All the Forbidden Things

by Jones, Lesley

  She gives me a quick, and very gentle squeeze.

  “Well, let’s get you dressed, make you feel human, and you can put on my new boots and kick every misogynistic arsehole you come across today with them. They’re perfect for dick kicking.”

  “I don’t think I can raise my leg high enough to kick anyone’s dick with the way my ribs still hurt. Besides, I thought we were going to Max’s house? He might behave like a dick sometimes, but I’m not sure I’d call him a misogynist.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d call Max. He was my very first crush. I’d had every detail of our wedding planned, designed the house we’d buy, and named the children and dogs we’d one day have by the time I was eight-years-old. Then we’d all gone away together on holiday to Ibiza. I was around ten or eleven and going through my awkward, angry stage. I’d suddenly gained weight and had a mouth full of metal. He’d bought some woman along, Heidi or Hannah, some H name or another, all fake, perfect tits, long blonde hair, and legs that were as tall as me at the time. I was reclusively hiding out on the balcony of my room one morning, reading a book, when I heard her saying to Max that it was unfortunate, after everything else I’d been through, that I’d also been beaten with the ugly stick. She went on and on in her annoying German or whatever accent, telling him how hard it would be for me growing up because not only was I fat but also ginger, with a mouth full of metal.

  In Max’s defence, he did tell her that he was chubby with braces at the same age, to which she’s countered with, “But at least you weren’t ginger.”

  I didn’t hang around to find out what he said next. I went back to my room and cried. I didn’t leave it for three days, feigning period pain. After that trip, I’d made it a point to avoid him, which of course, wasn’t something I could always do.

  The next time I saw Max, the H name had been replaced with another pair of legs and tits, equally as beautiful. He mentioned my hair and said I reminded him of Bamm-Bamm from the Flintstones. I corrected him, stating that Bamm-Bamm was the boy, and Pebbles was the girl. I also called him Wilma and flipped him a fuck you gesture. The names Bamm and Wilma stuck for the rest of the holiday.

  I wonder now if he’ll even remember that, but then I recall Cal saying something about it when I was in the hospital and barely conscious, my response, as usual, being something along the lines of, “Tell Wilma to go fuck himself.”

  I’d attended a Hollywood party he was at a few years ago, but I left before seeing him, and anticipation of once again being in the presence of Max Young has been building the last few days, to the point where I now feel like my insides are vibrating.

  Once Kenzie has helped me dress and put on the boot’s she’s lent me, I take in the reflection looking back at me from the full-length mirror in my wardrobe.

  Black, ripped jeans, a green slouchy sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, and green sued biker boots. I was wearing minimal make-up, just enough to cover the bruising to my cheek. It had faded to a pale yellow colour and was barely noticeable amongst my freckles.

  I’ve added a dusting of highlighter over my BB covered cheekbones and swiped nude gloss over my lips.

  I feel stupid for being so nervous, “It’s just Max,” I tell my reflection. Just Max, the standard I’d compared all other men to. Him being a rock star had nothing to do with my crush as a kid, they were ten-a-penny in my young life, he was the object of my affections before I even really understood what he did for a living, and as much as I’d spent the last ten years trying to deny my feelings, I knew as soon as I saw him in the flesh, they’d all come rushing back.

  Just a mention of his name online, the telly or radio had my skin heating and my heart beating a staccato in my chest, so fuck knows how I’d react to seeing him today. I let out a loud groan as I examine the fishtail plait Kenzie has styled my hair in. It hangs over the shoulder not exposed by my sweatshirt, and I love it. I’d been genetically blessed with the thick, glossy red hair of my mother, and as much as I hated it as a kid, I’d grown to love it as an adult.

  As they always do, tears burn my eyes as I think about my mum, which lead to thoughts of my dad. I kiss the tips of each of my index fingers and tap them against each of the tattoos I have in their memory behind my ears.

  “You’ve got this,” I unconvincingly tell my reflection.

  I’ve had to fight a lot of battles in my life. I’ve fought a lot of demons so as not to lose sight of me, the Billie my parents would want me to be, the Billie I want to be, but Max Young, he might just be my nemesis.

  Max

  I’m half-sitting, half-lying on the beanbag in my soundproof studio above the garage next to my house. We’re due to start recording the new album in February. We already have fourteen tracks, but in the weeks since my life went to shit, I’ve written four more.

  My music has saved me from going out of my mind and overthinking every decision I make and action I take. Lyrics, chords, riffs, I’ve worked on them all. Jake’s been here most days working with me, and it’s been interesting watching his interactions with my daughter—he’ll make a great dad one day, one day when he decides to stop being a kid himself.

  Layla is currently swaddled and sleeping soundly in her crib beside me. I wouldn’t usually bring her over here because of the noise, but my mum went home to her place in Kent on Thursday. She’s been staying almost every night for weeks but had an engagement planned for this weekend that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, cancel.

  I strum my guitar and watch my daughter sleep while wearing her purple, noise-reducing headphones. Jake’s playing the piano, as we try to work out the chorus for a song I wrote on Friday.

  “It needs to be a little faster,” Jake calls out to me.

  “It’s a ballad,” I protest.

  He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think it should be. Lemme show you. Listen to this.” He moves from the piano to the drums and starts to tap out a rhythm much faster than the one I’d had going on in my head. I pick up the pace of what I’m playing on my guitar and move my head to the beat.

  “I like it, it works,” I tell him.

  He slides back behind the piano and hits the keys harder and faster. I sing along, but the lyrics aren’t quite right now that the tempo has changed, so I put my hand up for him to stop then reach for my notepad.

  As the piano quiets, Layla gives a loud wail and wriggles to free her arms. I watch with amusement as Jake peers into her crib.

  “Did I wake her? Was that too loud?” He sounds panicked as he asks, and I wish I had my phone nearby to capture the moment.

  “She’s fine,” I reassure him. “The headphones don’t cancel out all the noise, but they go a long way to protecting her eardrums. I think she’s gonna be one of those kids who can sleep through anything.”

  He nods, still staring down at Layla. “So where’s your mum gone this weekend?”

  “Not sure. Weekend away somewhere.”

  “She got a bloke?”

  I look up from my pad, my pencil hovering over the page, and shrug.

  “You don’t know, or don’t wanna know?”

  I scratch at my beard and slide my gaze back to the words in front of me. “Both,” I admit.

  “She’s fucking fit, your mum. I’d bang her.”

  “I’ll bang your head right through that fucking wall you talk about my mum like that again,” I warn.

  Jake blows out a breath with enough force to move the fringe of his dirty blond hair, which is currently sticking up all over the place. “Chill, fam. I was just saying your mum’s a good-looking woman.”

  “Well, how about you just don’t.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m going outside for a fag.”

  “Shut the door behind you and wash your hands after. Told you before, I don’t want your faggy fingers near my daughter. Maybe, for Layla’s sake, you might think about giving that shit up.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Maybe I’ll do that when you let me take your mum out.”

  “I’ll fucki
ng take you out . . . permanently if you don’t shut that pretty boy mouth of yours,” I threaten.

  He grins at me, and his blue eyes shine. “Try it, Grandad.”

  “Fuck off.”

  I watch his shoulders shake as he heads towards the door.

  I finish making the changes needed and start strumming and singing along to my guitar. The front door opens, and I watch Jake come back through. I reach up quickly and snatch the packet of Silk Cut cigarettes he throws at me.

  “Keep hold of them, and this,” he tosses his lighter in my direction, “I’m giving up.” He nods as if to add to the conviction in his voice.

  “What brought that on?” I ask.

  He turns his gaze to Layla and stares down at her. “My aunt smoked forty a day for as long as I can remember. She was only forty-eight when she died. I wanna be around to see Layla piss you off when she brings home her first boyfriend, come’s home drunk and throws up everywhere, and gets caught bunking off school and getting stoned in a field somewhere.”

  I raise my brows and stare at him for a few seconds. Jake was raised by his aunt after his mum done a runner when he was just two-years-old.

  “You better plan on living till you’re a hundred and fifty, then, coz Layla will never, ever, be doing any of those things.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he calls out while heading towards the bathroom to wash away the smell of cigarette smoke.

  I carry on playing, but his words have given me an idea for lyrics to a new song, and I stop to write them down.

  “When’s Whitney coming home?” he asks on his return.

  “Next Monday.”

  My soon to be ex-wife has been transferred to a spinal injury rehabilitation unit in Buckinghamshire. She has a little over another week there before coming back here.

  She still can’t walk, but her doctors are convinced the paralysis is only temporary and that her legs will eventually work again. She’s regained enough sensation below the waist to now have control of her bowel and bladder, and she’s able to wiggle her toes, but as yet, no walking.

  I’ve had the builders here working on the room that will be Whitney’s. Half of my study has been added to the formal dining room, and the space has been converted into a bedroom with an en suite big enough to meet her needs.

  Whit’s sister, who’s a physio, will be moving in and sharing a room with her, and I’ve arranged with an agency for a nurse to come in as often as required.

  “So, what’s gonna happen, with you two, I mean?”

  Jake hits a couple of keys on the piano, but I don’t look up from my guitar as I consider my answer.

  “Divorce,” I offer, sticking my pencil behind my ear as I strum out a few chords.

  “Don’t blame ya. I wouldn’t even have her back here till she’s better if she was my missus and had done what she’s done.”

  I scribble out a couple of words and add a few more. Shoving the pencil between my teeth, I pluck randomly at my guitar strings. Talking about Whit is messing with my writing mojo.

  “She’s Layla’s mum. What do I tell my daughter when she gets older, that I kicked out her mum when she had nowhere to go?”

  “If you told her why, explained that her mum was a lying, cheating—”

  “I won’t brainwash my child into hating her mother. If I’ve raised her right, she’ll work things out for herself and realise what Whit’s all about. Besides, she might change by then, redeem herself in some way.”

  “Yeah, and a whole new runway might be needed at Heathrow for the taking off and landing of all the pigs that might be flying by then . . . but I highly doubt it.”

  I don’t bother to respond, mostly because he’s probably right, and instead comb my fingers through my hair and push it back off my face.

  “You need a haircut.”

  “Thanks for the grooming advice, Vidal. I need a lot of things right now, hair cut being the least of them.”

  “Getting laid should be at the top. Get a babysitter, and I’ll take you out with me tonight, get you hooked up, and you can fuck Whitney right out of your system.”

  I do, seriously, urgently, need a fuck. But just the thought of going to a club or a bar and putting myself out there makes my dick shrivel.

  “Can’t. Cal and Mel will be over later. Mel’s cooking dinner.”

  “Wow, thanks for the invite, ol’ buddy, ol’ friend.”

  I finally raise both my eyes and my brows to look at him. “If you hadn’t finished off all my vodka and smoked that joint last night, you might remember me telling you about it, Princess Jakealina.”

  He closes his eyes, and his mouth falls open. “Ugh.”

  “Yeah, ugh. Coming back to ya now, is it?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I blame you, though, I had to drink and smoke alone.”

  “I have a fucking kid to look after.”

  He hits a few notes before shocking the shit out of me with, “Yeah, ya do. And a fucking great job you’re doing at it as well. If I had one, I’d give it all up to do the right thing like you are.”

  My skin feels hot, and I have to squeeze my words out around the tightness in my throat. “Thanks, Jake. It’s not the way I thought my life would go, but it has, and I’m just trying to do the right thing by my daughter. I would love a night off to get drunk, smoke a little weed, and fuck, but, right now, Layla’s my priority. I want full custody,” I admit. “I’ve never exactly been portrayed as a role model by the press, so I don’t want to hand them any more ammunition and fuck up my chances of keeping her with me.”

  “You need to get a nanny, a really fit Swedish or French nanny.”

  I shake my head, but he’s right, I do need to think about taking on someone to help me with Layla. My studio has a self-contained flat adjoining it, I could easily have someone live in full-time, so I can work.

  “What I need is a capable nanny. Someone I can trust. I don’t care what they look like . . . but nice legs and a great pair of tits would be a bonus,” I admit.

  “Watch yourself. You’ll have feminists and the Nanny’s Union after you if they hear you talking like that.” Jake uses air quotes as he speaks, and I grin at him.

  I scratch my head and then shake it. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m a thirty-eight-year-old father of a baby girl who sounds more like a fifteen-year-old schoolboy. Fuck! You’re sounding more grown up than I am right now.”

  I get hit in the side of the head by the drumstick he throws at me. I throw it back, he catches it, and we both smile.

  “Dude, it’ll all work out in the wash. You’re gonna be fine, we’re all gonna be fine.”

  “I fucking hope so, we need some happy times around here.”

  “It’ll happen. I can feel it in my bones. How’s Cal’s sister doing? I’ve not really spoken to him since they got back.”

  “Better than he’d hoped. Her physical injuries are healing, but it was the mental ones he was worried about.”

  “Yeah, poor kid’s been through a lot.”

  “She has.”

  “How old is she now? I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “About twenty, I think. It’s been a while since I last saw her.”

  We’re both quiet for a few seconds, and I think about Cal’s little sister, Billie, and the last time I saw her. It must be about five years ago. She was a cute little kid, short like Cal and his dad but has red hair and freckles like her mum.

  “Anyway,” Jake interrupts my thoughts, “I’m gonna shoot home and shower and change my clothes. I’ll be back later to enjoy Mel’s culinary delights.”

  “Okay, we can go through the new tracks with Cal then.”

  He nods slowly then leaves without another word. I carry Layla back over to the house, feed her, change her nappy, then spend an hour on the treadmill trying to run off some of my frustrations as Layla’s arms and legs move almost in sync with mine and the music I blast while running.

  I’d dressed Layla in an outfit Mel and Cal had bought for her. A little cream-colou
red dress with pink bows printed on the fabric. It came with a soft pair of matching shoes, coordinating pink tights, and a headband thing, which was just one massive bow about twice the size of her little head. My kid had never looked cuter—nobody’s daughter had ever looked cuter, and I spent at least twenty minutes earlier, taking photos of her.

  “Just wait till Auntie Mel sees you, bug, all done up in your pretty dress.”

  Layla’s head jerks back before coming to rest on my shoulder, and her little hand grips onto my beard and refuses to let go.

  With the house tidy and the baby fed, I put on some music and dance around as I sing into Layla’s ear. Keane’s “Somewhere Only We Know” is blasting through the speakers when my gate alarm sounds.

  There are only a limited number of people who know the code, so I assume it’s Cal arriving a few minutes early. But because of my paranoia, caused by the press intrusion I’ve experienced lately, I go to my back door, which is where all my friends enter my house, open it, and check just in case.

  Mel’s four-wheel-drive Lexus crunches over the gravel towards the side of my house. The strange sensation I’ve had in my gut all day spreads to my skin, causing it to prickle and my hairs to stand on end. It’s not fear or dread, more an awareness.

  I’ve not seen Cal or Mel since they returned from the States. Like me, they’ve been laying low and waiting for the press interest in both our stories to subside, which, thankfully, it appears to have done over the past few days. There’s only one photographer currently camped along my street, and I think he’s only there to try to get the first images of Layla.

  Cal steps out of the driver's side and walks around the front of the car to meet up with Mel as each of the back doors open.

  Makenzie appears from the back passenger side and immediately shrieks, “Gah, baby!” and passes her parents as she moves swiftly towards me.

  She met Layla just after she was born, but that’s been the only time.

  “Oh my god, she’s grown. Look at all that hair. She’s just too cute.” Kenzie leans in and kisses the top of Layla’s head. “Maximus, good to see you’re only human and have let yourself go since becoming a parent. You’re totally rocking the Dad bod.” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek.