Page 2 of The Interview

I feel like my heart physically cracks. Life is so fucking unfair. “You don’t hate him. I don’t think you’re capable of hate?—”

“Rocco Taylor, Haley White...”

“Yeah, apart from that pair of cunts.”

“Gia!”

“What?”

“Language!”

“Oh, don’t you start. You sound like C...” I trail off, feeling guilty for a different reason now.

“Well, he’s not wrong. You do swear too much.”

“How else would you describe that pair of Devil’s cum drippings?”

“Fuck me, I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Impossible, beautiful girl. Fucking impossible.”

“You’re going.”

“I have to.”

“I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“I know, and if you’re not, I know you’ve got him to make it better.”

“Tell Beau and Baby M I love them.”

“They know G. They know.”

And then he’s gone.

A big hand slides over my hip, lands on my belly, and pulls me into a warm body. A different scent invades my senses—one that heals that crack in my heart as soft lips brush against my ear.

“You’re talking in your sleep. This show stressing you out? Cos if it is, I want you to call it off. Knock the whole thing on the head right the fuck now.”

I push my bum back into him and smile, knowing that, despite the heartache, the trauma, the losses I’ve experienced in my life, I’m so very fucking lucky to be unconditionally loved by two amazing men.

CHAPTER

ONE

CAM

While watching my wife have the finishing touches applied to her makeup, I rest my shoulder against the door frame of the studio I had created for her and my daughters.Theycall it the studio. To me, it looks more like a beauty salon, a hairdressers, and a film set combined. There are three sinks with those lean-back chair things you get at the hairdressers, as well as three full-length mirrors with chairs in front of them, and a full-length mirror with a middle and two sides that can be moved, allowing you to see yourself from different angles. Then there’s a podium thing you stand on for clothing alterations, a dress rail against one wall filled with I don’t even know what, and a wall full of shelves with what I reckon must be at least five hundred pairs of shoes. Let’s not mention the lights placed every bloody where: round lights, rectangle lights, lights with holders for your phone.

There is a lot going on in that room—most of it I have no fucking clue about—but it makes my wife and daughters happy, and if they’re happy, I’m happy.

“See ya, Cam,” Krystal, my wife’s favourite makeup artist says as I step aside, allowing her out of the room.

“Bye, Krys,” I reply, not taking my eyes from my wife, who’s now turned to face me.

The studio is a self-contained addition I had added to the side of the house. There’s an internal door, as well as a door giving direct access to and from the driveway. This means that when the girls are getting ready for an event, we don’t have hairdressers, stylists, makeup people, and the rest of the bloody circus traipsing in and out of the house.