Page 142 of All the Forbidden Things

“Aaron will be proud, Len will have your balls, Whitney is going to lose her shit.”

“Don’t care. I no longer give a fuck about doing the right thing where Whitney’s concerned.”

“How’s Billie?”

I swallow down the instant lump that forms in my throat and grind my teeth together. I’m a fucking mess just thinking about any of this, and I feel like an absolute pussy. I’m pissed off with Billie for leaving without a goodbye, but I have no right to be. I’m fucking lucky she wants to stick around and try and make this work, I just hate not knowing when I’m likely to see her again. I hate even more that Whitney has that power over us.

“Did you explain everything to her? Explain Whitney’s threats?” Micky’s voice interrupts the maelstrom of thoughts and emotions churning inside me.

“Yeah, she’s pissed off but knows what needs to be done. We talked it all through, we’re still gonna try and make things work. We just need to work out how to make that happen.”

“And how you gonna do that without getting caught? You and Whitney splitting up has only been a rumour until now. Not only did you just go public with the news, you just fired the first shots in what has the potential to turn into one very dirty battle.”

I turn my head from where I’ve been staring out of the car window at nothing through the dull morning light and look across at his face.

“Mick, I’m fucked. Mentally and physically, I’m done with today, yesterday, the past three fucking months, and I really don’t wanna talk about it.”

Billie

Isit in the back ofthe cab with my head resting against the window. My head knocking against the glass with every speed-bump and pothole we go over. I enjoy the dull pain it causes, welcome it, even though it does nothing to detract from the ever-present ache in my heart.

“Twelve-seventy please,” the cabbie tells me, and I realise we’ve stopped.

I pay with my card and climb out of the cab.

The taxi leaves, and before I even enter the key code to the gates, I can hear the sound of a thumping drum and bass tune mixed with giggling.

Despite the background sounds of London waking up and the building traffic noise, I can definitely hear giggling. There are a couple of cars on the drive I don’t recognise, triggering a warning inside me.

I don’t know what makes me do it, but that survivor instinct I’ve apparently inherited from somewhere has me pulling my phone out. I consider calling Micky, but when a sensor light kicks in as someone moves along the side of the house, I ready it on video mode instead.

Taking a chance the sound of the gate alarm will be muffled by the music, I enter the code, slip inside, filming as I go.

With just a towel wrapped around her, I watch as Deana Federov walks over to the indoor pool with a man wearing nothing but his boxers and a Hawaiian shirt.

I’m shaking. It’s not fear exactly, more like I’m buzzing with nervous energy and anticipation. It feels good after waking up and feeling nothing but sick and heart hurt.

The pool is housed in a building with floor to ceiling, timber bi-fold doors, which can be opened all the way around in the summer. The lights are all on, and I have a direct view inside. The music is blaring, and there, in all her naked glory, is Whitney laying back on a sun lounger. The hand holding my phone drops to my side, as the other covers my mouth. There’s a man’s head buried between Whitney’s legs.

“Oh my fucking god,” I whisper to myself, staring for a bit longer than I probably should, before realising I should be filming all of this.

I watch and record her as she sits up, the man’s face rising with her. He leans in and kisses her mouth before she pushes him gently away.

I can barely stand still as Whitney lifts what looks like a silver straw from the tray meant for cups or glasses attached to the arm of the lounger. My mouth drops open when I realise it’s covered in white powder. She shoves the straw up her nose, leans in, and snorts.

A loud, “no!” escapes me as I watch in utter disbelief as Whitney stands, walks to the edge of the pool, and dives in.”

“That fucking bitch-fuck-fuck-bitch-face-bitch.” My jaw hurts it’s tensed so hard, and I’ve apparently forgotten most of my words, but what the fuck am I actually looking at right now?

My hands shake, and my entire body vibrates as I make my way to the door of my flat and email the video to myself.

Closing the front door behind me, I lean against it, take in a few deep breaths, and attempt to organise my thoughts.

I’m not sure who I should contact first.

Max?

Micky?