Page 13 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“God, Haley. Not you too. Surely, even though you don’t know me very well, you know Ollie. And you know Ollie would never be friends with someone who would be abusive to their girlfriend? Right?”
I try to channel calm in my words, but inside I’m seething. Even now, more than a year on, the lies spun about me come back to slap me down. She nods, the colour on her face blooming right to the tips of those cute ears that hold back her swinging hair.
“If you don’t believe me, you can ask her.” I pull out my phone and scroll to a number. Waverley and I may not have been a long-term thing, but we will always be friends and I know she’s got my back on this one. She hated every minute of that shit as much as me.
Haley scrunches her eyes and shakes her head, but I don’t pull back, thrusting the phone at her.
“I’m so sorry, Christian.”
Her voice is tiny. I’m a bastard doing this, and I drop the phone, as I’m flooded with immediate regret at my impulsive gesture.
“No, no, it’s me who should be sorry.” What the hell was I thinking? “It’s just some days I feel like there’s not a soul who cares about what really happened.”
“I care,” she says, with a small sniff that’s like a knife twisting in my gut. “Tell me,” she whispers. “I want to know.”
And so I take a deep breath and let it all pour out. How I dated Waverley for a while back in high school, and then on one visit home, when I was sorting out the farm, we hooked up again for a bit. How she was never destined to be the love of my life, or me hers. And how, after agreeing we’d quietly go our separate ways, the media decided that was way too tame. And how the tiny insinuations I got roughwith her—never enough that I could sue them, but always enough to cast shade—had devastated her as much as me.
When I’m finished, we sit in silence as I search Haley’s face, desperate for a sign she accepts it’s the truth. But there’s the whine of a dog, and Haley’s up on her feet. As she pads down the hallway to let Mularkey out to pee, she glances back at me. I feel like there’s still a flicker of doubt in those velvet eyes, but I can see her inner struggle—she wants to believe me. And I’m going to prove she should.
Chapter 7
Day Two
I can’t believe he’sdone it. The opening music forWild For The Wintaunts my ears as I follow the dogs back into the lounge.
“What’s this?” I ask, even though I know exactly what it is. And even though I have every right to question Christian taking control of my television without asking, the words come out tiny; timid.
I’m still unbalanced from our conversation about Waverley. In my heart I knew it was the truth, but five minutes ago that little part of me that wanted to find fault with Christian not only seized control of my brain, it gleefully painted it all over my face as well.
I mean it’s not like I dislike the guy—I don’t know him well enough to have strong feelings either way—but even if I didn’t like him, that’s no reason to accept the lies I know dog his every step asthey do Ollie’s. And after all he’s done for me in the past twenty-four hours, I owe him. So I’m going to cut him some slack, repay him some for my uncontrolled reaction, and let go of my annoyance at his TV takeover.
“Thought it might be best to just rip the band aid off,” he says. “For both of us.”
I sit myself at the opposite end of the couch. Hugging my favourite reindeer cushion to my chest, the joyful tinkling of the decorative sleigh bells is at odds with my dread as the opening images roll across the screen. Mouth set in a tense line, I fight back a retort.
“Look Haley, it’s happened. I’m here, not there. There’s no prize money coming the way of the rescue. We’re both upset about it. But we can’t change the past. Best we both face the situation, eh?”
“OK,” I say, too weary to argue.
“Besides,” he adds, “consider it an intel gathering exercise. If I’m going to fight them, and I fully intend to, I need to study every second of the crap they push out into the world. Maybe you can help me there?” There’s a small pleading note in the question, and he tosses me a hopeful look.
“Sure.” I’m not at all sure there’s anything I can do to help extract him from this mess he’s got into, but I nod obligingly. With his talk of contracts, and NDAs, and legal teams, I’m inclined to think it’s a lost cause. Going into battle with a large media company with deep pockets is as useless as trying to bottle the wind. Pushing the boundaries with people like that is never going to end well.
But I’ve done enough damage for one day by not believing in him. I saw the flash of anger and hurt my doubt provoked in his eyes and shame still smoulders inside me. Right now, I’ll shut up andoffer some moral support by watching what I suspect will be a train wreck.
Instead, the hour-long Episode 2 ofWild For The Winfans that small ember of shame inside me into a brightly burning realisation. I’ve judged this guy unfairly. Faced with Christian’s dumping from the show, I’d painted a dark picture of what happened in Scotland. And it’s wrong.
For the first two days at least, he was the model contestant, his actions cutting a bright optimistic swathe through the gloomy spectre of seven other pissed-off and, quite frankly, pathetic contestants. This is a show about surviving in the wild. What the hell did they think they were signing up for—a week in Ibiza?
I watch him step up when the rest of them have no ideas but to wander around the tumbledown farmhouse, whingeing about their plight. I see his patience, herding them into teams, assigning tasks, taking on the trickier ones himself, even picking up a hammer so they all have a weathertight place to sleep the first night. I note his skill in the grimy kitchen, coaxing an old coal range into life and enlisting the best of the rest to help him cook a meal.
He correctly predicted the wife from Watford, Loreena Bunt, might have talents beyond artfully applying lashings of make-up, and enlisted her as head chef. I cringe at her fawning over him, her collagen pout and fake lashes punctuating a face that is no stranger to the Botox needle. It’s also a face that must be known to everyone in the country, her smart mouth and argumentative antics drawing viewers to theReal Wivesshow like it’s crack cocaine.
But there’s no sign of her belligerence here. Maybe it’s because she fancies her chances with Christian—she certainly looks at him like he’s the main course, even though she must be almost twentyyears his senior—but whatever the reason, she complies with his suggestions, proudly delivering dinner to the table with a saucy wink at the camera.
My initial assertion was correct: Christian was marked as the winner from the start. I take no pleasure in being right. It only makes me more sad. He was a lifeline for the dog rescue, the money a sure thing that slipped from his grasp.
Both the studio host, the so slick he’s slimy Bernard Bennett, and on location host Lisa Mayberry, already rate him the frontrunner. Bernard’s studio audience agrees. Episode 2 features the first end-of-episode poll. Eighty-seven percent of them furiously click their voting buttons in Christian’s favour.
