Page 82 of The Twelve Days of Christian
Loreena leaps in. “Look, I’ll make no secret of the fact I adore this man.” She smooshes Christian’s face, pinching his cheeks like an adoring mother with a baby, and he flicks her hands away playfully.
“But I’m sorry, people. Much as you might be in love with the idea of us.” She points a finger back and forth between them. “Much as it might be disappointing, I haven’t gone all Anne Hathaway on you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter as the audience realises they’renotwitnessing the real life re-enactment of that popular movie about a romance between an older woman and a singer in a boy band.
“Thereissomething going on between us—but not that.”
Her strident voice hushes to almost a whisper. “Christian, you know you’re like a son to me.” He squeezes her hand, and she wipes at one eye. But Loreena’s not one to show too much sentimentality on TV. She turns to face the audience, leaning forward, one scarlet nail pointing at her face, as she attempts to pull her high brows into a frown. “And I mean, really people? I know my surgeon is good, but I’m old enough to be his mother.”
There’s a whicker of laughter, as the audience is taken in by her self-deprecating tone. Loreena’s face is still stunning, even if propped up by artificial means, but she’s made her point.
In the next beat, she rises from her seat, grabbing my hand, pulling me up onto my feet beside her. With a flourish, she raises her arm and twirls me beneath it like a dancer, posing me for a moment.
“Anyway. Look at her? Isn’t she beautiful?”
There’s a patter of applause, although some don’t join in, fixing me with hard, envious stares. I think I catch a faint booing sound, but I brush it off. Christian is mine, no matter what they think. Loreena guides me to sit beside my boyfriend, who’s smiling up at me in soft reassurance. She releases my hand to find his, then flings herself into the space next to Tommy.
“Andthisis the man I love and who loves me.”
She pats Tommy’s knee, and he scoops her into a hug before planting his mouth on hers in a kiss so passionate I can hear the mutual slurping as they devour each other on national television. There are whoops and catcalls and a round of exuberant applause from the audience.
Christian’s arm slides round my shoulder, and he places a delicate kiss on my cheek, pulling me into him. No one seems to notice us. All eyes are riveted on Loreena and Tommy’s enthusiastic public make out—until the slam of the double doors at the studio entrance draws everyone’s attention.
Bethany Holt stands at the top of the stairs, dramatic in a high-necked black dress, cut away to reveal her pale angular shoulders. Beside her, Peter is in a variation of the jeans, band t-shirt (this one Led Zeppelin) and the loose shirt he wore last time I saw him.
Bernard and Lisa wear twin slack-jawed expressions of shock as their boss strolls towards them, his wife a dark exotic creature beside him. Stagehands scramble to produce two tub chairs. Peter andBethany slide into them. Glasses of champagne materialise in front of them, as well as one for me and what looks like whisky for Tommy.
The other contestants sit stunned, uncertain mutters between them. Lisa Mayberry hurriedly schools her features into a pleasant expression, her voice calm.
“Everybody, such a pleasure to introduce you to the people who make all of this happen—Mr Peter Holt, Managing Director, and his wife Bethany. This is such a surprise. To what do we owe the honour, Peter?”
Peter pauses to sip at the champagne and clears his throat. “Well, first, I’d like to congratulate our winner, Gavin Markham. Such a great cause too, Gavin.”
Gavin beams beneath his thick dark beard, and the audience applauds wildly. He was obviously a popular winner. The only truly nice person amongst them. I’m glad he made it through.
“Beth and I are very proud our show is able to help out groups like Gavin’s ‘Football For All’. There’s so much need out there.” The audience nod and murmur in approval. “But…” He glances around the group seated on the couches, eyeing each one meaningfully. “There are other things about this show that we’re not proud of. In fact, I’m downright ashamed of some things that have happened on our watch. And that’s why we’re here.”
Lisa and Bernard shuffle uncomfortably in their seats, eyes darting towards the floor manager, hoping for a cue. He simply shrugs, spreading his hands wide, his expression of bewilderment mirroring that of almost everyone in the studio.
“We’re here to apologise. We’re also here to assure youWild For The Win—and every other show under the Veritas banner—is going to operate a little differently going forward. You see Veritas, meanstruth, and I’m undertaking that from hereon in, that’s what people are going to get. We’re going to put the real back in reality.”
He points at the audience. “Now, you know how it goes on these live shows. You get to hear all the stuff that happened behind the scenes. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? What really happened?”
There’s a ripple of applause.
“Ican tell you what really happened. And what didn’t.”
Peter Holt spends the next ten minutes charming the audience with a blend of casual charisma and disarming sincerity. A few in the audience dab at their eyes when he offers Loreena and Christian an unreserved apology. There’s a cheer from the crowd when he announces he’s sacked producer Hugh Partridge and more heads may still roll. Lisa and Bernard shrink under the force of his pointed stare.
The audience applauds wildly when he announces the animal welfare stance he’s insisting on for all their future productions. There are warm cheers for Bethany as she presents both Christian and Loreena with one of those oversized cheques—one hundred thousand pounds each for their chosen charities—not fromWild For The Win,but out of her and Peter’s own charitable fund, The Holt Foundation. I didn’t know this bit was coming, and my heart leaps in my throat when I realise they’ve not only saved the dog rescue—my job is safe.
“One more thing. One more thing.” Bethany bounces in her seat like an overexcited child, interrupting Lisa Mayberry, who is trying to wrap things up. “A last, very important thing.” She turns to me with an enigmatic smile and then casts her gaze across the audience. “Do you believe in fate?” Her voice is hushed, mysterious. She’s greeted with enthusiastic nodding.
“Me too,” she says. “And a few days ago, fate delivered an incredible young woman to our doorstep.” She stretches out her arm, palm raised. “Haley Templeton, people.” There’s an answering patter of applause as I shuffle in my seat, uncomfortable under the questioning stares of strangers. Bethany fixes her eyes back on the audience.
“You know there’s a belief.” Her voice rises, her tone emphatic. “One I hold very dear. I believe whatever you put out into the universe comes back at you threefold.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Haley, you’ve put so much good out into the universe. Now it’s your turn for it to come back to you.”
One of the assistants appears from the wings clutching another giant cardboard cheque, and even from here I can read my name on it in large looping writing. And the amount, all those zeroes. So many zeroes.
