Page 16 of All the Forbidden Things
Aaron drops me off athome at around three in the morning. I’m so I tired I can barely hold my head up, and it’s a struggle to walk to the front door. The hallway’s dark, but I can see a faint glow coming from the kitchen. I head in that direction and find the LED’s that run under the wall cupboards switched on.
The kitchen’s empty, but I exhale a short breath, and some of the tension leaves my shoulders when I see that my mum has waited up for me and is currently curled into the corner of my sofa in the family room, reading from her Kindle.
I watch her for a while before she senses me and looks up. She springs to her feet and heads in my direction.
“Oh, Max. How is she? I thought you would’ve called or messaged; I’ve been so worried.” She wraps her arms around my waist.
I wrap mine around her shoulders and breathe her in. The Body Shop’s white musk perfume and Nivea face cream—my mum.
A ball of emotion lodges in my throat, but I manage to swallow it down.
“Let me make you a drink. Are you hungry? Tea, coffee?”
“I’ll be pinging off the walls if I drink any more coffee. I’m knackered, Mum, and really need to be able to sleep, but thanks,” I croak out. Exhaustion apparent in the rasp of my voice.
Mum takes a step back without breaking contact and looks up at me. “You look shattered.” Her hand comes up and attempts to brush my too-long hair from my face.
“I am. How’s Layla been? You didn’t need to wait up for me.”
She tuts and pulls away. “Go sit at the table. I’ll make you some warm milk. Layla’s fine, sleeping in her crib.” She gestures to the living room. “And I’m your mother, of course, I waited up,” she finishes.
While my mum pulls out a saucepan and busies herself warming me some milk, I check on my daughter. Her little fists are bunched at either side of her head as she sleeps soundly. I lean in, kiss her gently on the cheek, and run my nose through her hair, breathing in her baby scent. I’m tempted to lift her into my arms and hold on to her for dear life, but I know my mum is likely to slap me if I wake my sleeping daughter.
I wander back to the kitchen and sit myself down at the table.
“You want Ovaltine or just milk?” Mum asks, and I smile, too tired to remind her that I’m the thirty-eight-year-old lead singer of one of Britain’s biggest bands, and no longer drink Ovaltine. I’ve been to rehab for fucks sake.
Twice.
“Just milk.”
She brings two mugs over to the table and sits opposite me, placing one in front of each of us.
“So, Mel messaged to say Whitney was stable but had been transferred to the Stanmore?”
I correct her. “The Royal Orthopaedic.”
“Yeah, it was just the Stanmore back in the day. And what have they said there? What happened? Her car’s in the garage, so who’s car was she in?”
My eyes feel gritty, as though they have sand in them, and I attempt to blink the feeling away as I stare down at my drink and consider what I want to say to my mum. I’m far too tired to lie, so I opt for the truth.
“The day before the accident, Whitney left me for Alix Gardener—”
“What? Who? Who’s Alix Gardener? Your manager?”
“His son.”
“His son? The drug addict? I thought he was only about twenty?”
I keep my head down but raise my eyes to meet my mum’s. “Yeah, yeah, and twenty-something, so yeah.”
“Max . . .”
The anguish in her voice causes tears to burn my eyes, not because I’m still cut up about Whitney leaving me but because I’m only too aware how much this is going to upset Mum. I’ve spent the last few hours at the hospital, trying to process my feelings, and all I feel towards Whitney is pity and resentment. I’m also really fucking angry with her.
“Oh, Max. Why didn’t you call me?”
“What could you have done, Mum?”
