Page 74 of All the Forbidden Things
“Of course,” I say instead.
Cal gives a nod of approval. “Okay, I’ll let Mel know.” He stands, gives me a chin lift, kisses both Billie and Layla, and says, “See ya later, kid,” before leaving out of the back door.
We order Chinese, share abottle of red, and once again, talk about everything and nothing. Billie has a tattoo behind each of her ears that I’d not noticed until today. A treble clef symbol sits behind one ear, a bass clef behind the other, and I question her about them.
“They’re just little reminders of my parents,” she tells me while lying flat on her back, taking up half the length of my sofa. “Not that I need a reminder. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about them. It’s like, with those little symbols, they’re always there, close by, kinda watching over me.”
She turns her head to face where I’m sitting in the armchair, my right ankle resting on my left knee, elbow on the arm of the chair, my fist propping up my chin. A million and one song lyrics I could write about her fill my head. “I’m sure that’s what they are doing.”
I watch her chest move as she lets out a long, slow breath.
“Who knows? Do you think thereisan afterlife?I’mnot sure. I mean, it’s a nice idea, but I’m not sure. Unless someone comes to me with absolute hard proof, I’ll remain sceptical.”
She’s quiet for a few moments while I continue to take her in. I enjoy the silence. I feel content that it happens and doesn’t feel awkward, that she’s comfortable lying sprawled out on my sofa the way she is and talking to me about her parents.
“Can I ask you a question?” She swings her legs around and sits up before tucking them underneath her and settling herself into the corner of the sofa.
“Go for it,” I respond.
“Do you have any contact with your dad?”
Now it’s my turn to blow out a breath. No one’s asked me about Mike Young in a very long time. It’s been a while sinceI’vereally given him any thought.
“Nope. He paid for my education and the cost of raising me, but until we won our first Grammy, aside from Christmas and birthday cards and presents, I didn’t hear a word from him after he walked out the door and left us. Not a phone call, not a letter. Just cards that said: ‘To Max, happy birthday, Dad’.”
“Wow, all that time you got nothing andthenhe had the cheek to reach outafteryou won the Grammy?”
I nod. “He left a note for me at the Four Seasons. Said that he happened to be in town on business and did I want to meet up for drinks the following night.”
“And did you?”
“I didn’t make it back to my room till four the following afternoon. I was partying a lot those days. It was right before my last stint in rehab.” I feel the need to explain. “I didn’t notice the note, didn’t wake up till three the next morning, showered, and went back out to party again. I finally saw the envelope propped against the phone on the desk about four days later.”
“What did you think? When you read it, I mean?”
I pull on my bottom lip and give a sardonic laugh. “I cried,” I admit.
“Max.” She breathes out my name like a sigh.
I shake my head in an attempt to banish the emotion. “I’ve never told anyone that,” I tell her honestly. “I was a mess at the time anyway. The note from him just tipped me over the edge. It hurt. Hurt to think that I hadn’t been good enough until that point.”
Scared that my eyes will be brimming with all that I’m feeling, I slide my gaze around the room, letting it land anywhere except on her. “It still hurts, that rejection. I stayed high and drunk for a week, didn’t leave my hotel room and missed a couple of interviews and appearances. Cal and Lennon turned up at the Four Seasons, dragged me back to London kicking and screaming, and checked me straight into Winslow House … That was for my first stay, I don’t even want to remember the second time.”
I could’venotbrought it up, but I don’t want to hide my past from her. Besides, I’m sure she’s aware of the whole sordid tale.
“The mother and daughter escapade?” She smiles and shakes her head as she asks.
I cover my face with both my hands. “Yeah, that escapade,” I admit.
She chews on her bottom lip before asking, “Are you an addict?”
This time, my eyes land squarely on hers. “No,” I state emphatically. “I was a fucking mess, and I needed to get my shit together, but I’m neither an alcoholic nor an addict. Things just got out of control for a while. Yeah, I’ve been to rehab a couple of times, but I’ve never been treated for addiction, never had withdrawals.” I swipe my hand around the room palm up. “You’ve seen how I live my life now, a glass or two of wine with my dinner, maybe a brandy if I have people over, but I’m the single dad of a two-month-old baby. She’s my priority now, not getting off my chops.”
I don’t want her to think that I’m some kind of junky loser because that’s not who I am or ever was. I just partied a little too hard, for too long, back in the day. Although I’m ashamed of my behaviour back then, it’s also part of what’s made me the man I am today, somebody Layla will hopefully grow up to be proud of.
Thankfully, Billie chooses to steer the conversation in a different direction. “It’s beyond me, ya know, how someone could just give up a child like that. I’m not even a parent, and I can’t fathom it. The worst part about what happened with Michael Bosworth is losing daily contact with Oliver and Amelia.”
“You were assaulted, had your bones broken and a gun held to your head, and the worst part is missing the kids?” I question.
