Page 43 of All the Forbidden Things
In Max’s defence, he did tell her that he was chubby with braces at the same age, to which she’s countered with, “But at least you weren’t ginger.”
I didn’t hang around to find out what he said next. I went back to my room and cried. I didn’t leave it for three days, feigning period pain. After that trip, I’d made it a point to avoid him, which of course, wasn’t something I could always do.
The next time I saw Max, the H name had been replaced with another pair of legs and tits, equally as beautiful. He mentioned my hair and said I reminded him of Bamm-Bamm from theFlintstones. I corrected him, stating that Bamm-Bamm was the boy, and Pebbles was the girl. I also called him Wilma and flipped him a fuck you gesture. The names Bamm and Wilma stuck for the rest of the holiday.
I wonder now if he’ll even remember that, but then I recall Cal saying something about it when I was in the hospital and barely conscious, my response, as usual, being something along the lines of, “Tell Wilma to go fuck himself.”
I’d attended a Hollywood party he was at a few years ago, but I left before seeing him, and anticipation of once again being in the presence of Max Young has been building the last few days, to the point where I now feel like my insides are vibrating.
Once Kenzie has helped me dress and put on the boot’s she’s lent me, I take in the reflection looking back at me from the full-length mirror in my wardrobe.
Black, ripped jeans, a green slouchy sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, and green sued biker boots. I was wearing minimal make-up, just enough to cover the bruising to my cheek. It had faded to a pale yellow colour and was barely noticeable amongst my freckles.
I’ve added a dusting of highlighter over my BB covered cheekbones and swiped nude gloss over my lips.
I feel stupid for being so nervous, “It’s just Max,” I tell my reflection. Just Max, the standard I’d compared all other men to. Him being a rock star had nothing to do with my crush as a kid, they were ten-a-penny in my young life, he was the object of my affections before I even really understood what he did for a living, and as much as I’d spent the last ten years trying to deny my feelings, I knew as soon as I saw him in the flesh, they’d all come rushing back.
Just a mention of his name online, the telly or radio had my skin heating and my heart beating a staccato in my chest, so fuck knows how I’d react to seeing him today. I let out a loud groan as I examine the fishtail plait Kenzie has styled my hair in. It hangs over the shoulder not exposed by my sweatshirt, and I love it. I’d been genetically blessed with the thick, glossy red hair of my mother, and as much as I hated it as a kid, I’d grown to love it as an adult.
As they always do, tears burn my eyes as I think about my mum, which lead to thoughts of my dad. I kiss the tips of each of my index fingers and tap them against each of the tattoos I have in their memory behind my ears.
“You’ve got this,” I unconvincingly tell my reflection.
I’ve had to fight a lot of battles in my life. I’ve fought a lot of demons so as not to lose sight of me, the Billie my parents would want me to be, the BillieIwant to be, but Max Young, he might just be my nemesis.
Max
I’m half-sitting, half-lying onthe beanbag in my soundproof studio above the garage next to my house. We’re due to start recording the new album in February. We already have fourteen tracks, but in the weeks since my life went to shit, I’ve written four more.
My music has saved me from going out of my mind and overthinking every decision I make and action I take. Lyrics, chords, riffs, I’ve worked on them all. Jake’s been here most days working with me, and it’s been interesting watching his interactions with my daughter—he’ll make a great dad one day, one day when he decides to stop being a kid himself.
Layla is currently swaddled and sleeping soundly in her crib beside me. I wouldn’t usually bring her over here because of the noise, but my mum went home to her place in Kent on Thursday. She’s been staying almost every night for weeks but had an engagement planned for this weekend that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, cancel.
I strum my guitar and watch my daughter sleep while wearing her purple, noise-reducing headphones. Jake’s playing the piano, as we try to work out the chorus for a song I wrote on Friday.
“It needs to be a little faster,” Jake calls out to me.
“It’s a ballad,” I protest.
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think it should be. Lemme show you. Listen to this.” He moves from the piano to the drums and starts to tap out a rhythm much faster than the one I’d had going on in my head. I pick up the pace of what I’m playing on my guitar and move my head to the beat.
“I like it, it works,” I tell him.
He slides back behind the piano and hits the keys harder and faster. I sing along, but the lyrics aren’t quite right now that the tempo has changed, so I put my hand up for him to stop then reach for my notepad.
As the piano quiets, Layla gives a loud wail and wriggles to free her arms. I watch with amusement as Jake peers into her crib.
“Did I wake her? Was that too loud?” He sounds panicked as he asks, and I wish I had my phone nearby to capture the moment.
“She’s fine,” I reassure him. “The headphones don’t cancel out all the noise, but they go a long way to protecting her eardrums. I think she’s gonna be one of those kids who can sleep through anything.”
He nods, still staring down at Layla. “So where’s your mum gone this weekend?”
“Not sure. Weekend away somewhere.”
“She got a bloke?”
I look up from my pad, my pencil hovering over the page, and shrug.
