Page 22 of The Twelve Days of Christian
A dangerous thrill shivers through me, suggesting parts of me like that idea very much, while my cautious brain screams at me to stop it. This guy is not right for me for so many reasons. Hell, I’ve only just got to the stage of accepting he’s not the arsehole the media portrays. But underneath, my body is waking up to the animal attraction that draws women to Christian even though they don’t know him. My mind tells me if they did get to know him, like I’ve been doing these past few days, it would only add to their desire. I struggle back to the safety of the topic at hand.
“Yeah, but…” I feel a strange need to defend Loreena. “It’s easier when you’re young. While I don’t think I’d go there, I can see why some women feel they need a bit of extra help as they get older. Every woman wants to feel attractive.”
“I suppose so,” he concedes. He nods at the screen where an animated Loreena, an arm draped across his shoulders, burbles at the camera. “And in Loreena’s case, while it definitely doesn’t do it for me, it works for the person that matters most. Apparently, her husband, Tommy, adores her.”
He’s right. I cast my mind back to theReal Wives of Watfordseries, remembering the occasional appearance of the husbands. There was no disguising the jealousy from the other wives at Loreena’s blissful marriage. Tommy Bunt, a rough around the edges rather cocky little man, as well as self-made multi-millionaire from an automotive parts business, made no secret of the fact he loved his wife. I nod in agreement, but say nothing, not sure whether I want toadvertise my obsession withReal Wivesgiven Christian’s current feelings towards reality TV.
We sit through the rest of the reveals which take up most of the episode. There’s a short challenge tonight. A bit like onMasterchef,they’re given a mystery box of bizarre ingredients from which they have to create dinner.
Loreena takes charge and I’m impressed by her ability to organise and innovate. She boils up two gnarly turnips, and mashes them furiously, while directing Christian. He dices the onion, wiping away tears, fries it with the canned sardines and tosses in some chopped herbs. Mixed altogether, shaped into fishcakes, and browned in the pan, they don’t look too bad. Even Lisa Mayberry braves a tentative nibble and declares them edible. Christian and Loreena win, of course.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Steele,” I say. “You never told me you can cook. I’m putting you on dinner duty from now on.”
“Happy to,” he says. “Especially as you’ll be back at work tomorrow.” He tickles Tully’s head. Showing no trace of the dog who has recently survived emergency surgery, she raced Mularkey to the couch earlier, claiming the spot next to Christian. “I can look after this one. You’ll be a good girl, won’t you Tully?” She answers with a rhythmic thud of her heavy tail and a long high-pitched fart like a train whistle.
“Awww, fuck Tully.” Christian grimaces as a foul odour wafts up, fanned by her tail, so even from my seat in the armchair, I catch a whiff. “That’s a ripper.” He chokes theatrically. “Glad you’re not sleeping in my bed tonight, baby.”
“Sorry,” I say, heat rising in my cheeks. Damn dog has no manners. “Put her down on the floor if you want.”
“Hell, no.” He affectionately scratches her neck around the edge of the cone. “I’ve missed having a dog. Even though they do come with farts. Tully stays.”
We turn back to the final minutes of the show, and the crucial voting phase. Whatever the crowd might feel about Loreena, at the end of the episode, the votes are overwhelmingly in their favour. Whether it’s the halo effect of teaming up with Christian, or the fact the audience sees what he does—and now he’s pointed it out, I too realise Loreena isn’t so bad—most buttons click for ‘Team Christeena’. Trust Bernard Bennett to coin a nauseating couple’s name for them.
Loreena is certainly a better partner for him than the other three airhead women in the group; and it’s not only because they’re young and pretty, or because I may just happen to feel a sense of relief that it’s not them sharing a tent with Christian over the next two nights on the show. Loreena is smart, and as I know Christian has no chance of winning, I hope she does.
“If it’s OK with you,” Christian says, stretching as a yawn steals across his face, “I might take a book and go to bed. I’m knackered. God, I must be getting old. Once, a couple of all-nighters wouldn’t have even made me break stride.”
I laugh. “It’s nothing to do with age. We’ve both had a pretty shitty few days. Stress is exhausting. I think I might do the same. Work tomorrow, so I’ll need to be up early.”
He stands and the dogs slither off the couch and twine themselves around his legs so he can hardly move, upturned faces questioning.
“Hey, since you need to get up early and I don’t, why don’t I take these two into my room tonight?” he says, as Mularkey mouths his tattooed wrist playfully. It looks like she’s trying to gulp down thetiny swallow that flutters across the tanned skin where he’s peeled back his shirtsleeve.
“They’ll have you up at least once to go potty.”
“Not a problem.”
“And they snore. Loudly.”
“Then they’ll have competition. I do too,” he says, with an embarrassed grin. “Scar tissue from a broken nose as a kid.” He slides a finger along the centre of it, and I follow it, seeing the slight bump. “I was shit at cricket. Didn’t even see the ball that smacked me right between the eyes. The guy bowling thought it was hilarious until the blood started pouring out.”
I can’t help but giggle at the thought of Christian snoring. What would all those fangirls think if they knew? None of them would ever imagine having hooked up with this man, with his sexy bed hair and come-play-with-me eyes—two features I’d never paid attention to until he was here in my house—he might roll over and start snoring.
“You’re not laughing at my misfortune, are you Haley?” he teases.
“No, just shut the door so I don’t hear you all competing. It’ll be like a very bad orchestra. However, that too has its problems. You run the risk of dying in the night, asphyxiated by a Tully fart.” A grin splits his face. “Please don’t tell me you’ll out-fart her as well.” The grin broadens.
That’s definitely not something the fangirls would think of. But yes, even rock gods burp and fart like normal people. I know they do. Living with my brother, he’s just as gross as any guy when you get him home.
“I don’t think anyone can out-fart Tully,” he says. Hearing her name twice, she butts at his leg with the cone. “OK, ladies. Timefor a pit stop.” They seem to know what he’s saying and bound off down the hallway to the back door that leads out to the garden.
He goes to follow them, then hesitates. He turns those blue eyes on me; no longer hawk-like, they are more like a soothing summer sea.
“Haley, I can’t thank you enough for what you did today. And every day since I arrived.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, with a flush of pleasure. It hits me that even if I didn’t owe Christian for everything he’s done for me with Tully, I’d happily help him. He’s a good guy and I like him. Just like he and my brother, two opposites, somehow Christian and I fit alongside each other well; we’ve become friends.
Two nights later, I sit at the dining table, wondering what the world would say if they could see this domestic scene. I’m reading through my notes for the exam I’m taking on Friday. While I’ll never be a vet like I dreamed of back in high school, I’m determined to become the best, most qualified damn vet nurse I can be. Passing this Dermatology Certificate might also help secure me another job if I lose this one. Christian is busy clearing the table. He reaches for my plate.
