The flight home is silent, mainly because we're too exhausted to talk or even to move. When we land back in New York, Brad and I gather our bags and head to the cab waiting outside, Molly in tow.
The sun is just peeking above the Manhattan skyline, and I have to admit, I've missed home a lot. Hopefully all the excitement over the wedding was over, Brad would return back to normal and all three of us could be a family again.
Thinking over the events of the last few days, my mind wanders to the fact that virtually no questions were raised about Molly, and how thankful I am.
My head begins to droop with jet lag but I shake my head, realising that we're nearly back at the flat. The cab takes another left and we emerge onto my street.
As I gaze out the window, my eyebrows crease in confusion at the masses and masses of people with cameras and notepads lining the street. I look out the other side of the car to be greeted with the sight of just as many people. My eyes widen when I realise who they are: reporters.
I look over to Brad, who's just looking at them non-chalantly. I turn to look at them again, and they're all now turning round at the sight of our cab, raising their cameras and snapping pictures repeatedly, the flashing of the bulbs blinding.
"What is this?" I panic, cuddling Molly up to my side to shield her.
Like a pack of wolves, they grasp for the handle of my door, nearly tearing it off as they try to get a closer look at me and my daughter. I start to scream, covering Molly's ears when the door is pried open and the crowd fire a million questions at us.
"How old is your daughter, Miss Swann?"
"Did you really sleep with all four Beatles?"
My head is swimming and I can't breathe as I try to kick the press out of our way so we can exit the car.
Casting a quick glance over to my boyfriend, I see that he is quite amused by the attention he's getting, and he manages to climb out, making a beeline for the front door.
"GET OUT OF MY WAY!" I roar, pushing some of the crowd out of my path as I stumble out of the cab.
As well as the shouts of the reporters, shoving their microphones in my face, I now have the sound of Molly screaming in fear down my ear.
I cradle her head and push on through the crowd, fighting off anyone who tries to touch her.
Eventually, I manage to reach the steps up to the flat and I dash up them breathlessly, slamming the door when I'm able to fight my way in. Completely out of breath, I rest against the door, bouncing Molly on my hip as she screams out.
My mind spins with questions. Who told the press? How do they know where we live? Why would anyone say anything?
Panting in disbelief, I look over to the sofa, where I could see Brad's feet dangling over the arm rest. How is he so out of it? He isn't phased in the slightest. I quickly take Molly upstairs so she's out of the way.
"What the hell was that?" I spit, sweeping my hair back as I emerge into the living room.
"Looked like some reporters to me."
"Really? Funny, that thought hadn't occured to me at all!" I shout.
"Like, where did they come from? Who told them where we were?" I fret, pacing up and down the carpet.
When Brad doesn't say anything, everything becomes clear.
"It was you."
My mouth drops and I'm frozen to the spot.
"YOU TOLD THEM ABOUT MOLLY?!"
Brad just shrugs, wincing at my shouting.
"YOU FUCKING TOLD THEM! HOW COULD YOU?"
"It was easy, I just rang them up." He chuckles, sending me over the edge.
I grab his arms and pull him up so he's on his feet and smack my palm flat across his cheek, making him stumble to the side, clutching his face in pain.
Brad laughs, as if thrilled, sickening me to my core.
"Why would you do such a thing? I thought you cared!"
"I saw you." He spits, squaring up to me, towering over me. "I saw you and John. In bed. He left the door fucking open."
I step away from him in shock. This isn't happening.
"Yeah, that's it! Look ashamed. Turn on the waterworks." Brad tuts, stepping closer to me again.
I look to the ground in shame as tears start to spill onto my cheeks.
"You wonder why I was always drunk? Huh?" He grabs my arms, shaking me.
"Because I knew you were slipping. I was losing you, and I couldn't cope with it. I lost you, I lost my job!"
"You lost your job?" I whimper, wincing at the pain in my arms.
"Yes I lost my fucking job! Not that you noticed! Too busy dreaming about John fucking Lennon!"
"...w-why?"
"Why do you think? BECAUSE I'M A DRUNK!"
I stumble trying to find a response.
"It was worse enough when I noticed you talking about John more, and then seeing you and him rolling around in the sheets together sent me over the edge! So yeah! I told the press about your dirty little secret!"
"If you wanted revenge why'd you have to take it out in my daughter? It's not her fault!" I scream, fearing for Molly's wellbeing.
"Because I wanted to hurt you and him as much as humanly possible!"
"You're fucking sick."
"Yes I am." He spits, grabbing my wrist and twisting it, pushing me violently onto the floor.
I land with a groan, wind knocked out of my lungs.
"FUCKING GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
"There are hundreds and hundreds of reporters stood right outside that door. Kick me out, and I'll fucking tell them EVERYTHING."
I shake my head, holding my wrist in pain, shooting daggers at him.
"Everything, YN."
YOU ARE READING
Norwegian Wood
Fanfiction"I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me." ~ A John Lennon Story. (Formerly called Yesterday.) {Mature Content}
