Page 91 of All the Forbidden Things
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 forThanksgiving. 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, itisyou.”
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 overemphasisemyhusbandormydaughter,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 toldmethatyouwere 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 thatmorning, 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.”
