Page 37 of The Twelve Days of Christian
The man who appears from the left wears a crooked smile on his face, bracketed by deep lines. His tanned skin looks oddly out of place on this mid-winter day, as if he’s just jetted in from the south of Spain. Wiry bristles of steely grey hair, cut flat like an exotic form of scrubbing brush, sit above darker brows. His eyes sparkle, an unusually intense shade of blue that reminds me of Christian.
He’s not a big man, but he walks with the confidence of one. Even though he’s dressed casually—jeans, a sweater with a Burberry logo and a pair of chunky Nike trainers that make his feet look huge—he projects the air of the boss as much as if he wore a suit and tie.
“Get your big ugly mug out of here, Raymond, you tosser,” he says, in an accent straight out ofEastEnders.He elbows the big man aside. “You’re scaring the girl.”
“Hello, luv.” He extends a broad hand with thick stumpy fingers. “Tommy Bunt.”
I respond without thinking, offering my own. He clasps it firmly, but with care not to crush my fingers against the row of heavy gold rings adorning his every finger. Diamonds sparkle off some, theirflashy rays at odds with the very down-to-earth ordinariness of this man.
“Nice to meet you, Tommy.” My voice comes out small, betraying my bravado is only surface deep. “I’m Haley.”
“Christian’s girlfriend, eh?” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you. But I’m damn glad you’re here.”
“So am I.” A raspy voice sounds from somewhere above. I look up to the top of the grand central staircase, with its gleaming bannisters and deep burgundy carpet. Loreena Bunt stands in the centre, barely recognisable.
Normally dressed like some exotic bird, in flamboyant clothes and extravagant colour, today she’s wearing skinny black jeans and a plain cream roll-neck sweater. Her famously big hair isn’t teased into its usual golden halo. It hangs long and loose, as if she’s a refugee from a surfer movie. Naked of makeup, her face is still attractive, but she looks more like the forty-something woman she is. The bruised hollows beneath her eyes suggest sleepless nights. Like Christian, the aftermath ofWild From The Winweighs heavily upon her.
“So am I,” she repeats softly, advancing towards me down the stairs, her smile warm, her face open and welcoming. She stands tall, taking elegant steps, like a debutante descending into a ballroom. Those jerks might have tried to beat Loreena down, but they haven’t succeeded.
Chapter 18
Day Seven
Loreena pushes open theheavy wood-panelled doors of a lounge room and waves me inside with a smile. Here is still more evidence of this woman’s dual life. Rather than the tacky over the top furnishings one might expect from someone who appears in public in neon orange fur, the decor is subdued and tasteful. Neither fusty and old-fashioned or jarringly modern, it offers a warm welcome.
A fire crackles in the hearth, below a wide mantle lush with garlands of greenery. A log crackles, spitting out smoky bursts of tangy pine-sap.
There’s a Christmas tree in the corner, decked out in an elegant minimalist style. I step towards the regular pyramid-shaped tree, breathing in its sweet aroma, and confirm it is indeed a Fraser Fir.Not native to the UK, it’s the classic American Christmas tree, imported—and therefore expensive.
Delicate silver filigree baubles nestle amongst the foliage, light bouncing off others with tiny birds captured inside glass spheres. I smile at the irony of Loreena’s tastefully restrained Christmas decorating compared to my own exuberant style. Christian would probably suggest I take note. Although from his theatrical eye rolls as he stumbles across festive pieces in new spots, and the constant good-natured teasing, I suspect he doesn’t mind indulging me in my need to lavish Christmas cheer on every space in the house. He might be right on one count—perhaps the toilet cistern doesn’t really require decoration, but I’m not going to admit that to Mr Grinch.
I’d love to spend time admiring the tree more closely, but Loreena is settling herself into a wingback armchair. It’s modern and comfortable-looking but still completely at home in this room, with its traditional floral-printed wallpaper in soft tones of duck-egg blue. I sink into the deep-seated sofa opposite, rubbing my hand across the lush blue velvet, before arranging myself in a comfortable valley in the mountain of cushions.
Loreena sits, elbows on knees, her chin propped on clasped hands and gazes at me as if I’m some rare species of animal invading her lounge. Her eyes are wistful as she speaks.
“How is he? How’s he doing?” Her first thoughts are of Christian.
“As well as can be expected. He’s looking a lot better than when I found him on my doorstep last Saturday.”
“And after watching…Episode 5…and then last night?”
“Not so good. Upset. Angry. Pissed off.Frustrated.”
I see the glisten of emotion in the corner of her eye.
“I’m so glad he’s got you,” she says, her voice low. “If it wasn’t for Tommy, I’d have broken out of here and gone to their offices, and then…well, I did look up how long you get for murder.”
She shakes her head and lowers it into her hands, fingers covering her eyes, and a muffled sound, almost a sob, escapes. After a moment, she drags her hands down her face with a weary sigh and braves my gaze again.
“The crap those bastards implied…that maybe there was something going on between us, and that Christian roughed me up a bit—you have to know that is so far from the truth, right?”
I nod and swallow hard. There’s a ball of anger and sorrow swelling in my throat.
“I know.” I choke out the words.
“Tommy and I have been together a long time. We were so young. Two teenagers with nothing but each other and a determination to get something better for ourselves. And we have.”
There’s a small upturn in her mouth as she scans the room, a modest pride as she notes the material evidence of their success. There’s obviously a lot of money to be made in auto parts.
