Page 61 of All the Forbidden Things
I stare at her for a few moments as my brain attempts to catch up with everything she’s just said. She raises her brows in an expectant gesture just as I finally catch up.
“Sleeping. The boys had a bit of a long night . . .” I trail off, worrying that I’m revealing too much, but then, she does seem to know just about everything there is to know about Max and his life already.
“Well, good for him.” Her head jerks back and she frowns then smiles. “Bloody hell, you’re Billie. I just realised who you are. You’re Callum and Melissa’s girl, right?”
And,it would appear, the life of his friends too.
“Sister,” I correct.
“Aw, what a gorgeous little thing you grew up to be. Sister, yeah, that’s right, sister, but he raised ya, didn’t he? So, he’s sorta like your dad. How you doing, love? Terrible what happened to you. Karen told me all about it when I was here the other week. Ya know what? We all moan about all them guns they’ve got in America, but how lucky was you, eh? Excuse my French, but that fucker got exactly what he deserved. Glad his missus blew his bloody head off. And after everything you’ve been through, you had to put up with that nonsense, still, brought you back home to your brother and Mel. They’ve been so good to Max, too, he’s lucky to have them two. Still, hopefully, everything can settle down a bit now he’s got you here.”
“Hopefully,” I say. The woman’s like a whirlwind, a hurricane. Hurricane Wendy.
“I’m about to take Layla up for a quick bath. Mel, Cal, Makenzie, Jake, and I all stayed here last night, so her routine’s been a bit messed up.”
“Aw, that’s lovely. Like I said, he’s lucky he’s got his mum and friends to look out for him. You go and get that baby sorted, and I’ll make a start down here. Try not to make too much noise, though, it’ll do Max good to have a nice long sleep.”
I fight to keep my mouth from dropping open and from responding by telling her the house was, in fact, silent before she arrived.
“I’ll keep the noise level down,” I promise, and start heading up the stairs.
Wendy leaves at around four. I now know that she started working for Max back when he was living in his apartment in St Katherines Dock, which he still owns but rents out. When he bought this place and moved Whitney in, he told her he probably wouldn’t need her anymore and gave her “a nice little drink” in her wages on what she thought would be her last day. When it became apparent Whitney wasn’t one for housekeeping or cooking, he’d called and asked her to come back. Wendy agreed as long as he sent a car to pick her up and bring her home on the days she worked since driving to “his neck of the woods was a bloody nightmare.”
I felt a certain warmth in my chest that Max had agreed to this. There were probably plenty of locals who could do what Wendy does for him, but he wantedherand was prepared to pay for a car service twice, sometimes three times a week, to have her come in, clean, and cook for him.
Wendy is fifty-six. She has four grown-up children, three boys and one girl. All are either married or live with their partners, and she has five grandchildren and another on the way. Her husband, Tony, is a black cab driver. She doesn’t really need to work as the mortgage on their five-bedroom house in Chingford is paid off, but if she didn’t work, all she’d be doing is looking after her grandchildren. Working for Max is her “me” time and gives her the money to pay for the numerous romance books she regularly downloads onto her Kindle. It also goes towards attending book signings around the country and, occasionally, overseas—with her fellow “book hoes” to meet her favourite authors. She also spends time in various Facebook groups discussing and perving over the leading male characters from these books. She’s promised to add me as a friend and send me a list of all her favourite books and links to join some of these fangirl, perving groups.
I never knew that not participating in a conversation could be so exhausting. Wendy was still talking a mile a minute when her phone pinged with a text message telling her the driver from the car service was at the gate waiting. She went through the front door, calling out to me that she’d see me Wednesday and to try not to wake Max up.
Enjoying the silence, I make myself a coffee and put Layla’s bottle in the warmer because I know she’s due a feed at any moment. Taking both into the living room, I place my cup and her bottle down on the coffee table and collapse into the corner of the sofa. Reaching for the TV remote, I flick it on and pull up Netflix and find a film to watch. I’ve barely finished my coffee when I hear Layla stir. She’s such a good baby. I know things will change as she gets older, but for now, she’s in that eat, sleep, poo, routine with the occasional wide-awake spell in between.
She smiles and throws her arms in the air, her tiny fists clenched, as I look down into her crib.
“Well, good afternoon, Miss Layla. Did you have good sleeps? Shall we change that nappy or get you fed first?” She gives a little cry while smiling at the same time before forcing almost her entire fist into her mouth and sucking on it. “I think you’re hungry, so we’ll get that bot in your belly while it’s still warm, shall we?”
I lift Layla to my chest, breathe in her baby scent, which I already love so much, and then settle back down on the sofa with her in my arms.
Max
My eyes open at almostthe same instant my brain registers I’m awake. The shutters at my bedroom windows are closed, but the slats are open just enough to allow grey, watery light to slither through. Having absolutely no clue how long I’ve slept, I reach for my phone, which tells me it’s four forty-eight. I’m assuming that however dull the light is, knowing that it’s early November, it must be the afternoon because it’s not this light in the morning at such an early hour.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed in a panic when it hits me that I left Layla with Mel last night. “What the fuck?” I question, wondering exactly how long I’ve slept.
I’m wearing just a pair of boxers and note the dirty pair on the floor next to the jeans I was wearing yesterday and the bath towel laying across the end of my bed. I sniff my pits and nod. “Not bad,” I announce to no one in particular and assume, considering the evidence spread around me and the fact I don’t stink, I must’ve showered before I crawled into bed.
I walk into my wardrobe, find a pair of joggers and pull them on. Grabbing a T-shirt from my drawer, I walk back out to my bedroom with it in my hand, and that’s when I notice the coffee cup sitting on the chest of drawers beside my phone. I pause in my stride as a memory sparks. I came up to bed with a coffee earlier . . . Billie. Billie made me a coffee and sent me up to bed with it.
Fuck, this is why I’ve not drunk too heavily since the day Whitney left. Exhaustion and alcohol are never a good combination, but especially not when you have an eight-week-old baby to look after.
I open my bedroom door, and the smell of oregano and maybe basil fills my nose as soon as I step out onto the landing. My stomach rumbles loudly. I’m fucking starving. Other than that, I feel great, fucking amazing, in fact. Totally rested. That was possibly the best sleep I’ve had since before Layla was born.
My house is quiet, and I find the kitchen empty when I walk in. The telly’s on in the family room but the volume is low. I make my way around the dining table, towards Layla’s crib when I spot Billie, sleeping soundly on my sofa, Layla cradled against her chest.
Fucking hell.
Every inappropriate thought I had yesterday about my best mate’s twenty-two-year-old sister, invades my brain in a steady rush, and as ashamed as I should feel, I don’t.
Not only is Billie Wild hot, cute, bright, interesting, and funny but she’s also kind and caring, and did I mention as hot as all fucking fuck? I feel zero shame in thinking any of those things. I also have absolutely no fucking clue what to do with any of it. Offering her a job, one that involves her moving into the flat above my garage, taking care of my daughter, and spending the better part of her day, every day, in or around me, probably wasn’t my brightest idea. But she’d been talking on the phone to some dick who was obviously into her, and drunk me got a bee in his fucking bonnet about it and thought, “Ya know what’d be a good idea? Offering her a job and moving her in.”
