“What time is it?” I ask.
“It’s early, only nine-thirty. Mel was gonna try and get Whitney out of the house for a few hours.”
I give a small laugh at that comment and shake my head.
His eyes wander over my face, bare chest, and puke-stained jogging bottoms before he asks again, “What the fuck’s happened? Where’s Whit?”
I feel myself deflate before drawing in a deep breath and answering, “She left.”
“She left?” He frowns, questioning my response.
“She left,” I repeat.
“What? What the fuck? What d’ya mean she left?”
I shrug, my jaw trembles and tears keep falling from my eyes. In an attempt at composing myself, I shudder out a breath as if I’m in physical pain and explain. “She’s been having an affair with Alix Gardener the whole time we’ve been together and yesterday left me, she left.”
Cal’s head jerks back as if I’ve just smacked him in the face. Now it’s my turn to watch him deflate as he comprehends what I’m telling him. His shoulders slump, his brows pull down into a frown, and his mouth hangs open.
We’ve been best mates since our first day at secondary school when we were just eleven-years-old. He sat next to me in our English class. I was scribbling down lyrics to fit a riff I’d had going around in my head for a few days, hoping that getting the words down would help expand the riff into an entire song.
Callum had been watching from his seat next to me before asking, “Are you writing poetry?”
I remember side-eyeing him for a beat before responding, “Lyrics. I’m writing a song. So, yeah, it is poetry, kinda.”
“Cool. I play the guitar. Bass. I got a Fender for Christmas a couple of years ago,” he’d responded.
My eyes had sliced from the piece of paper I’d been writing on back to his face. Grey-blue eyes stared back at me, and a cocky smirk twisted his lips as he’d tilted the chair to rest on its two back legs. Nodding matter-of-factly, he’d added, “Second hand, not new, but it’d been looked after.”
With that, the leg of his chair had given a loud crack. We’d both stared wide-eyed at each other, suppressing our laughs as Ms Phillips, our fit-as-fuck English teacher started the lesson.
From that encounter, a friendship was born, and a band began to form, the Young and Wild, from which Young Wild and Rong would later be created.
Best friends. Bandmates. Brothers in every way other than biological. We had each other's backs through first loves, lost loves, broken hearts, arrests, and hangovers. We’d held each other up through deaths, births, and marriages. When I hurt, he hurt, and with the pity pouring from his stare right now, I know he’s feeling the ocean of hurt I’m currently drowning in.
“Fucking hell, Max.” His eyes dart down to Layla, who’s sleeping soundly against him, and he covers her little ear. “Sorry,” he whispers.
I let out a huff. “Oh, she’s heard much worse than that today, I can assure you.”
“Talk to me. Tell me exactly what’s happened.”
I relay what unfolded between Whitney and me over the past thirty-odd hours and end with, “She wants a paternity test.” I gesture with my chin towards Layla.
Cal frowns. “What? Why?”
We stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, Cal’s hand raises to his jaw, and he scratches at the stubble there—something I know he does when feeling stressed—before his face dissolves into an expression of pure horror.
“No. Nah. What a bitch. What an absolute cunt of a woman. She’s yours, mate. One million per-fucking-cent, this little girl is yours.”
I let out a long breath, rake my hands through my hair, and press my fingertips into my forehead and scalp as I attempt to still the cyclone of thoughts raging inside my head.
“You know that, right? Please tell me you’ve not listened to that bitch’s poison. Just look at her, Max. Layla is all you. Fuck, I’d doubt she was Whitney’s before I’d ever doubt she was yours—and thank fuck for that. Who’d want their daughter taking after a fake, skanky, ho like her?”
My lips twitch, as I momentarily enjoy the way Cal has my back and saying exactly what I need to hear.
I turn when I hear water sloshing and the sound of broken glass clinking. Mel is obviously cleaning up my mess. I feel both grateful and ashamed at the state I’ve gotten myself in today.
Over a woman.
Over my wife.
My cheating wife.
When my gaze shifts back to Cal, he’s on his phone.
“Hey, mate. I know this is last minute, but it’s urgent. Can you get your arse to Max’s place ASAP?”
I frown, wondering who he might be talking to.
“No, nothing like that, but it’s urgent. Also, can you get your hands on a paternity testing kit and bring it with you?”
“Perfect. Good lad, see ya soon.”
He ends the call and before I can ask, he says, “Aaron. You need to find out where you stand legally with all this. I know he’s not a family lawyer, but he’ll have more of an idea than we do. We’re not fucking about on this. You need to file for divorce and get a paternity test done pronto. Then apply for full custody of this little dumpling.” He uses the unfortunate nickname he’s bestowed upon my daughter as he gazes down at her.
“What if she’s not mine?” I whisper. Genuinely scared to say it louder, hoping the quieter I am, the less chance there is of it being a possibility.
“Cut the crap. She’s yours.”
We’re both quiet for a few seconds as we watch Layla sleep. Cal lets out a deep sigh, before breaking the silence.
“Look, you know I’ve never been Whitney’s biggest fan. I accepted her because you loved her, but I trust that bitch about as much as I trust Leeds to win the Premier League this season. You need to be prepared for the worst, especially because she’s hooking up with Gardener. Is your prenup airtight?”
I nod, hoping I’m right. “Aaron dealt with all of that, so I assume so.”
My stomach churns at the mention of that name.
“Good. Gardener has zero wealth in his own right, and Daddy’s millions are gonna run out at some stage, or, what’s more likely, Daddy will cut him off. Whitney won’t like that, and that’s when she’ll try and come after you to fund the lifestyle she’s become accustomed to.”
I swallow, taking on board what he’s saying, but before I think about much of anything, he continues.
“Right, you’ve had all the words of wisdom you’re gonna get from me. You need to go take a shower. You stink. And, dude, I’ve gotta ask . . . why the fuck have you got a nappy stuck to your foot?”
Max
After a couple of hours sleep, I head back down the stairs, freshly showered and note the now spotlessly clean floor in the hallway and the aroma of garlic and oregano filling the air. Mel is making my favourite dish of hers, Nonna’s Meatballs. My mouth waters and my stomach rumbles, and I realise I don’t remember the last time I ate.
Cal and Mel are sitting at my dinner table, Mel’s feeding Layla, while Cal strums my acoustic guitar. I recognise the Carnage song immediately and smile, remembering when we were a pair of sixteen-year-olds seeing them perform live in Hyde Park. The memory causes the hairs on my arms to rise as goosebumps spread across my skin. Not for a single moment back then did we imagine that just five years later we would be selling out our own arena tour.
“She’s bathed,” Mel tells me. “Has a clean diaper, and she’s pretty much demolished this four-ounce bottle. Dinner’s almost ready, just waiting on the garlic bread.”
Mel's eyes slide from where she stares down at Layla, up to meet mine, and they shine with tears. “Callum told me what happened.” She shakes her head, scrapes her top teeth over her bottom lip, and blinks. A tear escapes her right eye while another sits precariously on the top lashes of her left. I physically jump when it finally falls and hits her cheek.
“I’m so sorry, Max. You’re a good man and so don’t deserve this. Any
thing we can do to help, anything at all, we’re here for you.”
I nod while swallowing yet another ball of emotion that’s attempting to lodge in my throat. Fucking things. I feel like opening up my chest, or wherever it is the little fuckers reside and pull the lot of them out. I hate feeling like this.
“Please don’t ever get in the state we found you in earlier before asking for help. We’re your friends, we’re here for you, always. You need help, you ask for it, Max, else I’m gonna be pissed, you hear me?”
I slide my hands into the front pockets of my jogging bottoms, give a small laugh, and nod. “I promise.”
“I can’t believe she did this or what she said about Layla. I’m . . . I just have no words right now.”
I continue to nod slowly, agreeing with Mel, while Cal continues to strum “With You” by Carnage on my guitar.
“She’s yours, Max. I mean, just look at her for God’s sake. Even her eyes are already your colour and not blue like most newborns. And just look at all this dark hair . . .” Mel looks from Layla to me again. “She’s yours, please don’t ever doubt it.”
The intercom buzzes, interrupting the moment.
“That’ll be Aaron,” Cal states.
I buzz him in.
I’m holding a sleeping Layla against me as Aaron swabs my mouth for the paternity test. He stayed for dinner, and I let Cal and Mel retell the events that have shaken my world over the past day. Aaron already has a courier waiting to rush our samples away. For a ridiculous amount of money, we should have the results back in under twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four-hours that I’ll spend going out of my fucking mind.
“Stress all you like about this, Max, it won’t change the results, and these results won’t mean shit to the courts, we’ll need to go through them for that to happen, but at least you’ll know.”
I glare at Aaron as he pings off the latex gloves he wore to swab our mouths and tosses them into the bin.
“How many kids you got, Al?”
“Four.”
“How would you feel if you were told one of them wasn’t yours?”
“My job is to advise on what you should do, not tell you what I would do.”
I breathe out through my nose and slide my gaze from him to my daughter sleeping in my arms. I bring her head of dark hair up towards my face and brush my lips over it, breathing her in. She smells like her and me. Would I know, would I be able to smell, sense if she wasn’t mine?
I move to the family room and lay her in the crib that we keep there for her daytime sleeps and head back to the table where my friends sit.
“What now?” I ask Aaron.
“Now, you tell me everything again, I’ll make notes to give to which ever divorce lawyer you choose to go with, and they’ll draw up a petition . . . But, under UK law, you need to be married for a year before you can file. I’ll get everything drawn up, but there’s nothing I can do until you’ve been married for a year.”
“A year?” I question.
“Afraid so.”
“Fuck.”
“What date did you get married? It must be coming up to a year.”
“December thirteenth. We got married as soon as we found out she was pregnant.”
“We have no choice but to wait till then . . . unless, of course . . .”
“What?”
Aaron, always the consummate professional, appears to lose his shit for a few short moments. Tilting his head to the side, his eyes dart all over my face. I hate the pity I see in his eyes, and I’m grateful when he closes them and draws in a deep breath. I hold onto my own until he slowly releases his. Reaching for my shoulder, he gives it a squeeze. His dark blue eyes open and meet mine. “If Layla’s not yours, we can apply for an annulment,” he tells me quietly.
I nod because, if I attempt to speak, I’ll probably vomit.
The room falls silent for a long moment before Mel asks, “What if she denies adultery once she gets served?”
“She requested a paternity test, so it’d be a moot point,” Aaron tells her.
“She might deny that as well,” Cal ads. “Requesting a paternity test, I mean.”
“She might, but I already have a few things in place. I’ll need the security camera footage from the front of the house, showing her being picked up by Gardener. I’ll also check whether or not she was at the spa yesterday. I’ll go through her bank and credit card transactions and pull up her phone records, anything I can think of to come up with some solid evidence of her infidelity. The prenup I drew up before the wedding is airtight. She's coming out of this with exactly what she came in with. And that’ll amount to just about nothing. Once we get the paternity test results back, we’ll file for temporary, emergency custody. That can be done straight away, you won’t have to wait a year for that.”
“Thank fuck,” I mumble.
I feel all eyes on me. “How’d you wanna handle that, Max?” Aaron asks. “You want full or joint custody?”
“Full.” I don’t hesitate. “Whitney can have access, but I don’t want that junky anywhere near my baby.”
“Gardener’s addiction, rehab stays, and criminal records can also be used as a part of my case against them. I’m not up to speed on family law, so I’ve already made a few calls to get you the best legal team on board.”
“Is my past gonna be a problem?” Panic rolls through me like a tidal wave of ice, and for a few moments, I struggle to breathe.
Aaron shakes his head, and I calm marginally.
“Most of what’s been reported about you has been overly exaggerated, some things completely fabricated. With exception to your stays at Winslow House, it’ll be easy to disprove if we need to.”
“And what about my stays at Winslow. It’s known as being the place to go if you have a drink or drug problem. Will my stays there work against me?”
“You were officially admitted for exhaustion, so that’s what the judge will see. There’s no record of you being there to dry out, I made sure of that at the time.”
Mel makes us all coffee, and Aaron makes notes as we talk through everything that Whitney had said the previous morning. We’re just finishing up when my intercom buzzes.
My stomach lurches at the sound, and I’ve no idea why.
My phone’s still upstairs where it’s been for most of the day, and it’s just after nine, so I’ve no clue who’d be calling at this time of night.
“Dude, you gonna get that?” Callum's voice interrupts my drifting mind. My tired eyes meet his.
“I’m fucked. I really don’t want visitors right now.”
“I’ll get it and get rid of them if I can,” Mel says, and I nod, offering a small smile of thanks.
Aaron stands, holds out his hand, and I shake it. “Try and get some sleep tonight. I know that’s easier said than done with a newborn, but try and get your head down between her feeds. I’ve asked that the results come directly from the lab to me, and I’ll be in touch with the results and news on which divorce lawyers we’ll be using.” He stares down at me in silence for a few moments.
“Look, I know it’s not something you wanna do, but you probably need to talk to Jerry Gardener. He’s the manager of your band and needs to be made aware of what’s happening between your wife and his son. The pair of you need to decide how you want to handle the attention this is likely to draw. You’ll also need to let Gaynor at the office know to expect calls from the press, Lennon from the label needs to be in the loop … Maybe I should handle that, and give the delightful Jaimie a call.”
Aaron wiggles his eyebrows. He’s pushing fifty-five, still a good-looking bloke in that silver fox kind of way women seem to love, keeps himself in shape, and has been divorced for around ten years. He also has a thing for Jaimie Layton who works for the agency that manages us. It’s owned by our record label, Carnage Creations. The owner of that label and agency, Lennon Layton, also happens to be Jaimie’s husband, who I know for a fact, will have Aaron’s balls if he ev
er finds out about his not-so-secret crush.
Still, Aaron has always been there for us with more than just legal advice, and when I stand from my chair, he pulls me in for a back slap.
“Sorry this is happening to you, Max, I really am. I won’t lie, it’s probably gonna be a shitshow for the next few months, but we’ll get this dealt with as quickly as possible so everyone can move on.”
I nod.
He turns to leave and raises his hand, his car keys dangling from his finger, and calls out, “Get some sleep. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. See ya, Cal.”
Cal raises his hand in response, and as he opens his mouth to speak, Aaron pivots and turns back around to face me. “Aaaand, it looks like I’m staying.”
I frown, my headache returning, reminding me, it’s been a long fucking day.
Just as I open my mouth to ask Aaron what he's forgotten, Mel appears behind him, trailed by two policemen.
Aaron places his briefcase down on the dining table.
Callum stands.
Mel stares at me as a million and one thoughts hurtle through my brain.
“If that bitch has made any kind of allegations against—”
“Cal,” Mel snaps. “Let them speak.”
Callum folds his arms across his chest and glares.
“Max Young?” one of the policemen questions.
I nod, my eyes slicing from the policeman to Aaron for a cue.
Should I answer or remain silent? Are they about to arrest me for something Whitney has alleged I’ve done? Would she stoop that low? Are they here to take my daughter?
My mouth’s dry, my heartbeat reverberating throughout my chest. I can’t talk and can barely breathe as I wait for the next blow, the one to top off one of the shittiest days of my life, possibly ending me.
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr Young?”
I feel myself sway, but I don’t answer, can’t answer.
Aaron introduces himself, speaking for me. “Aaron Cohen, Mr Young’s Lawyer. Can I ask what this is about?”
“Mr Young . . .”
I shake my head.
All the Forbidden Things Page 3
