All the Forbidden Things

by Jones, Lesley

  Contents

  Glossary of Terms

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  All The Forbidden Things

  Copyright © 2019 by Lesley Jones

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing—Ashley Williams; AW Editing; www.awediting.com

  Editing—K.M. Golland

  Cover Design— T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com

  Formatting & Interior Design— T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com

  Glossary of Terms

  Babygro: Onesie

  Baby Vest: Sleevless/Legless Onesie

  Fugly: Fucking Ugly

  Bants: Banter/Someone Who’s Funny

  Bird: Female

  Tesco: Supermarket Chain

  Salt Beef: British/Jewish Cuisine

  Telly: TV

  Hooter: Car Horn

  Playlist—SPOTIFYATFT

  For my Book Bar Ladies.

  Thank you for sticking by me.

  You’ll never understand what your support means.

  And for Ash. Thank you for talking me off the ledge and for your side bar bants.

  This book wouldn’t have happened without all of you.

  Max

  I’m dragged from sleep by the shrill, intense sound of my daughter crying. I need to react. I need to wake up. But I’m so tired, so utterly exhausted that I lie completely still as my brain attempts to force me into action, battling with my body, which refuses to cooperate. And, because I consider myself a responsible parent, my brain wins the battle and I open my eyes.

  My four-week-old daughter stares back at me. She’s silent for a few seconds as she sucks on her tiny fist, but then her face scrunches, her knees pull up towards her little belly, and she begins to scream again. Everything in me, every emotion, need, want, every desire to protect this tiny, helpless part of me, rushes to the surface, and as it does each and every time I look at, think about, or hear her, I’m momentarily overwhelmed by the responsibility of fatherhood.

  “Hey, hey, baby girl. What’s all this noise about?” I coo softly to her, lifting her into my arms as I sit myself up.

  She draws in small shuddering breaths, but at least she quiets for a minute.

  I stand and make my way down to the kitchen. One-handedly, I fill and flick on the kettle and set about making a bottle for Layla, which she won’t be happy about. Since she had only ever been breastfed, she wasn’t a fan of the formula we’d purchased as an emergency backup. But once the two bottles of expressed milk my wife had left in the fridge had been consumed, what choice did I have other than to give her formula?

  While I wait on the kettle to boil the water for her bottles, I grab a towel, baby wipes and a nappy from the laundry room then spread the towel on the kitchen table and gently lay my daughter on top of it. The screaming resumes instantly, and she pulls her knees to her chest as she cries around the fist she again attempts to force into her mouth.

  “I’ll be quick, baby girl. I promise I’ll be quick, but we need to get your bum changed and a nice clean nappy on you.”

  Tear's puddle around her eyes before running back to collect by her ears and then drop onto the clean towel I laid down, and it actually hurts my heart to trace their fall with my eyes. I know she’s not in any kind of pain or danger. She’s safe, warm, and just a little hungry, but my reaction to seeing and hearing my daughter cry is visceral.

  I un-pop her babygro, releasing her legs, and then do the same to the vest she wears beneath it. Luckily, the nappy is only a little damp, so the clean-up and swap to a fresh one take just seconds.

  I sing to my baby girl as I work. It’s something I’ve done since the moment we knew she’d been conceived. It’s something I continued to do after she was born, and it usually silences and settles her. Not this morning, though. This morning, she prefers the sound of her own voice to mine and persists in screaming at the top of her lungs, letting the whole fucking world know Daddy’s late with her breakfast.

  “No? Daddy’s songs not doing it for you today?” I question, and instead, I start to slowly and softly sing the chorus from the first song I learned to play on guitar, the song I named my daughter after, Layla.

  Once I have her babygro back in place, I lift and hold her out in front of me while singing about how she’s got me on my knees.

  Finally, the tears stop, but her bottom lip still trembles as she continues to draw in short, shuddering breaths, and I can’t keep her at arm's length for a second longer. I once again pull her against my chest, where she attempts to suckle on my shoulder.

  “Yuck, baby girl. That can’t taste good.”

  Undeterred by my protest, Layla continues her effort to latch on to my shoulder. She’s quiet, so I leave her to it while I retrieve a half-dozen empty bottles from the steriliser and proceed to make enough to get us through the day, or at least until Whitney gets home.

  Despite her earlier protests, Layla only finishes three-quarters of her bottle before giving a loud burp and crashing back onto my shoulder. I settle Layla in her crib, which I moved to my side of the bed last night, and take the opportunity to jump in the shower.

  I check my phone as I head towards our en suite just in case I’ve missed a call or text from Whit. My wife didn’t enjoy being pregnant and, so far, she doesn’t appear to be loving motherhood either. When she’d first started to withdraw from me, I’d put it down to pregnancy hormones and did everything I could think of to be there for her. I’d cancelled all public appearances, interviews, and photoshoots with the band, and I’d told our label and management team I was taking a year off, maybe longer.

  Even after that, her attitude remained complacent, and when Layla was born, she was as indifferent towards her as she was me.

  Yesterday, Whitney woke me early and said she was spending the day at Yatra, her favourite spa and health resort. I’d been so worried th
at she was slipping into some kind of postpartum depression that it was a relief that she was finally showing some interest in something. She has barely left the house since Layla had been born; neither of us has. But it isn’t because she’s been too wrapped up in our newborn and enjoying spending time with Layla or me.

  Whitney held Layla when she fed her. She bathed her, clothed her, and changed her nappy, but between each of those times, she retreated into another room, any room that was away from us.

  I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to leave my little girl's side, and I rarely put her down. I was besotted, obsessed, and totally and utterly floored by the love I felt for this tiny human.

  I expected Whitney home by the afternoon, evening at the very latest. So, when she texted to say she needed some alone time and was staying the night, I’d called her. She assured me she was okay, just chilled and relaxed from her day of pampering and not feeling awake enough to drive home. I offered to collect her or send a car, which she declined, saying that a good night’s sleep would have her feeling refreshed and more like herself.

  I agreed. Despite knowing she was lying, I agreed.

  I agreed because I wanted Whitney to be happy. I wanted her to love me again like she had in the beginning. I wanted her to enjoy every moment of our daughter’s first weeks of life and be content with the family we were creating. I wanted her to want more babies. My babies. But before she’d even made that call, before she’d woken me yesterday morning to tell me she was going to the spa, perhaps even before our daughter was born, and probably even before I’d surprised her by arranging our drive-through wedding in Vegas eight months ago, I knew.

  My heart and my stomach ached with the knowledge that something was wrong.

  That I’d failed.

  Despite taking the baby monitor into the bathroom with me, as soon as I’m showered, I wrap a towel around my waist, and with my hair and body still dripping wet, I step into the bedroom to check on Layla.

  I come to a stop the instant I see Whitney standing beside our daughter's crib. My gut pulls tight, and my heart bounces off my ribcage as I watch her long, slender fingers brush gently over Layla’s dark head of hair. It’s been so long since those fingers have touched me with the slightest semblance of affection.

  What have I done to make her fall out of love with me so thoroughly?

  I’d fallen for Whitney the moment we had our first conversation at a mutual friend’s party in the Hollywood Hills.

  I’d convinced her to join me on the band's six-month tour of the States.

  She’d agreed.

  Three months in, she told me she was pregnant.

  Two days later, we were married in Vegas.

  I’d wanted to do right by her and our baby. I was thirty-eight. It was time to grow up. Time for the public to see me in a different light. I wanted to be on the front of newspapers and magazines because of something good, something beautiful. Not as the fucked-up headline-grabbing rock star who’d spent more than one spell in rehab drying out, had been involved in hotel bar fights, scandalous hook-ups with older, married women . . . Oh, and let’s not forget the time I passed out on stage and ended up with twelve stitches in my head and a concussion that lead to cancelling and rescheduling three shows.

  For the sake of our baby, I wanted to change.

  I thought we were doing okay, still falling in love as we stumbled through our new roles as husband and wife and, now, as parents. But by the way Whit had been so closed off from me these past months, the fact she hadn’t let me touch her since her second trimester, and by the way her narrowed eyes coldly rake over me now, I know that we’re done. I know before she speaks she’s going to tell me she’s leaving. I’m just not sure what she’s going to leave me with.

  Did she want my money? My homes? Cars?

  She could have it all. Every penny I’d made up until that point, she could have the lot, as long as she didn’t take away my access to our daughter. That, that I would hire the best lawyers in the country, in the whole fucking world, to fight her for.

  Whitney continues to look me over, and despite knowing this is likely the end of us, my cock twitches as her eyes scope my body. It’s been four months since we had sex. Four months since her mouth or hands were on me for anything other than a kiss, and even those have been fleeting and rare. So, yeah, standing here virtually naked while my wife’s eyes roam my body has me getting hard. Even when her pale-green eyes meet mine with a look that tells me everything I need to know, even then, my dick remains interested.

  “I’m leaving you,” she tells me calmly. “I’ve come to collect some clothes and some personal things, and I’m moving out.”

  And there it is.

  I knew it was coming but hearing her say the words steals the breath from my lungs. My legs want to buckle, but I fight to stay upright. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, and I repeatedly blink to keep them at bay. Convinced I’m about to vomit, I rapidly swallow the bile rising around the knot of emotion in my throat.

  “Max?” Whitney’s voice snaps.

  “What?”

  “Before I go, we need to talk.”

  I give a small laugh and shake my head. Hands on hips, I clear my throat and ask, “About what, Whit? You’re leaving me, what else is there?”

  I feel a little off balance. I’ve been in relationships that ended before, obviously, but I’ve never been present when it happened. I’ve either been out when they’ve grabbed everything of value and left me, or I’ve been so drunk, stoned, or coked-up that I’ve no recollection of the moment I was dumped or who did the dumping.

  “I’m leaving you; do you not think that warrants a damned discussion?”

  Ignoring her, I move from the spot I stopped at when first entering the room, and head towards our walk-in wardrobe, dropping my towel as I go.

  “Max?”

  “I heard you, Whit. You’re leaving me, what’s to discuss?” I turn back to face her as I talk.

  Totally naked.

  Semi-hard.

  Zero fucks left to give.

  “Here’s the wardrobe.” I point behind me. “Your clothes are in it. Take the fucking lot and don’t come back.”

  I turn and continue to make my way back into the vast space, which houses our clothes, shoes, and accessories. Whitney’s dressing table, chair, and mirror, as well as all of the make-up, lotions, potions, and products she slathers herself in daily in her pitiful attempts to fight the ageing process takes up almost half the space, and I stare at it all while trying to gain some kind of composure.

  I didn’t realise how desperately she feared growing older until we moved in together. Whit has this strange idea that to remain relevant and popular, she needs the public to think of her as young. She always wants to be seen at the trendiest clubs and attending concerts of the latest bands. I'd been there, done it all. Most of the band's fans were over thirty, just like we are. I have nothing to prove to anyone. Whitney’s need to portray a younger persona had been about the only bone of contention in our relationship, and an indirect result of that is her love affair with plastic surgery, Botox, and whatever else she has pumped into her face on a regular basis.

  I stare now at the evidence of her insecurities and feel like swiping everything from her dressing table to the ground, stamping on it all and grinding it into the hardwood floor, but what good would that do? She’d still be leaving, and I’d still be left to pick up the pieces. Besides, the noise might wake Layla, and she is my main priority right now.

  “I’m moving in with Alix.”

  I pause as I pull on a pair of jogging bottoms and almost lose my balance as I stand on one leg while the room spins.

  “You’re what?” I come out of the dressing room to find Whitney now standing on the other side of the room with the bed between us. She folds her arms across her chest and lifts her chin in what I know is a defiant move.

  She swallows then licks her lips before speaking. “Alix. I’m moving in with him.”
/>   “Alix?”

  She nods slowly.

  “Alix Gardener?”

  She continues to nod.

  Alix is the twenty-five-year-old junky son of our band's manager. I feel like white noise is filling my head and ears, not just the sound but also that grey fuzzy image of static you used to get on your old television set before blue screens were a thing. It creeps like a fog up my spine, crawls across my skull, and seeps into my brain, making it hard for me to think straight and form a coherent response.

  “Why?” I eventually ask.

  She shrugs—fucking shrugs—then adds, “I love him. I’m in love with him. I’ve always been in love with him. I tried Max, I wanted—”

  I hold up my hand. I need her to stop talking while I process what she’s telling me. Alix is a spoiled, worthless, piece of shit who’s been bailed out by Daddy more times than I can remember.

  “I warned him. I told him if he didn’t get his shit together I’d find someone else . . .” She continues, and I grip my hair with both my hands and fight to stop my knees from finally buckling.

  “Wait . . . What? I don’t understand?” But I think I do.

  Fuck. Me. I think I do.

  Whitney lets out a long slow breath. “I was with Alix before I was with you, but he kept fucking up.” She looks around the room before her emotionless glare lands back on me. “The night I met you, I arrived at the party and could tell he was high, totally fucked up. I thought if he saw me with you . . . if we hooked up and he thought we were serious, he’d get his shit together.”