all over the concrete. “Fucking move back.” He forcibly pushes the mob back with his hands.
“If you all shut up and stop shouting, I’ll talk,” I shout out.
Mick frowns in my direction, mumbling, “are you fucking mad?”
“Probably,” I reply, before opening my mouth and possibly talking my way into the biggest bollocking I’m ever likely to receive from Lennon Layton, along with a lifetime’s worth of “for fucks sake’s.”
“Whitney Federov and I have separated. The separation actually happened before her accident when she left me for Alex Gardener. She’s been rehabilitating at my house in St John’s Wood, and we’ve attempted to repair our marriage, but her infidelity has made our differences irreconcilable, so that arrangement is now over, and we are going our separate ways. We will share joint custody of our daughter, although she will remain living with me. As for the redhead, I’m sure you all know her name, and for those who aren’t sure, it’s Billie Wild. She’s been kind enough to help me out as a nanny, during Whitney’s recovery, that arrangement has too now ended. That’s all you’re getting from me, boys and girls.”
I duck my head and allow Micky to lead me to the car. Ignoring the barrage of questions and the assault of camera flashes happening all around me.
“How’d I do?” I ask Mick as we lock ourselves inside the car.
“Aaron will be proud, Len will have your balls, Whitney is going to lose her shit.”
“Don’t care. I no longer give a fuck about doing the right thing where Whitney’s concerned.”
“How’s Billie?”
I swallow down the instant lump that forms in my throat and grind my teeth together. I’m a fucking mess just thinking about any of this, and I feel like an absolute pussy. I’m pissed off with Billie for leaving without a goodbye, but I have no right to be. I’m fucking lucky she wants to stick around and try and make this work, I just hate not knowing when I’m likely to see her again. I hate even more that Whitney has that power over us.
“Did you explain everything to her? Explain Whitney’s threats?” Micky’s voice interrupts the maelstrom of thoughts and emotions churning inside me.
“Yeah, she’s pissed off but knows what needs to be done. We talked it all through, we’re still gonna try and make things work. We just need to work out how to make that happen.”
“And how you gonna do that without getting caught? You and Whitney splitting up has only been a rumour until now. Not only did you just go public with the news, you just fired the first shots in what has the potential to turn into one very dirty battle.”
I turn my head from where I’ve been staring out of the car window at nothing through the dull morning light and look across at his face.
“Mick, I’m fucked. Mentally and physically, I’m done with today, yesterday, the past three fucking months, and I really don’t wanna talk about it.”
Billie
I sit in the back of the cab with my head resting against the window. My head knocking against the glass with every speed-bump and pothole we go over. I enjoy the dull pain it causes, welcome it, even though it does nothing to detract from the ever-present ache in my heart.
“Twelve-seventy please,” the cabbie tells me, and I realise we’ve stopped.
I pay with my card and climb out of the cab.
The taxi leaves, and before I even enter the key code to the gates, I can hear the sound of a thumping drum and bass tune mixed with giggling.
Despite the background sounds of London waking up and the building traffic noise, I can definitely hear giggling. There are a couple of cars on the drive I don’t recognise, triggering a warning inside me.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but that survivor instinct I’ve apparently inherited from somewhere has me pulling my phone out. I consider calling Micky, but when a sensor light kicks in as someone moves along the side of the house, I ready it on video mode instead.
Taking a chance the sound of the gate alarm will be muffled by the music, I enter the code, slip inside, filming as I go.
With just a towel wrapped around her, I watch as Deana Federov walks over to the indoor pool with a man wearing nothing but his boxers and a Hawaiian shirt.
I’m shaking. It’s not fear exactly, more like I’m buzzing with nervous energy and anticipation. It feels good after waking up and feeling nothing but sick and heart hurt.
The pool is housed in a building with floor to ceiling, timber bi-fold doors, which can be opened all the way around in the summer. The lights are all on, and I have a direct view inside. The music is blaring, and there, in all her naked glory, is Whitney laying back on a sun lounger. The hand holding my phone drops to my side, as the other covers my mouth. There’s a man’s head buried between Whitney’s legs.
“Oh my fucking god,” I whisper to myself, staring for a bit longer than I probably should, before realising I should be filming all of this.
I watch and record her as she sits up, the man’s face rising with her. He leans in and kisses her mouth before she pushes him gently away.
I can barely stand still as Whitney lifts what looks like a silver straw from the tray meant for cups or glasses attached to the arm of the lounger. My mouth drops open when I realise it’s covered in white powder. She shoves the straw up her nose, leans in, and snorts.
A loud, “no!” escapes me as I watch in utter disbelief as Whitney stands, walks to the edge of the pool, and dives in.”
“That fucking bitch-fuck-fuck-bitch-face-bitch.” My jaw hurts it’s tensed so hard, and I’ve apparently forgotten most of my words, but what the fuck am I actually looking at right now?
My hands shake, and my entire body vibrates as I make my way to the door of my flat and email the video to myself.
Closing the front door behind me, I lean against it, take in a few deep breaths, and attempt to organise my thoughts.
I’m not sure who I should contact first.
Max?
Micky?
Aaron?
No. I want the wrath of Hellfire and damnation to rain down on Whitney’s lying, deceitful, cheating, fake, skinny arse, so I bite down on my bottom lip and try and think like her. What would that bitch do in my situation?
The answer hits me instantly, and I make the call as I head up the stairs to my flat.
“Are you sure it was a woman screaming?” the operator asks.
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure.” I add an edge of hysteria to my voice, you know, just for effect. I think I might be enjoying this a bit too much.
“The only other resident here is a disabled woman. I’d go down and check to see she’s okay, but I can hear a man’s voice, and I’m a lone female.”
“No, don’t go down. Remain in your flat and keep the door locked, we’re sending someone now.”
I already gave the 9-9-9 operator my name and address when I called, but the police will need the gate code.
“There are electronic gates to get into the property, the code’s 1-2-0-9-1-9.”
The operator offers to stay on the line with me until the police arrive, but I have other calls to make, so I hang up.
I sit at the window in my bedroom, which overlooks the pool, and I call Max, but the call goes straight to voicemail, I try Micky next and get the same response. Finally, I try Aaron.
“Billie, everything okay?”
“Not really, but also, yeah, kinda fucking fantastic.”
“Talk to me.”
“I’m at my flat. There’s a party going on in the pool house . . .”
“What? Please tell me Max hasn’t gone on a bender?”
“Max is still at the hotel as fa
r as I know, but he might wanna come home to see this.”
“Go on . . .”
“I’ve just videoed Whitney Federov with a man’s head buried between her legs.”
“You did what?” My nerves have me laughing at how that must have sounded to Aaron.
“Not in a pervy way. She was lying back on a sun lounger, some random had his head between her legs before she sat up and snorted what I assume was a couple of lines of coke. But that’s not the best bit.”
“Go on …”
“The coke must be class A+plus and then some because as soon as she snorted just two lines, you’ll never guess what happened?”
“I can’t, tell me.”
“She stood up, walked to the edge of the pool, and dived right in.”
“What the fuck?” Aaron lets out his own laugh and I chuckle along with him.
“I kid you not Al.”
“And you caught all this on camera?
“Yep. The police are on their way, so you might wanna get your arse over here.”
“Does Max know? It might actually be better if he’s not there. I’m on my way. Are you somewhere safe, Billie? Don’t approach her, just let the police do their thing. This won’t look good for Max at first, but in the grand scheme of things, it could be the best thing ever.”
“Chill Aaron. I’m in the flat, I’ve locked the door behind me. I can’t get a hold of Max, or Micky.”
“Okay, stay put, I’ll be there soon. I’ll try and reach Max. And Billie . . . ”
“Yeah?”
“He was put in an awful position yesterday, just know that he’s as devastated as you probably are.”
My nose tingles as I press my forehead against the cold glass. “Was Al, I was devastated. Hopefully, this will change everything.”
“Let’s hope so.”
I breathe heavily on the glass and then draw a love heart in the condensation it causes. My face aches I smile so big. Ending the call, I pull my knees up to my chest as I sit on the windowsill, and watch one of the happiest days of my life unfold.
Max
When we pull up outside Jay’s house we have a welcome party of Jay, Cal, and Jake waiting for us. None of them looks happy. My gut pulls tight as I climb out of the car and Cal is already moving towards me.
“You need to get home; the police are at your place.”
“What the fuck? Why?” I stop walking and stare at Cal.
My first thought is that Whitney might have trashed the place and I run a mental check of anything of value she might be able to ruin. Layla and my guitars are with me, and Billie’s on her way to fuck knows where. Everything else is insured and replaceable.
“There’s been a disturbance. Billie went to her flat this morning—”
“Billie? Is she okay? Why didn’t anyone call me? I swear to god, If that pair of bitches have touched her—” I pull my phone from my pocket as I rant. Dead. I’ve not charged it since I left here yesterday. I checked it this morning to make sure I hadn’t missed a call from my mum or Billie but didn’t notice how much battery I had left on it.
“We tried. We’ve all been trying you and Mick—”
“Battery's dead.” I hold my phone up like I have to prove it to him.
“Who’s with Billie? Who called you? Let me have your phone,” I ramble.
Instead of handing me his phone, Cal just stares. I know he wants answers as to why I’m getting myself so worked up about Billie, but first I need to talk to her myself.”
“Mick, we’re going back to London. Can someone lend me their phone?”
“Aaron’s with her, she’s fine. Call him, he’ll fill you in. And if you’re going back to London, I’m coming with you.” Cal continues on but I’m only half listening.
Jake hands me his phone. “Micky smashed his phone. There were reporters outside the hotel this morning, and mine died. I didn’t know,” I explain to anyone who wants to listen.
Marnie has come out of the house and has taken the baby capsule out of the car with Layla still strapped in it. “I have to go back to London Marn, is she okay—”
“Go, when’s her next feed due?”
“Another couple of hours. Thank you.” I lean in and kiss my daughter before kissing Marnie’s cheek. “Thank you,” I repeat.
I turn and start making my way back to the car. “Have you got Billie’s number on here?” I ask Jake, who for some reason is getting in the back of the car.
“Why’d you need Billie’s number?” Cal asks as he too climbs in behind me. “Why not just talk to Aaron?” I ignore him.
“Yeah. It’s stored under Cal’s Fit As Fuck Sist—oomph. Ow, what was that for?”
Cal saves me the job of turning around and slapping Jake, but I realise I’m not going to be able to call Billie with Cal in the car, so opt for Aaron instead.”
“Talk to me Al,” I order as soon as he answers.
“Why haven’t you picked up—”
“No charge and Micky’s got smashed. We’re on our way back now. What happened? Billie okay?”
“Billie’s fine. She came back here this morning to pick up some things and there was a pool party happening. A naked, coke-snorting pool party.”
“Oh really?” My skin prickles with this all might mean for me. For us.
“Billie had the wherewithal to record everything on her phone before calling the police.”
“Good girl. Is this gonna be a problem for me? With the police, I mean?”
“I don’t think so, but be prepared . . . the place is swarming with them and reporters.”
“Great.”
“It’s not all bad news, I think after this, your divorce and custody problems might be over.”
“Let’s hope so Al. Could you do me a favour and put Billie on for a second, I just want to check she’s okay?”
“She’s in her bedroom right now. I think she was going to take a shower.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to her later. We’ll be there soon.”
“Max, before you go, there’s something you should know—”
“Out with it, Al.”
“The marching powder your wife was filmed snorting earlier, is apparently exactly that.”
“Not following.”
“I watched the footage, after snorting two lines, Whitney made a miraculous recovery, stood up, and walked to the edge of the pool before diving in.”
My head falls back and I stare at the roof interior of the car.
“No fucking way?” Is all I can think to say.
“Yeah, I said something similar when Billie told me.”
“So has she been lying the whole time?”
“I don’t know, but it’s something I’m going to look into. The fact her sister was her physio and she supplied her own nurse probably should’ve rung some alarm bells.”
“Yeah, but come on, who lies about shit like that? Who’d pretend to be disabled?”
“Your wife apparently.”
“I actually have no words. I honestly don’t know what to say.”
A ripple rolls through me. A wave of energy is the only way I can describe it, and I think it’s every last bit of feeling I might have still been holding on to for Whitney. I haven’t liked her for months, but I still felt bad for her situation. Not anymore. I’m done, and I will do everything in my power to make sure she plays no part in my daughter’s life.
We reach London in the record-breaking time of one hour and seventeen minutes, Mick and me in the front, Cal, Jake and Jay in the back. I’m not sure exactly why Jay came with us, I think he just wants to show his support, but whatever his reasons, it feels good to be surrounded by my band.
Tension builds inside me, and my knee starts to bounce as we turn into my street. Mick puts his head out of the car window and explains to a policewoman who we are. There are four police cars parked along the road, and the press are having a party at my gate. The instant they spot the Rover, noise erupts all around us as reporters shout out their request
s for information, and the whole place lights up like Christmas with camera flashes.
I call Aaron to let him know we’re pulling in, and the gates swing open. Camera lenses crack against the tinted windows, and the car becomes surrounded. Mick keeps his hand on the hooter and his foot on the pedal.
“You’ll get dead, motherfuckers! I’ll take you all out,” he shouts over the commotion. We all laugh when he cranks Drowning Pool’s “Bodies” and all sing along loudly about letting bodies hit the floor, flipping our middle fingers as we drive through the melee.
On the outside, I’m laughing and singing along as I headbang in a car with my bandmates. On the inside, I’m twisted up with anger that my ex has tricked me into believing she has a spinal injury, that my home is a crime scene, that I’ve had to leave my daughter in a different county, and that I had to put my girl through a shit ton of grief yesterday. Instead, I try and focus on the fact that I’ll get to see Billie in a few minutes.
Aaron, a uniformed policeman, and two blokes in suits I’ve never seen before greet me when I reach the top of the stairs in Billie’s flat.
“Where’s Billie?” My eyes dart between Aaron and the space around him.
“Bedroom. She’s fine, she’s absolutely fine,” he reassures me.
“Mr Young?” one of the suits asks.
“Yep. What’s happened?” I shake his hand.
His name’s something Humphreys, and he introduces me to his colleague Craig something or something Craig. I’m momentarily distracted when the Kings of Leon’s “Sex On Fire” starts to play loudly over the sound system. We all stare up at the speakers until the volume is lowered.
Humphreys’ explains how Billie made a 9-9-9 call, the police arrived to find a number of people in my pool house in a state of undress and with a large quantity of Class A drugs in their possession. Whitney and Deana Federov have been arrested, as have Robin Crane and Michael Firman. I confirm I know the Federov’s and my relationship to them, but that I’ve no idea who the other two are. Craig then informs me they’re waiting on a warrant so they can search the rest of my house.
All the Forbidden Things Page 36