Page 44 of All the Forbidden Things

“You don’t know, or don’t wanna know?”

I scratch at my beard and slide my gaze back to the words in front of me. “Both,” I admit.

“She’s fucking fit, your mum. I’d bang her.”

“I’ll bang your head right through that fucking wall you talk about my mum like that again,” I warn.

Jake blows out a breath with enough force to move the fringe of his dirty blond hair, which is currently sticking up all over the place. “Chill, fam. I wasjustsaying your mum’s a good-looking woman.”

“Well, how about youjustdon’t.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m going outside for a fag.”

“Shut the door behind you and wash your hands after. Told you before, I don’t want your faggy fingers near my daughter. Maybe, for Layla’s sake, you might think about giving that shit up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe I’ll do that when you let me take your mum out.”

“I’ll fucking take you out . . . permanently if you don’t shut that pretty boy mouth of yours,” I threaten.

He grins at me, and his blue eyes shine. “Try it, Grandad.”

“Fuck off.”

I watch his shoulders shake as he heads towards the door.

I finish making the changes needed and start strumming and singing along to my guitar. The front door opens, and I watch Jake come back through. I reach up quickly and snatch the packet of Silk Cut cigarettes he throws at me.

“Keep hold of them, and this,” he tosses his lighter in my direction, “I’m giving up.” He nods as if to add to the conviction in his voice.

“What brought that on?” I ask.

He turns his gaze to Layla and stares down at her. “My aunt smoked forty a day for as long as I can remember. She was only forty-eight when she died. I wanna be around to see Layla piss you off when she brings home her first boyfriend, come’s home drunk and throws up everywhere, and gets caught bunking off school and getting stoned in a field somewhere.”

I raise my brows and stare at him for a few seconds. Jake was raised by his aunt after his mum done a runner when he was just two-years-old.

“You better plan on living till you’re a hundred and fifty, then, coz Layla will never,ever, be doing any of those things.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls out while heading towards the bathroom to wash away the smell of cigarette smoke.

I carry on playing, but his words have given me an idea for lyrics to a new song, and I stop to write them down.

“When’s Whitney coming home?” he asks on his return.

“Next Monday.”

My soon to be ex-wife has been transferred to a spinal injury rehabilitation unit in Buckinghamshire. She has a little over another week there before coming back here.

She still can’t walk, but her doctors are convinced the paralysis is only temporary and that her legs will eventually work again. She’s regained enough sensation below the waist to now have control of her bowel and bladder, and she’s able to wiggle her toes, but as yet, no walking.

I’ve had the builders here working on the room that will be Whitney’s. Half of my study has been added to the formal dining room, and the space has been converted into a bedroom with an en suite big enough to meet her needs.

Whit’s sister, who’s a physio, will be moving in and sharing a room with her, and I’ve arranged with an agency for a nurse to come in as often as required.

“So, what’s gonna happen, with you two, I mean?”

Jake hits a couple of keys on the piano, but I don’t look up from my guitar as I consider my answer.

“Divorce,” I offer, sticking my pencil behind my ear as I strum out a few chords.