It’s the most inappropriate time to think it, but I’ve always had a thing for redheads. I’ve never dated one, but I have always found them sexy as fuck.
“Mr Young.” She offers her hand.
I take it, noting how small and warm it feels. “Max, please.”
She gives a small nod. “Am I okay to talk here, or would you like to go somewhere more private?”
“Here’s fine.”
Another nod. “I’m Emily Brown, the neurosurgeon looking after your wife. As Doctor Jenner explained, the trauma to her spine is what’s giving us the most cause for concern.”
“Do we know how bad—”
She’s shaking her head, so I press my lips together, not finishing my question. “It’ll be a few days, possibly longer, before we have any conclusive results.
“We’ve carried out x-rays, ultrasounds and an MRI, and there’s nothing as yet to suggest your wife’s injuries are permanent. She has a fracture of the L2 vertebrae, and a very tiny fragment of bone has broken away, we need to retrieve that before it embeds itself somewhere that could, potentially cause permanent damage. She’s also received significant trauma to the nerves that branch out from the base of the spinal cord.”
I take in a deep breath, digesting and organising in my head what I’m being told and holding on to the words “Nothing as yet to suggest your wife’s injuries are permanent.”
I’ve spent the last couple of days hating Whit, but never, not even for a moment would I wish this on her.
“Tonight, we’ll be treating your wife’s other injuries. Her wrist has already been set in a cast. There is some swelling on her brain, which we’ll continue to monitor closely, but hopefully, tomorrow, she’ll be stable enough that we can perform the required surgery on her spine . . .” She tilts her head to the side and licks her pale pink lips, and I just know there’s a “but” about to come.
“As with any surgery, spinal surgery doesn’t happen without risks or the possibility of complications. Removing the bone may enable Whitney to walk again, but it could result in nerve damage that can lead to loss of bowel and bladder control or some numbness that might inhibit sexual arousal.”
“And if you don’t do the surgery?” I ask.
“That’s not really an option. There’s a chance, in time, the nerves will repair themselves, but leaving the bone fragment there would mean the risk of permanent paralyses in the future. Even with the surgery, there’s a chance she’ll never walk unaided again.”
I look around the room as Mel, Cal, and Aaron watch me. I just want to go home to Layla, breathe in her sweet baby scent, and fall asleep with her on my bare chest. I don’t want to be here, dealing with this shit. And, once again, a flare of anger ignites inside me as I think about Whitney and her selfish actions which have led us here.
“We have some of the best surgeons in the world working at this hospital, and I’ve already taken a call from Doctor Laurence Steadman”—she gestures towards Aaron— “who I understand is a friend of Mr Shulmans. He was on his way to the airport to catch a flight into London as we spoke. He’ll need to sleep at some stage, but as he’s considered the best in his field, with outstanding results, he’ll be worth holding off the surgery for.”
Doctor Brown then looks around the room at each of my friends before her blue eyes meet mine. “Look, I know this is a scary time, but I promise you, right now, Whitney is stable. The best thing you can do is go home, try and get some sleep, rest, at least, and prepare yourselves for tomorrow.”
Mel stands. “I think the doctor’s right.”
By tomorrow, the news of Whitney’s accident will have surfaced, if it hasn’t already, and I don’t need to face that being as stressed out as I am right now. It’s going to be a shitshow. When I don’t move right away, Mel gently grabs my forearm. “Come on, Max. Let’s get you home. You need to spend time with your daughter and get some sleep.”
I nod at Mel because being at home with Layla is precisely where I want to be.
Max
Aaron drops me off at home at around three in the morning. I’m so I tired I can barely hold my head up, and it’s a struggle to walk to the front door. The hallway’s dark, but I can see a faint glow coming from the kitchen. I head in that direction and find the LED’s that run under the wall cupboards switched on.
The kitchen’s empty, but I exhale a short breath, and some of the tension leaves my shoulders when I see that my mum has waited up for me and is currently curled into the corner of my sofa in the family room, reading from her Kindle.
I watch her for a while before she senses me and looks up. She springs to her feet and heads in my direction.
“Oh, Max. How is she? I thought you would’ve called or messaged; I’ve been so worried.” She wraps her arms around my waist.
I wrap mine around her shoulders and breathe her in. The Body Shop’s white musk perfume and Nivea face cream—my mum.
A ball of emotion lodges in my throat, but I manage to swallow it down.
“Let me make you a drink. Are you hungry? Tea, coffee?”
“I’ll be pinging off the walls if I drink any more coffee. I’m knackered, Mum, and really need to be able to sleep, but thanks,” I croak out. Exhaustion apparent in the rasp of my voice.
Mum takes a step back without breaking contact and looks up at me. “You look shattered.” Her hand comes up and attempts to brush my too-long hair from my face.
“I am. How’s Layla been? You didn’t need to wait up for me.”
She tuts and pulls away. “Go sit at the table. I’ll make you some warm milk. Layla’s fine, sleeping in her crib.” She gestures to the living room. “And I’m your mother, of course, I waited up,” she finishes.
While my mum pulls out a saucepan and busies herself warming me some milk, I check on my daughter. Her little fists are bunched at either side of her head as she sleeps soundly. I lean in, kiss her gently on the cheek, and run my nose through her hair, breathing in her baby scent. I’m tempted to lift her into my arms and hold on to her for dear life, but I know my mum is likely to slap me if I wake my sleeping daughter.
I wander back to the kitchen and sit myself down at the table.
“You want Ovaltine or just milk?” Mum asks, and I smile, too tired to remind her that I’m the thirty-eight-year-old lead singer of one of Britain’s biggest bands, and no longer drink Ovaltine. I’ve been to rehab for fucks sake.
Twice.
“Just milk.”
She brings two mugs over to the table and sits opposite me, placing one in front of each of us.
“So, Mel messaged to say Whitney was stable but had been transferred to the Stanmore?”
I correct her. “The Royal Orthopaedic.”
“Yeah, it was just the Stanmore back in the day. And what have they said there? What happened? Her car’s in the garage, so who’s car was she in?”
My eyes feel gritty, as though they have sand in them, and I attempt to blink the feeling away as I stare down at my drink and consider what I want to say to my mum. I’m far too tired to lie, so I opt for the truth.
“The day before the accident, Whitney left me for Alix Gardener—”
“What? Who? Who’s Alix Gardener? Your manager?”
“His son.”
“His son? The drug addict? I thought he was only about twenty?”
I keep my head down but raise my eyes to meet my mum’s. “Yeah, yeah, and twenty-something, so yeah.”
“Max . . .”
The anguish in her voice causes tears to burn my eyes, not because I’m still cut up about Whitney leaving me but because I’m only too aware how much this is going to upset Mum. I’ve spent the last few hours at the hospital, trying to process my feelings, and all I feel towards Whitney is pity and resentment. I’m also really fucking angry with her.
“Oh, Max. Why didn’t you call me?”
“What could you have done, Mum?”
Her head jerks back as though she’s been struck.
> “I don’t mean that to sound harsh, but I’m an adult. People split up, and marriages end every day. Every hour even.”
She covers my hand with hers. “But I would’ve at least have liked to know.”
“And I would’ve called you, but she literally left me the day before she had the accident.” I don’t add that I also lost a day to Grey Goose and self-loathing.
Mum’s quiet for a moment, I watch as she sips her milk, wrapping both her hands around her mug as if she’s trying to warm them. The shock of recent events and revelations obviously hitting her.
I sip at my own drink and watch as my mum processes what I’ve just told her. I know she’ll have questions, so I sit back and wait for her to start asking them.
Her lip curls and she almost snarls. “So it was him she was with? The junky? In the car?”
“Yep.”
“It said on the news the driver was dead.”
“It’s been on the news?”
“Yeah, not till late tonight, though.”
I’m surprised there were no reporters outside the house or the hospital, at least none that I noticed.
“And what now? Are you just going to take her back because she’s been in this accident? I know she’s Layla’s mum, Max, but you know my thoughts on the girl. She’s never accepted you for you, she’s always tried to change you and turn you into someone you’re not.”
I let out a long slow breath and rake my hands through my hair. “Mum, I’ve no idea what I’m gonna do and right now, I’m far too tired to even think about it. I’m exhausted.”
“I’m sorry.” She tilts her head to the side and gives me her understanding-Mum smile, the one that would make me forgive her anything and forever feel guilty for some of the shit I’ve put her through over the years. “Go to bed. Leave Layla to me tonight and just get your head down.”
I stand and then move to kiss the top of her head. “Thanks, Mum. I’m gonna do exactly that. Whitney has surgery tomorrow, so I should probably go back to the hospital at some stage.”
“Why? She left. She’s no longer your concern.”
“She’s still my wife, still Layla’s Mum.”
She takes hold of my hand and looks up at me. “This conversation’s not over. What’s happened is a terrible thing, but she made a choice, one that’s cost her dearly, and it’s not your fault.”
“Mum—”
“Did she take Layla with her when she left?”
I shake my head.
“No, of course she bloody didn’t. She went swanning off with her man-child, and look where it got her. She doesn’t deserve you, Layla, or any kind of sympathy, and she won’t be getting any—not from me anyway.”
“Mum—”
She puts up her hand to hush me. “Go, clean your teeth before you get into bed.”
I turn towards the door. “I’m not seven,” I remind her.
“You’ll always be my little boy. I love you. Good night.”
“Night, Mum, love you too.”
I wake to the buzz of my phone vibrating somewhere nearby, the sound of voices downstairs, and a deliciously rich smell of something cooking. I can’t recall getting into bed last night. I remember my conversation with Mum and climbing the stairs, but that’s where all recollection of how I ended up here ends. I scratch at my beard and realise I’m on top of the quilt, still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
My stomach rumbles—loudly, and I reach for my phone. I have several missed calls and messages. It’s also after three in the afternoon. I’ve slept for around twelve hours. My stomach lurches at the thought of Whitney being in the hospital all this time without any visitors, but then I remember the conversation I had with her parents last night. I’d given them the name of the hospital, and they were getting the next available flight out of LAX, so chances were, they’d gone straight there.
I’m still unsure of what my role should be in all of this. I’ll do everything I can to help Whitney out, but does she even want me at the hospital? Probably about as much as I want to be there. Does that make me an arsehole? Yes. No. I don’t know. Really, all I want to do is spend the day with Layla.
With a long, loud sigh, I drag my sorry arse out of bed and walk to my bathroom. I take a piss, run my hands under the tap, before turning on the shower. I step under the hot water in the hope it’ll ease some of the tension I’m already feeling, and stop my brain exploding with all of the overthinking it’s already doing. I wash my hair but can’t be bothered with shaving.
I get dressed and head downstairs to find my mum, Aaron, Mel, and Cal. Jake Wright, the band’s drummer, is also in my kitchen. He’s leaning against the worktop, legs crossed at the ankle, his arms folded across his chest. Beanie on his head, a scowl on his face.
At just thirty-years-old, Jake’s the youngest and newest member of our band. After two failed drummers in the early days, we spent eight years using session drummers before Jake sent us a demo. When we met him, we couldn’t believe the skinny blond kid standing in front of us had been responsible for the drums we’d heard played.
We hired him, and once we were sure he was gonna stick around, our marketing team decided to make a play on his surname, and instead of adding Wright to the name of the band, they changed it to Wrong but dropped the W, and so YWR was born.
All heads turn in my direction as I enter the room.
“Good afternoon, soldier,” Mum addresses me. It’s been her nickname for as long as I can remember, and she uses it so often my bandmates no longer even bother taking the piss out of me, not that they’d dare in front of my mum. She might barely stand five feet two inches tall, but she’s fearless and scared of no one.
“You wanna coffee?” she asks, as I approach and kiss her cheek.
“Would love one, thanks.”
“You sleep well? I didn’t wanna wake ya. You looked exhausted when you finally went to bed this morning.”
“I did,” I respond, at the same time looking around the room for my daughter.
“She’s in her crib. I just put her down,” Mel tells me, guessing the cause of my distraction.
I head towards Layla’s crib. Lifting her out, I spend a long few moments quietly holding her.
The room falls silent, and I turn to see everyone still watching me.
“Jake, thought you were away?”
Jake glowers at me for a beat before letting out a huff. “I was. But then I saw the news about Whit’s accident and flew home. You know, coz that’s what you do for your friends. Thanks for the heads-up, you wanker”—he turns to my mum, a cheeky smile tugging at his mouth—“Sorry about the language, Karen, but your son’s a dick sometimes.”
“What about me?” Mel asks.
Jake frowns at her. “What?”
“Why’re you not apologising to me for the language?”
“You’re married to Cal, you’re used to it.”
“Oi!” Cal chimes in. “Fuck you!”
“It was late, Jake, I knew you were away skiing and didn’t wanna spoil your fun. I was gonna call this morning.” I sit at the kitchen table, Layla still in my arms. Mum puts a coffee in front of me, and I take a sip before continuing. “I haven’t called Jay either,” I tell him, making a mental note to myself that I need to call our keyboard player.
“I spoke to Marnie this morning. Jay was still sleeping, but she was gonna let him know as soon as he was awake. She sends her love and best wishes and said to just shout if there’s anything they can do,” Mel tells me.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“Well, thanks to your consideration”—Jake actually points a finger at me as he continues to rant, and I realise, I’ve genuinely pissed him off by not getting in touch—“I found out at the same time as the rest of the world.”
“Sorry, man, it was nothing personal. I’ve had a lot going on the last few days.”
“Yeah, I’m only just hearing about all of that as—”
“Oh, for fuck's sake. What is wrong with you? You need a
cuddle, princess?” Cal opens his arms wide. Jake flips him his middle finger. Cal moves his hands to his heart in a wounded gesture and continues. “Since when have you been such a sensitive little soul? He’s had enough to deal with without having to worry about your precious feelings.”
The room falls silent. I take another sip of my coffee before turning my eyes to meet Aaron. I’ve avoided looking at him in case I read something I don’t want to in his return gaze.
I get nothing.
He remains impassive, but that doesn’t stop my heart rate from accelerating. Despite feeling sick, I continue to sip my coffee, just so I have something to focus on.
“You got any news for me?” I finally ask, keeping my voice low so as not to alert my mum.
Aaron slices his gaze from me to where Mum’s now busy prepping veg at the sink with Mel before he clears his throat and swallows. “First things first. There’s lots of speculation in the press and on social media about why Whitney was in the car with Gardener. Jerry’s been trying to reach you to discuss what to tell them. Whitney’s parents are here. I checked them into a hotel close to the hospital and arranged a driver for them.”
“Are they aware of the circumstances?”
“They are. Given the situation, we felt it best left to the police to explain the circumstances around the accident to the Federov’s, not you.”
I nod, unsure of how I feel about that.
This is it. Me being removed from the equation. The end of my marriage. Is that what I want? Right now, I think it probably is.
“I’ve clued in Lennon, and he’s put out a very generic press statement on your behalf, thanking people for their well-wishes but asking for privacy at this difficult time. You are still going to have to talk to him, though. I would advise talking to Jerry first, so you are both giving the same story to the public.”
Feeling oddly calm that everything is being taken care of, I continue to nod, my mouth too dry to speak, despite the coffee I’m drinking.
“When’s Whit going in for surgery?”
All the Forbidden Things Page 5
