Page 66 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“I’m sorry, Alice,” I sigh. “There’s a lot going on for me at the moment.”
“I can see that.” Her softening eyes invite me to share more, although I don’t. I can’t. Realising I’m not seeking a confidante today, she places a hand on my arm, giving it a squeeze. “It’s fine,” she says. “Is two hours enough?”
“Yes,” I say. “I think so.”
I’ll make sure it’s enough. I jump on my phone and Google the production company. As I thought, it’s over in Clerkenwell, not far from here. I’m already calculating how long a cab ride there and back will take. And now I also have a name—Peter Holt is the man in charge. The one who holds the power.
“After you finish with Lilian and Kona, you go. I can manage the couple of patients booked in. Routine checks, nothing fancy.” Alice has worked as a vet receptionist for so long, she capably steps in where needed.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
On the way back to the exam room, I dive into the store cupboard and grab a pet carrier, soft bedding and a small chew toy.
“You and I are off on a little adventure,” I say, chucking the puppy under the chin as Dana arrives to check him over. Lilian smiles across at me and my inner traitor cringes. But my deception is for a good cause, an important one. I swallow hard and smile back as I try to summon brave thoughts about my uncertain mission.
Chapter 32
Day Ten
I crane my neck,scanning the imposing columns of arched brickwork, like curved brows, with banks of windows rising five storeys beneath each of them. The building is impressive and far more attractive than one would expect. Even industrial architecture was beautiful back in the old days. Inside the walls of this intimidating former warehouse building, and the sprawl of old factory sheds behind, lie the offices and studios of Unscripted, the production company filmingWild For The Win—and which a couple of years back createdStar Power.
I’ve been here before, three years ago. In fact, I came here many times, summoned for studio interviews, some with only Mum, Dad, and me sharing our reactions to the emotional rollercoaster ride mybrother was on. Others included Ollie; him clasped between us, our family supporting him while he shared his hopes and dreams. Dreams that came true—not in the way he imagined back then, discarded before the finals—but with the show giving him a shot at something even better than a solo career. Ollie can hold his own on stage, his mellow voice enchanting the crowd, and his playful banter and shining personality endearing him to them. But when he steps out there with the band behind him, magic happens.
Christian was there for those interviews, too, with his family. My memories of them from that time are vague, but not of him. Like Ollie, he’s mesmerising on stage on his own. But his power over an audience is different, a quiet intensity, the emotion pouring from him through music that makes you feel like he’s baring his soul. It’s still there when he’s with the others, but you have to look harder for it, as if he’s happy to hide some of his vulnerability, his bandmates a cloak for emotions he’s still not comfortable sharing.
Not like when he sang for me the other night. There was nowhere to hide. I don’t think he wanted to. He’s done hiding what he feels for me. And, while that’s frightening, there’s something thrilling that this deeply private man, this thoroughly good man, cares for me. It’s ignited a need to do everything in my power to help with the shitty situation he’s in.
Which is why I’m here, about to demand this guy sees me. Peter Holt is Managing Director of Veritas Media Group, and so answerable for the actions of their subsidiary, Unscripted Productions, the company responsible for this mess.
I feel the weight of the pet carrier in my hand shift as Kona wakes up. He’s been such a good boy, sleeping through the entire ride, the cabbie impressed with his tiny passenger. I place the carrier onthe footpath and peer in. The puppy yawns up at me, showing neat white teeth, an adorable baby land-shark giving me his friendliest smile. However, it’s not his sweet face I intend to use to get what I want today.
“Good boy, Kona,” I coo and he wags his pointy tail, its small thwacks vibrating through the carrier. “Right buddy, let’s go. Time for you to turn on the charm.”
I scoop up the carrier and head up the steps. The double doors are almost twice my height, old school, not automated, with gleaming brass handles. I shoulder one open.
Inside, I’m immediately confronted by a reception desk. The woman behind it is straight out of a punk rock band, with lipstick the colour of dried blood, skin as pale as Morticia Addams, and black hair teased into a spiky halo.
“Good afternoon,” she says. “How can I help you?”
My jaw drops open. The refined accent, and her polite words issuing from lips curving in a sweet cupid’s bow, are so at odds with the rest of her appearance. I slam my mouth shut and shuffle uncomfortably under her gaze. Although there’s a friendly expression in her freakish eyes—they’re a bizarre shade of purple that can only be from coloured contacts—my bravado at marching in here, insisting Peter Holt see me and Kona, trickles away.
“I’ve come to see Peter Holt.”
I try to sound confident, as if I’m meant to be here. But in my bulky puffer jacket, scrubs visible beneath, and a bobble hat pulled low, I definitely donotlook like I should be here. Not in this room, where the aesthetic is urban cool. With some in ripped jeans and designer tees, others in chic athleisure wear, the staff look like they’ve tumbled off the pages of a street style magazine. They’re dottedacross a vast open plan office, most working at desks behind banks of screens, while a few relax on couches with slim laptops balanced on their knees.
“Peter,” she says slowly, with a broadening smile. It causes her eyes to crinkle and I see she’s not as young as her avant-garde outfit and makeup suggests. She may even be old enough to have actually been in a punk band. “Is he expecting you?” Her dark brows knot as she scans her own gigantic computer screens. “I can’t see…”
“No,” I say. “But it’s important.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, like she means it, “but Peter has a full afternoon of meetings today. Can I make an appointment for another day?”
“Please.” I’m not above begging. Despite her formidable appearance, she’s got kind eyes, and I hope she might see the desperation in mine. “I need literally five minutes.”
It’s only now she notices the dog carrier sitting by my feet. Her eyes widen and her brows fly upwards when, as if on cue, Kona lets out a small yelp.
“Is that a puppy?” she says, her mouth tipping up at the corners.
I nod.
