Page 106 of All the Forbidden Things

“Can I tell you something without you getting mad?” I question.

He moves his head from side to side weighing up what I’ve asked.

“Go for it.”

“There was a girl you were with years ago; she had an H name. I can’t remember what it was, but it began with H, we were in Ibiza...”

He leans back into the corner of the sofa, listening with a frown.

“Go on.”

“You remember?”

“I remember Ibiza.”

“Do you remember what she said about me?”

He shakes his head; his brows pull tighter.

“The H name … Heidi? Hannah, it was Hannah …” He confirms.

He trails off and I know the instant the memory hits him. His shoulders slump, and his mouth opens and closes a couple of times.

“Bamm …” he says my name so softly, it’s almost a sigh. I like the way it sounds, and goosebumps rush across my skin.

“She said it was unfortunate that not only was I ginger, but that I’d also been hit with the ugly stick.”

“Fuck! She was a bitch. I put her straight on a plane and sent her home. I’m sorry, Bamm, so fucking sorry you heard that. I can’t believe you’ve carried that with you all these years. I’m gutted. I fucking hate it.”

He moves to the edge of the sofa, rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together between them. I have a lump in my throat. Caused in part by the memory of how hearing those spiteful words made an eleven-year-old girl feel, and by watching Max’s visceral reaction to me telling him that I did.

He turns his head to face me.

“I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“I never went on another holiday with you again,” I admit. “I asked to go to my aunt Deb’s in America instead.”

“Why didn’t you say something? I told her she was talking shit. Didn’t you hear that?”

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t hang around to hear any more. I was scared I’d hear worse.”

His head continues to shake as he scratches at his jaw and rakes his fingers through his hair.

“My heart and stomach ache with how fucking shitty I feel, at how shitty that must’ve made you feel. If someone ever said that shit about Layla …”

“I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad, this is me trying to be a grown-up and talking things through with you. Because of what I overheard that day, I jumped to the automatic conclusion that what Whitney said was the truth instead of coming and talking to you. I’ve been full of self-doubt and miserable for days because of it.”

“I understand why you’re telling me, it just sucks to hear it. I don’t want you full of self-doubt, I want you to be up front and honest with me. If we’re gonna stand any chance of making this work, then we’re gonna need that from each other.”

He’s relaxed a little and has moved back to the corner of the sofa, his knee bent, and foot pushed into the cushion as he sits angled towards me.

“Okay, well while we’re being honest, I need you to know that although I’m not insecure about my body, I’m not a supermodel, I’m not built like the women you’re used to fucking.”

He flinches when I say the word fucking, and rapidly shakes his head a couple of times.

“Please don’t say the word fucking, because it’s exactly what I’d like to be doing right now, fucking you … but we’ll get to that. We need to have this conversation first.”

We’ll get to that? Oh, my fucking God this man! My pelvic floor is getting the workout of its life, I might possibly be able to come just by sitting here and listening to him.