Page 21 of All the Forbidden Things
Pictures had emerged of me in a toilet stall at some London restaurant, fucking the daughter of the same lord whose wife’s bed I’d been dragged from by Len.
I didn’t know the daughter.
Didn’t know the mother.
Didn’t know they were related.
I’d had no clue how I ended up in Scotland.
But ignorance is no form of defence, and I’d singlehandedly destroyed a family.
Jake hadn’t been with me that night. Instead, he’d attended a party held by some reality TV wannabe in Los Angeles, and had drunkenly jumped from an upstairs window into the pool. He’d hit his head at some point, knocked himself out, and almost drowned.
He was admitted to a similar clinic as the Winslow over in the States and was ordered to clean up his act or be fired from the band.
Callum came to visit. I thought it was because he missed me, but when he walked into my room, smacked me in the mouth, and told me that was my final warning, and left, I realised how badly I’d fucked up. But it wasn’t until my mum came to see me, that I felt any real remorse for what I’d done, or for the way I’d been living my life. I’d never seen such a look of disappointment on her face.
I’d never in my life felt so ashamed.
My dad was a cheater. He’d left Mum for another woman—his best friend’s wife. They’d been like an aunt and uncle to me up until that point, their children like cousins, and then boom! All gone. No more shared holidays, Christmases, days out, but worse still, no more Dad. They fled to one of the Balearic Islands off the coast of Spain and opened a bar. He’d continued to pay the mortgage on our family home. He paid for my education and sent birthday and Christmas cards with cash every year until I was eighteen, but I’d not seen him once since the day he walked out the door.
I didn’t want to be him. I didn’t want to be anything like him, and I never wanted to be the one responsible for that look on Mum’s face again.
It was the hurt look she wore whenever my dad’s name was mentioned, and it was the same look of disappointment she expressed whenever the phone would ring on my birthday or at Christmas, and itwasn’thim calling.
After Jake and I were released from rehab, things quietened down. I tried to be a good person. Aside from the occasional joint, there were no drugs. Instead of the copious amounts of vodka, there was only the odd beer. Apart from work-related social engagements, there was very little partying.
It was a struggle. Partying and causing chaos is who I was. It was what the press, the public, and our fans expected. And no matter how I behaved, the picture painted of me was always a negative one.
Player.
Bad boy.
Home wrecker.
The good things never get reported. The charities we support, the surprise appearances we make at children's hospices around the country, none of that is ever mentioned. Not that we do it for recognition, it’s just the imbalance on what gets reported that pisses me off. I was so close to once again saying fuck it all and going back to my old ways.
Then Whitney happened.
And for over a year, I’d been happy.
When she told me she was pregnant, I wanted to get married, do the right thing. Right for me. Right for Whit. Right for my unborn baby.
Apparently, what Ithoughtwas reality, was a long fucking way from the truth.
Whitney’s eyes flutter open as I remain motionless in my uncomfortable chair. She licks her lips and reaches for the call button at the side of her bed.
I’d had her moved to the private patient unit at the hospital after her surgery. My mum wasn’t happy when I’d told Aaron to let her parents know I’d foot the bill, but I wasn’t an arsehole. I want her to make a full recovery so we can all move on with our lives. Besides, we have private health insurance, so why let her be a burden on the NHS purely out of spite?
She closes her eyes and settles back into her pillow, still oblivious to the fact I’m there.
The door opens, and a young female nurse walks in. Blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, blue eyes bright and a smile on her face.
“Hey, you’re awake. What can I get you? How’s the pain?”
“Have the doctors been round? I still can’t feel my right leg,” Whitney tells her.
“They haven’t yet, no. Probably at around eleven. Is there something—”
