“Sorry, Pete, ignore that,” I say to my ceiling. I’m not even religious, and I’m not even sure if I believe in heaven or god or any of that, but if any of it does happen to be true, I’m pretty sure I’ll be going to hell when the time comes.
Billie
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Deana is coming along the hallway.
“Oh my god! Is this Layla?”
I want to be sarcastic and tell her it’s some random kid I snatched off the street or an orphan I’ve just adopted from Russia, but then I remember she’s half Russian, and even though what I’m saying might be a little true, I decide it might also be a tad inappropriate. So, instead, I play nice, while holding Layla protectively against me a little tighter. “Yeah, I’ve just got her off to sleep.”
“Could I have a little hold? I’ve only ever seen photos and videos.”
“I don’t think—”
“Maybe take her in to see Whit? She’s having a bad day, and it might just be the pick-me-up she needs.”
“All of that is something you need to discuss with Max.”
She might be tall, blonde, tanned, good-looking, and at least ten-years-older than I am, but I’m pretty sure Max will give a categorical no to her request. So, I refuse to be intimidated by any of that, and until I’m told otherwise, that’ll also be the response she gets from me.
“What will she need to discuss with Max?” Max says from behind me.
I look over my shoulder and take in the man himself coming down the stairs in bare feet, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt with a grandad collar.
Jeans and bare fucking feet.
Bloody hell, the circus show in my belly starts up again as Max comes to a stop on the step behind me, his front brushing my back, his breath close enough to move my hair.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I was just asking . . .”
I turn back towards Deana and can’t miss her narrow-eyed glare and the way her green eyes dart between Max and me.
Max’s mum, Karen, comes through the laundry door into the hallway and says, “She asked if she could take Layla in to see Whitney.” She tilts her chin up and raises her brows while looking Deana up and down.
“I . . . I just thought it might brighten Whit’s day is all.”
“Answer’s no, same as yesterday, Deana. I’ll take Layla in to see Whit later today.”
He taps my hip before moving his hand to the small of my back, urging me forward. Ignoring the goosebumps erupting over my skin at his touch, I follow Karen and make my way along the hallway to the kitchen.
“I trust that one about as much as I trust her sister,” Karen says as soon as we enter the room. She hasn’t been here the past couple of days, and I know she’ll be desperate for Layla cuddles, so I hand her straight over.
“I think her nappy needs changing,” I tell Karen before handing her over.
“Pfft, I don’t care about that, do I, missy?” she coos to Layla, who is clearly wide-awake. “I thought you were sleeping, or was that Billie telling fibs so the wicked stepsister couldn’t run away with you?”
Layla’s legs are working furiously as her mouth opens and closes in response to what Karen’s saying to her.
“I may have fibbed just a little bit,” I admit. “There’s no way anyone will be running away with Layla on my watch.”
“Too bloody right.”
I set about making bottles for the day and a cup of tea for Karen and leave her to enjoy her one-way conversation with her granddaughter.
“You wanna cup of tea?” I ask Max when he enters the room.
“I’ll make myself a coffee thanks.” He keeps moving towards me and asks, “You okay? She say anything else to you?”
He’s close, too close for a boss having a conversation with his employee, but not close enough for my liking. He leans his hip against the worktop beside me as I pour hot water into Layla’s bottles, his front brushing against the side of my arm.
“No, she asked if she could hold her then if she could take her in to see Whitney. I told her she’d only just gone off to sleep and that she’d have to check with you before doing either of those things.” I put the kettle back on its base and look up at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just can’t wait to get away from here.”
I give him a smile. “Me too.”
“You’re going away?”
We both turn to Karen, who I’d totally forgotten was there.
Her gaze scans me from head to toe before settling on Max, the blue of her eyes sparkling as her lips pull up into a small smile. “Where are you going away to?”
“Jay and Marnie’s, next week,” Max offers before putting his index finger up to his lips, gesturing for his mum to hush.
“You got nappies and clean clothes over at yours?” he asks me.
“Yeah, but no milk or coffee.”
“Take what you need from here and let’s go there.”
Max packs the bottles I made into an insulated bag, I grab a box of coffee pods and some milk, and the four of us head out so he can catch his mother up on everything that’s happened.
“We’re going to Jay’s for Thanksgiving. It was just supposed to be for the weekend, but Len and Aaron think that maybe I should stay longer.”
“Why?” Karen asks.
“You’ve seen the shitshow going on at my front gate, plus, I just can’t be around her, Mum. I don’t wanna be under the same roof as that woman, and I don’t want Layla around her.”
I leave Max to explain to his mum why we’re going to Jay and Marnie’s, as Karen bathes Layla in my sink. As I lay out a clean nappy, and clothes for the baby on my bed, Max pulls out his phone, and starts videoing her bath time, and I realise I’ve left my phone over at the main house. Keeping my head down to avoid the reporters, I make a quick dash across the drive.
After searching the kitchen, I remember putting it down in the bedroom. Max then got me all hot, bothered and horny, and I must have forgot to pick it up.
I find it lying on the bedside table next to the bottle warmer. As I reach the top of the stairs, I come to a stop when I see Whitney sitting in a wheelchair at the bottom. My pulse thrums hard in my throat as I make my way down each step towards her. I’ve only ever seen her once in person, and that was over a year ago at some event in Los Angeles right before the band went on tour when she and Max had only just got together. I didn’t see him that night, only her.
I’d left shortly after arriving.
Whitney’s cat-like eyes stare up at me as I reach the bottom step. An insincere smile pulls her lips slightly to the right. The rest of her face doesn’t move, I don’t think it actually can, considering the amount of Botox it’s had pumped into it. She’s stunning, and I wonder why on earth she would do that to herself. Don’t get me wrong, when the time comes, I’ll be getting a little help from the injectables, too, but I can’t say the work Whitney’s had done has improved what Mother Nature blessed her with.
“Billie, it is you.”
The woman’s just lost her lover, is broke, and sitting in a wheelchair, so I avoid the usual very English response of, “you all right?” or “how are you?” Because, let’s face it, sucks to be her right now, and instead go with, “Hey.”
“Wow, it’s been so long.”
I give a small smile, unsure of how to respond since we’ve never actually been introduced.
“So, you’re working for my husband, right? Deana tells me you’re my daughter's nanny?”
She doesn’t overemphasise my husband or my daughter, but the fact she felt the need to drop them into the conversation hasn’t been lost on me.
“Heard what happened with your old boss,” she continues. “It was good of Max to take you in after such a public scandal.”
I bite. I wasn’t going to, but I do. “Well, you know Max. When he hears a sob story, he can’t help but get involved. It’s why he’s always helping out the homeless, those with disabilities, and those less fortunate than himself.
”
She sucks in her cheeks, which accentuates her cheekbones and makes her lips purse. Her eyes narrow before she gives me another disingenuous smile and says, “You really have grown up. Max always used to tell me you were a quiet, angry little thing who was overweight, had a face full of freckles, and a mouth full of metal.”
“And Max once told me that you were a supermodel . . . funny how time’s change.”
I give her my biggest brightest smile while swaying my hips and strutting my stuff as I move around her.
Once Karen leaves later that morning, Layla stays with me while Max heads into his studio. I decline his offer to cook me dinner that night and go to bed early and hungry. I needed some alone time. I didn’t want to let Whitney’s comments get to me, but they did. I hate that they did because I know she was just being spiteful and slinging her vitriol at anyone she could, but old hurts and insecurities, sometimes never go away.
That is why I’m glad to escape to the hair salon on Friday evening, even if Max does insist Micky drives me there and back.
“Text me when you're done, Spice,” Micky says, “and I’ll come get you. Wait inside, though, not out on the street.”
“Will do,” I assure him.
Micky has been the band's security for as long as I can remember. He used to take me to school and back when I first came to live with Cal and Mel after my parents died, and there was still a lot of press attention surrounding the story.
He used to call me Ginger Spice, which has been shortened to Spice over the years. Despite raising me, Cal will always be my big brother, not my dad, but Micky? He’d always been a father figure to me, and it wasn’t until I sat in the passenger seat next to him that I realised how much I’d missed him.
Once I stepped into the salon, I was greeted by a blonde with her hair in a nineteen-forties do. Her lashes were long, and her lips were red. The salon I’d been to numerous times in the past had obviously undergone a massive transformation in the four years since I’d last been there.
The blonde came out from behind the white marble counter, took my coat, and introduced herself as Norah before leading me to an area that looked more like a nightclub than a hair salon. More white marble serves as a bar, white leather stools in front, a mirrored wall with glass shelving full of hair product behind. Underneath the shelving are glass bar fridges filled with beer, wine, and prosecco, and at the far end stands an actual barman making cocktails for the two women sitting in front of him.
Cocktails . . . at a hair salon! I’d spent the last four years living in California where I’d seen many things, but I hadn’t seen this.
“If you’d like to take a seat, Freddie, our barman, will be with you shortly. I’ll let your stylist and technician know you’re here, and they’ll be out to consult soon. Meanwhile, relax. Oh, and the password for the free Wi-Fi has just been messaged to you.”
Norah leaves as I haul my short-arse up onto a barstool, pull out my phone, take a couple of pictures, and send them off to Dan and Kenzie. I think about sending one to Max, but I’m still pissed off that he’s said those things about me to Whitney.
Glam Dan: Where TF are you?
Me: Bombshell hair and beauty @ Belsize.
Glam Dan: What? They serve cocktails?
Me: Yep!
Glam Dan: That waiter is FAF. Gurl, I’m all over this.
“Hey, I’m Freddie. What can I get you tonight?” The waiter interrupts my texting as he places an antipasto platter and a small bowl of trail mix in front of me.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love an espresso martini, please.”
“Coming right up,” he assures me with a wink and a smile.
By the time Micky pulls up on the drive outside my little flat, I’m two espresso martinis and four glasses of prosecco in.
I also have fabulous hair and on-point brows and lashes.
The alcohol has me buzzing, and I’m feeling a little better about myself than when I left the house earlier.
Micky walks me to my front door and puts the key in the lock when I can’t seem to find it. He kisses my cheek and pulls the door closed behind him. I lean my back against it and wait until I hear his car pull off and the gates close behind him before I head back outside and across to the main house.
It’s only a little after eight, so I’m not expecting Max to be in bed, and I’m not sure if I want to get in, “borrow” a bottle of wine, and get out before he notices me, or if I’m hoping he catches me red-handed.
It’s not until I open the door to Max’s bar fridge, I remember I was supposed to text him when I got back from the salon. Pulling a bottle of prosecco out, I decide to go home, send the text, and invite him over. Closing the door quietly, I’m about to leave when I hear Max’s voice.
Moving to the hallway, I listen:
“Sit her up a bit more. She needs to be upright to bring up her wind.”
“I’ve got her, she’s fine … She’s all you, you know Max. I see nothing of me in her at all, which probably isn’t a bad thing,” Whitney says.
“She’s pretty long, so I’m thinking she’ll be tall like you.”
The voices are coming from Whitney’s room.
“Well, being tall won’t hurt her. Obviously, with our genes, she’ll grow up beautiful. If she’s tall, too, who knows, she might even become a model.”
It’s like a punch to the gut knowing he’s in there with Layla, the three of them together, playing at being a happy family.
I head back the way I came and start making my way through the laundry when Deana says behind me, “Oh, hey, Billie. What the hell you doing hiding out in the laundry?”
I plaster on a smile and turn around. Holding up the bottle, I move my index finger to my lips in a hush gesture. “I’m stealing Max’s wine. Don’t tell him. I’ll replace it tomorrow.”
“Of course . . . hey, would you like someone to share that with? I feel like I’m completely cockblocking those two.” She gestures behind her with her head. “Max has been in there with Layla all afternoon, and the conversation has been getting flirtier by the minute. I’m running out of ideas to make myself scarce.”
Bile burns my throat as the Kahlua from my martinis curdles in my belly with the bubbles from the prosecco I drank earlier, and I fight not to throw the messy combination back up.
“I’m actually going out.” I lie. “Turn right at the top of the stairs. The spare room is next to the family bathroom. Don’t use the one next to it, that’s Karen’s.”
I don’t wait for her response before heading back to my little flat, throw up into my toilet, clean my teeth, take off my make-up, and crawl into bed with only my newly cut and styled hair, my waxed and tinted brows, and my tinted lashes to witness me cry.
“You’re a stupid girl, Billie Wild, a stupid, stupid girl,” I whisper into the darkness while wondering how many times I’ll have to tell myself this before it finally sinks in. Max might not be interested in getting back with his wife, but he’s also not interested in me if he’s spent the day flirting with her, I just need to get my head around that.
Max
I laid Layla in her cot with her noise-reducing headphones covering her ears while I’d worked on something new all afternoon. I’d been hoping to share it with Billie after she got back from her hair appointment, but she hadn’t text for me to come over like she’d said she would. I’d heard the gate alarm sound, so I knew Micky had dropped her off, but her flat was in darkness when I looked out the back door.
She’s been off with me the last day or so, and I have no clue why. I fucking hate how much I’m missing her when she’s only across my driveway.
I decide I need a drink, so after a quick check on Layla, I go in search of a bottle.
Many years ago, I sat at a bar somewhere in Spain, maybe one of the islands, not the mainland, and, unsure of what I fancied drinking, asked the barman to make a suggestion. He poured me something called Cuarenta y Tres, or Forty-Three in English, and I’ve been a
fan ever since.
I fill a pint glass with ice, grab the bottle and a whisky tumbler from the cupboard, and turn to head back up the stairs, almost dropping the lot when I come face to face with Deana.
“Hey!” She aims the exact same smile as Whitney’s in my direction. “Wow, second person tonight I’ve caught creeping with bottles of liquor, is this an English thing?”
“I’m sorry?” I question in confusion.
“Billie was here earlier. She took some wine from your bar fridge, said she’d replace it tomorrow . . . needed it for the hot date she was going on tonight.”
My heart punches against my sternum so hard, I should be worried something might break—probably my heart.
“Billie had a date?”
“That’s what she said, and I gotta say, she looked ah-mazing! Her hair was fantastic.”
“Did she say who her date was with?” I’m not sure if I feel violent or like I want to puke.
“Nah. Just said she was heading over to the house of her hot date and didn’t wanna arrive empty-handed.”
I can’t think of anything to say in response. I’m numb.
What the fuck, Billie?
Two hours later, the song I’ve been working on all day is sounding good, and I’m on my fourth glass of Forty-Three. We hadn’t decided on a title for the new album yet, but with this song I’d just come up with it, “Autumn Sun” would be the title track.
I’d recorded my last run-through on my phone. So, after gently removing Layla’s headphones, I hold them to my ears and play it back so I can listen without waking her.
It’s good. Really good. I’m happy . . . with the song at least.
I shower, clean my teeth, pull on clean boxers, and climb into bed. Despite the alcohol, I can’t sleep. My jaw aches from being clenched for so long, my chest feels like it has a lead weight sitting on it, and my throat feels tight.
All the Forbidden Things Page 24
