Page 15 of The Twelve Days of Christian
According to the map app on my phone, this is the building. I check the address in Christian’s text, and yes, this is it. It felt weird giving him my number so he could send the details. How many girls would kill to have Christian Steele ask for their phone number? And,now the initial tension between us has eased, I feel an odd warmth at the sight of his name on the screen.
I tilt my head back, sweeping my eyes up the brick walls of the historic building. Perched on the very top is a modern cocoon of glass and steel. That’s where I’m headed.
I’m searching for the apartment number on the panel, repeating the door code in my head—1208, 1208—when my phone howls. Luckily, there’s no one close enough to hear and flash me one of the strange looks it always provokes. Recording sweet Mularkey’s ‘woo-woo’ for my text alert was a gift from my more tech savvy sibling. Ollie’s creative thinking lets me take her wherever I go.
Christian again. I tap the screen, and it bursts to life with a picture. It’s a selfie; Christian, with perhaps the first real smile I’ve seen on his face in three days. He’s flanked by two grinning dogs. It’s as if the girls have taken all his worries and gulped them down, like the creature in a creepy old book of Scottish folktales Ollie had as a kid, a beast who will swallow your nightmares away.
The dogs’ soothing presence has worked a miracle on this sad, brooding man, lighting him up in a way I’ve only ever seen when he’s on stage. Or like when he picked up that guitar last night and strummed away, humming to himself with a sweet smile. Dogs will do that to you.
My own heart is lighter for seeing it. For, troublesome as Christian is, he’s kind of growing on me. I see glimpses of the person whose friendship my brother treasures.
I look over my shoulder before punching in the code for the outer door that will let me into the foyer beyond. There’s no one near, except a man across the road, leaning on the stone wall of the river embankment. He’s wearing a scruffy looking leather bomber jacket,like he’s escaped from one of Dad’s favourite 80s TV cop shows. Is it my paranoia, or is that guy actually watching me? He meets my gaze casually and then looks away, as if it’s nothing. Itisnothing. I’m just on edge. All this talk of hiding out and sneaking around is getting to me.
I tap in the four numbers, a green light twinkles, and I’m in.
The gleaming copper doors of the elevator part with a hush and then whisper closed behind me. It glides smoothly to the top floor, opening to reveal a gleaming post-box-red floor to ceiling door. It’s the entrance to the one apartment on this level, Christian’s penthouse. I knock on the door out of polite habit, then, feeling stupid, pull the key from my pocket.
The door is heavy enough to protect a bank vault. I use one shoulder to pull it open, then, with both hands grasping the oversized chrome handle, close it behind me. When I turn back to the interior, I’m confronted by a vast space with soaring white walls. I crane my neck to see a pale timber ceiling hovering somewhere far above me. The side facing the river is all glass and I have the feeling I’m floating over the sluggish waters of the Thames.
To my right is a kitchen that looks like it’s big enough to hold a party in. The wide concrete worktop is almost big enough to hold a partyon. Ten people could dance up there and not topple off. There’s not an appliance in sight. Everything is hidden behind banks of sleek white cabinetry.
The place is immaculate. Living with my brother, I suppose I’d expected untidiness: dirty dishes in the sink, pages of lyrics and music littering the huge dining table, and discarded clothes strewn on the wide leather sofas behind me.
In fact, everything about this expansive minimalist space is not what I’d imagined as Christian’s choice. Not with his ruffled image, like he’s just rolled in from an all-night drinking session in a club. There’s certainly no hint of his farm boy past.
The only thing that prevents this room from looking like an advertisement for Marie Kondo is the shelves of books. They fill an entire wall, and I sigh in envy at the rows of spines: smooth leather with tiny-gold lettering, and shiny paperbacks with bold capitals. There’s even one of those sliding ladders like in old libraries, but this one has an industrial look.
I could stand there all day and gaze in awe, but Christian suggested I get in and out quickly. I’m not sure that’s solely to do with all this secrecy. Perhaps he doesn’t want me poking through his things. Silly really. It’s not like I’m some Christian-obsessed fan who’s going to steal his underwear or enjoy a little self-pleasuring seated on his pillow. But I can’t help myself. I want to see and know him more by checking out the place he calls home.
Behind the first door is a music room. Guitars, a piano, a drum kit even. There’s a strange zig-zag instrument—perhaps a bizarre type of violin—and a saxophone, both on stands. Is there no instrument this guy can’t play?
The second room houses a small office. I spot the laptop, and as instructed, grab it, along with cables, a fancy separate keyboard and a mouse. There’s a case in the third drawer of the desk, exactly where he said it would be, and I zip everything neatly inside.
I should leave now. I have what I need. But I can’t. My curiosity takes over.
Next door is a marbled bathroom all soft whites and greys with the largest shower I’ve ever seen. As I step through into the loo,more lights flicker on and the toilet lid raises itself. I sit on the seat feeling instant warmth even through my jeans and marvel at the view through the floor-to-ceiling window, sweeping across the river below.
Two more bedrooms come off the hallway and at the far end, I step through into the final room. It has to be his. Although the aesthetic is the same, all white cavernous space, and pale Scandi style furniture, Christian’s imprint is here.
On the nightstand beside the bed, there’s a small framed montage of photographs. In one, a black and white border collie swims in a stream, mouth wide, barking. In a second, the same dog is clasped in the arms of a boy with untidy dark hair, both of them laughing into the camera. The final photograph shows the dog poised on the top of a hill, eyes bright in anticipation as if waiting for the humans to catch up. And I see Christian’s dog, Jet, was a tripod, posing comfortably on only three legs.
Facing the river, there’s a complete wall of glass. On the opposite one, a bright abstract watercolour dominates, again not at all what I’d expect, and this choice tells me a little more about Christian. Above the bed, there’s something else, in a pale timber frame. I sit on the sage green bed cover, peering at what’s captured inside: a ragged page torn out of one of those spiral bound notebooks. It’s filled with scrawled words in black ballpoint that, in places, have broken free from the confines of the blue lines. There’s strident crossing out here and there, with emphatic new words written above, the pressure of the nib visible in the dented paper. And at the top, underlined with a slash of black, one word: ‘Untouchable’.
I know this song was the band’s first hit and I know only Christian sings it. I suppose you never forget your first. He’s made sure of that.The intimacy of his inner self revealed by these framed lyrics makes me feel I’ve overstepped the line here, gone into places he doesn’t let people see without invitation. I smooth the ripple in the bedcover, eliminating all evidence of my intrusion and leave.
I step out into the watery sun, pulling the door closed behind me with a click and the whirr of a locking mechanism. And come face to face with Mr Bomber Jacket.
“Is he up there?” he asks, with a lift of his square chin, casting his narrowed eyes at the penthouse.
“Who?” I ask, as the hairs on my wrists rise, and it’s not from the cold.
“Mr Steele. I saw you up there.” He jerks his head towards the glass wall of the rooftop apartment, the spot where I stood admiring the view only minutes ago. “Is he there?”
I hesitate, unsure which is the right answer. If I say no, then he’ll ask if I know where Christian is. If I say yes, he might leave me alone. I go for the truth.
“No,” I blurt, scrambling for a way to avoid more questions. “Look, I’m just the cleaner,” I splutter out. Under pressure, it’s the best I can come up with. “I don’t know where he is. I just clean and leave.”
“Pretty fast clean there, luv,” he says, lips curling in a crooked smirk.
