All the Forbidden Things

by Jones, Lesley

  “It’s scheduled for eight o’clock tonight.”

  I breathe in through my nose and hold the air in my lungs for a few seconds before releasing it.

  “Are there reporters here?” I ask the room.

  Mel nods, looking about as happy as I feel about it, which is to say not at all.

  “The security team is here, and Micky’s out the front with the cops at the gate. He said to let him know when you were ready to go to the hospital and he’d clear the way.”

  “Bloody vultures, the lot of them. They need to piss off and find some real news to report on.” Mum says. She doesn’t turn around from where she stands at the sink, nor does she take her eyes off the potatoes she’s currently peeling to within an inch of their lives.

  I love her so bloody much.

  I clear my throat. “Is there any news on Whitney’s condition?”

  “She remains stable and had a comfortable night,” Aaron informs me.

  I nod and continue as if I have zero fucks to give. “I’ll give Lennon a ring in a bit, but I don’t wanna talk to Jerry right now. Anything else?”

  Aaron nods slowly and takes a manila envelope from his briefcase. My gut joins my throat and chest in pulling tight. I know what it is, or more so what’s inside, and all of a sudden, the little girl in my arms becomes heavier. I pull her in closer, and hold her tighter to my chest. Her fist wraps around my thumb, and I kiss the back of her hand. The love I feel for this little girl will not be broken. It can’t be taken away, no matter what those fucking results say.

  “You want to do this here?” he asks, his hands trembling.

  I don’t want to do it at all.

  “I’ve not said anything to her yet,” I say, gesturing to Mum, knowing full well she’s taking in every word even if she’s pretending she’s not. “I’ll just explain once I know the outcome.”

  “These literally arrived five minutes before you came down the stairs. I’ve not even looked at them myself yet.”

  With one hand cupping Layla’s bum, and the other splayed across her back, my thumb brushes the soft, dark hair at the base of her head. I feel the thud, thud, thud, of her little heart against my chest.

  Did the cells that went into creating that heart come from Gardener or from me?

  Pressing my nose into her hair, I breathe her in and hold on to that breath, her scent. I trap it inside, absorb it into my marrow, and attempt with everything I have in me to stop my lips from trembling.

  My knee bounces beneath the table.

  Aaron pulls a single sheet of paper from the envelope and studies it.

  His blue eyes dart to mine. “She’s yours.”

  I finally let out the breath I was holding and laugh while taking in another.

  When I look up, Mel moves the hand that’s still holding the vegetable peeler to cover her mouth as she cries.

  Cal is leaning against the worktop with his hands laced behind the back of his head while Mum and Jake look between us all, both of them frowning.

  “Come and sit down for a sec please, Mum,” I say.

  “Max, if you want to eat this dinner before you go back to the hospital, I need to get these potatoes in the oven,” she complains.

  “I’m not going back to the hospital. Come and sit down.” I’m not sure when I made the decision not to go back to the hospital, but I suddenly have no desire to be anywhere near Whitney or her family.

  With a huff, Mum dries her hands and sits at the table next to me. “What’s this?” she asks, eyeing the paternity results in my hand.

  “Before Whitney left, she told me that the affair with Gardener had been going on since before we were married, before Layla was conceived.”

  Mum looks from the piece of paper to me and frowns before her hand comes up to her mouth. “Oh, Max, no.” She shakes her head.

  “Fuck me! That woman’s a piece of work.” Jake steps forward and reads the results from over Mum's shoulder.

  “She’s mine, Mum. It’s okay. She’s mine.” I lean forward and brush away the tears streaming down her cheeks with my thumb.

  She throws her arms around my neck and pulls Layla and me in for a cuddle. “If that bitch lives through this, I’m gonna fucking kill her,” she whispers against my ear. And for the first time in days, I allow myself to smile.

  Max

  Sitting in what is quite possibly the world’s most uncomfortable chair, I watch my wife sleep. It’s been five days since her surgery, three days since she was brought out of the medically induced coma, and one week since she told me she was leaving me.

  I’d spoken to her dad on the phone briefly last night, and he’d told me Whit had asked him to call and ask me to visit her. The call had been awkward. Whit isn’t close to her parents, and I’ve barely ever spoken to them. Her dad apologised for his daughter's behaviour, and I agreed to come to the hospital but only on the condition that he, his wife, and Deana, Whitney’s sister, who’d travelled with them from the States, stay away and give us privacy.

  I have no clue what I’m gonna say to Whit, no clue what I even want to say or what I want her to say to me. I care about her because she’s my wife and the mother of my child. I still love her. But the way I love her now isn’t the same way I loved her last week. I love her now because of our shared history, but I’m no longer in love with her.

  I don’t think this is a knee-jerk reaction. I don’t think I’ve come to this conclusion out of spite, hurt, or anger. It’s just the way I feel.

  I’ve spent the past five days locked away from the world. I’ve kept the television and radio off, and stayed away from social media. And aside from a quick call from Jay, I’ve only spoken to Aaron, my mum, Mel, and my other bandmates. I relayed a message to Jerry via Aaron that I wouldn’t be putting out any kind of statement. Why should I? This was their mess to deal with, not mine.

  I’ve no idea what had been put out there, but the press had remained camped outside my house and had been calling my team and anyone else they could think of, asking for a statement from me.

  I’d refused.

  Fuck. Them.

  The press and I have never had the greatest of relationships. It was the one part of my career I loathed. I smashed up a few hotel rooms and was portrayed as one of the music industry’s bad boys. I grew up, stopped smashing up hotel rooms, and was still portrayed as a bad boy. It didn’t matter what the facts were, they reported whatever the fuck they wanted anyway.

  We were kids when we made it big. After years of playing for no one but our schoolmates at parties, we began to pack out pubs and bars. Before I’d turned twenty-one, we’d been picked up by Carnage Creations, signed a recording contract worth more zeros than I could comprehend, and we were heading for our first world tour.

  Like the name of our band, we were Young.

  We were Wild.

  And even before Jake came along, a lot of what we did was very, very, wrong. But we did it anyway.

  Cal met Mel on our first trip to the States. She was barely eighteen but joined us for the rest of our tour and was pregnant just six months later, but it didn’t slow us down. It took Cal’s dad, Pete, and stepmum, Lainy, being killed, leaving Cal to raise his seven-year-old half-sister, to do that. Cal had no choice but to grow up. He was just twenty-three and suddenly Dad to a two and a seven-year-old.

  So, I just got fucked up and into even more trouble on my own. I did all of the usual shit. I lived the sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle, but I was bored and lonely, which only led me to get into more trouble. Then Jake joined the band, and I had a new playmate. For a couple of years, things were crazy, out of control. Everything was done to excess until I was woken one morning in the bed of the wife of some lord, or laird, or whatever the fuck his title was, in the Scottish Highlands, by Lennon Layton pouring a bucket of freezing cold water over me.

  I was dragged back to London, admitted to Winslow House, and told to sort my shit out.

  Pictures had emerged of me in a toilet stall at s
ome London restaurant, fucking the daughter of the same lord whose wife’s bed I’d been dragged from by Len.

  I didn’t know the daughter.

  Didn’t know the mother.

  Didn’t know they were related.

  I’d had no clue how I ended up in Scotland.

  But ignorance is no form of defence, and I’d singlehandedly destroyed a family.

  Jake hadn’t been with me that night. Instead, he’d attended a party held by some reality TV wannabe in Los Angeles, and had drunkenly jumped from an upstairs window into the pool. He’d hit his head at some point, knocked himself out, and almost drowned.

  He was admitted to a similar clinic as the Winslow over in the States and was ordered to clean up his act or be fired from the band.

  Callum came to visit. I thought it was because he missed me, but when he walked into my room, smacked me in the mouth, and told me that was my final warning, and left, I realised how badly I’d fucked up. But it wasn’t until my mum came to see me, that I felt any real remorse for what I’d done, or for the way I’d been living my life. I’d never seen such a look of disappointment on her face.

  I’d never in my life felt so ashamed.

  My dad was a cheater. He’d left Mum for another woman—his best friend’s wife. They’d been like an aunt and uncle to me up until that point, their children like cousins, and then boom! All gone. No more shared holidays, Christmases, days out, but worse still, no more Dad. They fled to one of the Balearic Islands off the coast of Spain and opened a bar. He’d continued to pay the mortgage on our family home. He paid for my education and sent birthday and Christmas cards with cash every year until I was eighteen, but I’d not seen him once since the day he walked out the door.

  I didn’t want to be him. I didn’t want to be anything like him, and I never wanted to be the one responsible for that look on Mum’s face again.

  It was the hurt look she wore whenever my dad’s name was mentioned, and it was the same look of disappointment she expressed whenever the phone would ring on my birthday or at Christmas, and it wasn’t him calling.

  After Jake and I were released from rehab, things quietened down. I tried to be a good person. Aside from the occasional joint, there were no drugs. Instead of the copious amounts of vodka, there was only the odd beer. Apart from work-related social engagements, there was very little partying.

  It was a struggle. Partying and causing chaos is who I was. It was what the press, the public, and our fans expected. And no matter how I behaved, the picture painted of me was always a negative one.

  Player.

  Bad boy.

  Home wrecker.

  The good things never get reported. The charities we support, the surprise appearances we make at children's hospices around the country, none of that is ever mentioned. Not that we do it for recognition, it’s just the imbalance on what gets reported that pisses me off. I was so close to once again saying fuck it all and going back to my old ways.

  Then Whitney happened.

  And for over a year, I’d been happy.

  When she told me she was pregnant, I wanted to get married, do the right thing. Right for me. Right for Whit. Right for my unborn baby.

  Apparently, what I thought was reality, was a long fucking way from the truth.

  Whitney’s eyes flutter open as I remain motionless in my uncomfortable chair. She licks her lips and reaches for the call button at the side of her bed.

  I’d had her moved to the private patient unit at the hospital after her surgery. My mum wasn’t happy when I’d told Aaron to let her parents know I’d foot the bill, but I wasn’t an arsehole. I want her to make a full recovery so we can all move on with our lives. Besides, we have private health insurance, so why let her be a burden on the NHS purely out of spite?

  She closes her eyes and settles back into her pillow, still oblivious to the fact I’m there.

  The door opens, and a young female nurse walks in. Blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, blue eyes bright and a smile on her face.

  “Hey, you’re awake. What can I get you? How’s the pain?”

  “Have the doctors been round? I still can’t feel my right leg,” Whitney tells her.

  “They haven’t yet, no. Probably at around eleven. Is there something—”

  “Yes, I need more pain meds, and can you pass me my mirror and toiletry bag.”

  No please. No thank you. She's a bitch, and I actually feel embarrassed on my wife’s behalf for her bad manners.

  The nurse reaches for Whitney’s IV drip but pauses when she spots me. A rapid flush spreads across her chest, up her neck, and settles over her cheeks. Her hand rises to rest in the middle of her cleavage as she draws in a breath. “Oh, Mr Young, you made me jump. I didn’t know you were here.”

  Whitney’s head immediately turns my way, her hand shooting up to touch the bandage around her head. My heart momentarily hurts for her. My wife’s entire self-worth is validated by her looks, and despite recent revelations, I know her well enough to be sure that she’s hating me witnessing her like this.

  Her face is still bruised, but the colour has faded to various shades of yellow, light blue and green. The swelling has subsided considerably, and she’s at least recognisable now, unlike the last time I saw her almost a week ago.

  “Max, how long have you been here?” Her eyes dart to the nurse, then back to me.

  The nurse is adding something to Whitney’s IV line, and I remain silent as I watch her.

  “There, that should make you a little more comfortable. I’ll leave you in peace until the doctors get here.”

  She turns from Whitney and gives me a small smile.

  “Thanks,” I offer.

  Resting my elbow on the arm of the chair, I rub my index finger across my lips and observe my wife.

  The nurse leaves the room.

  My heart pounds.

  My stomach churns, and I feel sick.

  Whitney pulls stuff out of her toiletry bag while I watch her. Her eyes focused on anything but me.

  “You wanted to see me?” I speak first.

  “Yes,” her green eyes finally meet mine.

  “Why?”

  “Max, please . . .” She starts to cry.

  “Please what, Whit? Why’d you wanna see me? Last conversation we had, you apologised for not loving me enough, told me our daughter possibly wasn’t mine, and then you left me for Alix Gardener.”

  “Alix is dead.” She sobs.

  “I’m well aware of that. Lost control of his car while driving jacked up on coke and crack, and, if the police report is to be believed, receiving a blow job from you.” I recount the details I have allowed Aaron to share with me.

  She continues to sob. “Why are you being like this, Max?”

  “Being like what? Honest? Speaking the truth? Sorry, I forgot that’s not something you’re familiar with. But when most people . . . when most people have a conversation with someone they care about, they tell the fucking truth!” I stand and walk towards her bed. Tears stream down her face, but I honestly don’t give a fuck.

  Harsh? Fucking sue me.

  I didn’t come here planning to get angry, but fuck it, I am.

  “So, you finally gonna be honest and upfront for the first time in our piss-poor excuse for a relationship and tell me why you wanted me here, or am I gonna leave?”

  I don’t know how I manage to keep my voice low, but I do. What I’m unable to control, though, is the seething anger that has welled up inside me.

  “I need your help, Max, please, please don’t be like this. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  “Which part are you sorry for? The fact you lied? The fact you used me? That you cheated? Or that your fuck boy died?”

  She stares down into her lap and continues to cry.

  “I need somewhere to go while I recover. The doctors have said it could be months before I regain the full use of my legs, and for the foreseeable future, I won’t be able to fly.”

 
; “Where’d you need to fly to, Whit? Where’d you think you’re gonna go?”

  Her lips are dry and cracked, she still has a split that’s not entirely healed on the top one, and I watch her tongue flick out in an attempt to wet them. There was a time that action would’ve made my dick hard. That time has passed. Right now, it doesn’t even twitch. The fact I’ve been sticking it in her while she was fucking that dirty junky makes me want to throw up.

  Aaron had suggested I get myself and Layla tested last week. I’d had to submit blood and urine, Layla just blood, listening to her screams when her heel was pricked is yet another reason Whitney is at the top of my shit list. Hearing my child cry in pain because of her is not something I will ever forgive her for.

  “Once I recover, or I’m at least well enough to fly, I want to go back to the States, back to California.”

  “You’re not leaving the country with my daughter. I don’t give a fuck where you go, but you’re not taking Layla.”

  “You can’t do that, you don’t even know if—”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do know. She’s mine, Whit. I paid a ridiculous amount of money to have a paternity test carried out as soon as you told me there was a possibility she might not be. She’s mine.” I stand and begin to pace around the large room, which, considering what I’m paying per night, should be three times the size.

  “I suggest you find yourself a brief, one who knows family law, because I’m filing for divorce as soon as we hit the one-year mark, and I’m petitioning for full custody of Layla.”

  Whit presses herself back into her pillows, her eyes wide, mouth hanging open as she stares at me in disbelief for a few moments.

  Why the fuck she’d be shocked at this news, is beyond me. What exactly did she expect me to do, hand her my daughter and wish them a happy life?

  Well, fuck that!

  “No. No, Max, you can’t do that.” She leans forward in her bed, her arms spread wide, palms up, begging.

  “Why can’t I?”

  “What about me?” She pats both her hands against her chest and asks. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t stay here; I need to go home.”

  “You can have access to Layla, but you won’t be leaving the country with her.”