Page 99 of All the Forbidden Things
Dan slides his arm across my shoulders and pulls me in for a cuddle. I rest my cheek on his chest, and he kisses the side of my head just as a man I’ve never seen before walks right up to our table and takes a photo of us on his phone.
“Fuck off, mate,” Dan tells him.
“Drink up, princess, time to go.”
Max
After not crashing till aftermidnight, I woke with the bottle of Forty-Three lying beside me and a starving Layla screaming from her cot, a little after six. And I’m totally ashamed to admit I was still drunk when I gave my daughter her first bottle of the day.
I feel like a fucking hypocrite. I’m going to court to fight for sole custody of Layla, declaring that Whitney is an unfit mother if I have to, and here I am, drinking myself into oblivion while my baby girl’s in my care.
Once I had Layla fed, and in a clean nappy, I crawled back into bed and slept until the crunch of tyres on my drive woke me again. From my bedroom window, I saw Billie climb into the Rover Micky was driving and watched them leave.
I showered, gave Layla a quick bath, dressed her in a clean outfit, fed her, and then lost my mind and called Micky. I knew she was in the car with him. I knew my call would be answered via the car’s Bluetooth system and she’d hear everything I said.
I was hoping Billie would answer my questions, that she’d take over the conversation and tell me she never went anywhere last night, that she didn’t have a hot date, and that she didn’t spend the night with another man. But as I paced my bedroom floor, gripping at my hair, she remained totally silent, letting Micky do all the talking. And now, I’m stressed the fuck out thinking that she’d already asked Micky to lie for her before I’d even called.
I sit on the edge of my bed and watch Layla kicking and gurgling at the mobile that Billie and I had chosen together and ordered online.
“Daddy’s a psycho, Layla. I’m sorry, baby girl, but you’ve really not been blessed with the best genes. Daddy’s a raving lunatic, and your mother’s a lying, cheating, neurotic, nymphomaniac, crack whore.” I shrug and shake my head as I talk. “Okay, I might’ve exaggerated about your mother, but she’s not a nice person.”
I can’t lie here all day, stressing over what Billie may or may not be doing, or who she may or may not be doing it with, and I do not want to be alone in the house with Whitney and her sister. I took Layla in to see Whit last night. I left it right up until five minutes before her bedtime so I wouldn’t have to stay long, and it all got a bit weird.
Whitney started flirting with me, and it creeped me the fuck out. I mean, what the fuck? She leaves me for a junkie she’s been fucking for months, years even, and she really thinks I’d be interested in going there again with her? The woman’s delusional.
My dick might be desperate to be dipped inside something warm, wet, and tight, but it’s definitely not Whitney’s warm, wet, tightness I want to be dipping it in. Not now. Not ever.
For over a year, that woman had me. I was hers, one hundred per cent invested in our relationship, our marriage, our family, and our lives together. I did my utmost to be the best husband and the best father, and she shit all over that. Never again will I be led around by my dick . . . says the man losing his shit overwhohis twenty-two-year-old nanny is spending the day with. I’ll rephrase that, never again will Whitney lead me around by my dick. Billie, though, she can drag me by my nut sack and pubes if she wants.
“Daddy’s a comedian.” I chuckle to myself as I wrap Layla in a blanket, gather up her headphones, baby change bag, my notebooks, and guitar. After grabbing a couple of bottles of formula from the fridge, I head over to my studio. At this rate, I’m gonna have a whole other album ready to go before we’ve even got the new one down. And it’s only when Layla starts to get fidgety that I realise it’s past three o’clock and I’ve been fucking around with riffs and lyrics for five hours.
“I’m sorry, hungry bug, I’m the worst dad ever today.”
Layla pulls up her knees, scrunches up her face, balls her fists and gives an angry little yell. I pull her in and blow raspberries onto the rolls around her neck, enjoying her scent, and the absolute comfort I get from simply holding her close. Aside from back slaps from my mates and pecks on the cheek from my mum and Mel, I’ve had very little physical contact with another human in weeks, and I’ve missed it. I don’t mean that in a sexual way, I mean, just a touch, a cuddle.
As I boil the kettle to heat Layla’s bottle, I’m overcome with a wave of loneliness. I’m the lead singer and guitarist for one of the world’s biggest bands, and here I am, planning on spending my Saturday night alone because I have no one I can call and talk to about what’s going on in my life.
I can’t call Cal because of Billie.
I can’t call Jake because of Cal and Billie.
I can’t call Jay because of Cal and Billie.
So, I settle on feeding my daughter, and singing “Autumn Sun,” to her, and she actuallydoesn’tcry.
Once Layla’s fed and rocking a clean nappy, out of boredom, I decide to go to Billie’s and set up the new cot we got for if the baby ever stays over at her place. I had it dropped there when it was delivered and promised I’d get it set up for her. It’s possibly a bit—a lot—creepy to do it while she’s not home, but I don’t want to go back to my place.
Luckily, I have a key on the set I have for the studio, but I press on the intercom first just to check the flat’s empty. I already know she’s not home because I would have heard the gate alarm sound, the gravel crunch, and possibly her front door close—sounds I may or may not have been listening out for most of the day.
As I head up the stairs, I’m enveloped in the scent of Billie. There’s a citrusy smell in the air from her perfume, a floral scent from the fabric softener Wendy buys, and I like that I smell the same scent on my and Layla’s skin too. Obviously spending too much time only in the company of my baby girl has me getting in touch with my feminine side because, fabric softener? How very fucking rock star.
Layla has crashed out against my chest in the short time it’s taken me to reach Billie’s, so I lay her in the corner of the sofa surrounded by cushions and open the large box the cot came in. The furniture we have in Layla’s room over at the house is all custom made, but I let Billie choose and order this online and, unfortunately, it’s flat packed.
I connect my phone to the sound system and play my music down low as I start reading through the instructions. The very first song up is “All I Want” by Kodaline, and like the absolute pussy I’m apparently turning into, a lump forms in my throat.
An hour later, I have lengths of white timber spread all over Billie’s living room floor, a pile of nuts, bolts, washers, and an Allen key, sitting on her coffee table, which, to make room, I’ve pushed over into a corner. What I don’t have is anything built. There’s a reason I was blessed with a decent singing voice, the ability to play guitar, and a love of music—I’m absolutely crap at anything else.
Except making beautiful babies.
