Page 23 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“Done?”
“Yeah, it was good, Christian. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
While I was at work yesterday, Christian ordered in a mountain of groceries and had them delivered to the doorstep. And, for thesecond night in a row, I’ve arrived home to the smell of dinner filling the house, and a meal that puts even my reasonable culinary skills to shame.
“Mum insisted,” he says. “She held out hope the next generation of women married to Steele men might fare better than she did. Dad is old school. Expects food to appear magically in front of him.”
“So your brothers cook?”
“Nah, not anymore. I’m not sure their wives even know they can. Perhaps I should enlighten them sometime. It’s tempting.” He gives an evil smirk, as he whisks away my plate, so empty there’s not even a trace of the delicious salsa he’d made to go with the vegetable bake.
We’ve fallen into a strange normalcy these past two days. I go to work. Christian stays home with the dogs. At the clinic, Alice teases me about my overly attentive focus on my phone. Texts arrive regularly throughout the day, mostly photographs of the dogs—and Christian—being adorable. Occasionally, it’s him venting at the mess he’s in, or lamenting the futility of his quest for a way out of it.
He’s spent the days trawling through his laptop but finding no solutions. Today he admitted defeat—for now. Rachel has promised she’ll beg off work early tomorrow and call in. I haven’t told her exactly what I need her to do, not that she’d blab. I’ve only said it’s legal stuff, and it’s messy. Until tonight’s show, where the world will know that Christian Steele is no longer in the wilds of Scotland, it’s safer to say as little as possible. Beyond that, Rachel is our best hope.
Tonight I arrived home to the smell of dinner cooking, and Christian sprawled on the couch reading. I’m used to book-loving men. Like me, Ollie was raised by two teachers who know the value of the written word, and he’s a voracious reader. But I didn’t expect it of Christian. I kind of thought that wall of books in his apartment wassimply part of the aesthetic. I got the impression that in his family, practical skills, especially outdoor ones, were everything. Somehow, just like he bucked the family expectations and forged a career in music, he also found books.
Today, he found my books.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed one from your room,” he confessed. “I’ve read most of what Ollie’s got out here.”
He waved my beautiful gilt-edged copy ofWuthering Heightsat me, and it did something really weird to my stomach. There’s something sexy about seeing a man immersed in the pages of my favourite classic. Am I imagining him as Heathcliffe to my Cathy? A week ago, I’d have thought he’d have the perfect brooding man vibe, but now I know he’s way more stable than Heathcliffe, and a lot better person. Still, there’s a little thrill that he’s into love stories, even ill-fated ones like theirs.
The dishwasher hums to life, as Christian gives the counter top a final wipe down, neatly hangs the tea towel and then turns to me with a gloomy expression.
“Time to face the music.”
He glances down at his fancy watch, the one I teased him about the other day, given watches like that cost about the same as a family car. Of course, he got it for free, some brand he’s representing. I’m not sure what tonight’s events will mean for all of that. Will his income from those endorsements go the way of the money for Canine Haven, evaporating alongside Christian’s decision to make a stand? I hope whatever he stood his ground for, it’s worth it.
I follow him to the lounge, feeling like I’ve been summoned to the town square and forced to watch an execution.
Last night, on Episode 4, he and Loreena slayed the challenge. ‘Team Christeena’ was the only pair to have a decent little camp set up in the forest, right down to a neat fire pit for cooking. Apparently, their correctly pitched tent was the only one that didn’t leak. And, according to Christian, the only one with a blanket rigged up inside, so the two of them had a little privacy. Not that the show hosts would have revealed that, given their love of nauseating innuendo about everyone ‘sleeping’ together. Just like they made a thing about everyone squatting behind the bushes, when apparently off camera there was a line of Portaloos. As Christian continues to advise, don’t believe everything you see on TV.
With the dogs each claiming an end of the couch, I head for the vacant armchair, but Christian grabs my hand.
“Sit with me.”
There’s a quiet plea in his voice and I don’t need to be asked twice. He needs me to be there for him through this. I snuggle into the tiny space beside him, nudging Mularkey over a little, and point the remote.
The TV fires into life, and as the opening music forWild For The Winblares at us, Christian’s body is hard and rigid against mine. Tonight, there’s no sign of the relaxed guy who sat through the previous three episodes with me; who even laughed and joked a little.
Jaw clenched, brow furrowed, he leans forward towards the screen. With fists balled on his knees, the knuckles are white. I place a hand over his, circling my thumb, but it’s as if he’s in hisown world right now, and it isn’t a happy one.
I can’t go there with him; no way I can understand what it’s like. All I can offer is quiet support and belief in what he tells me; what the footage rolling across the screen doesn’t show.
Chapter 12
Day Five
It’s not what theyshow of the Episode 5 debacle that provokes a surge of blinding white heat in me. Although it should.
They make a big deal of the part where I have the director’s shirt front twisted in my fist, with the other clenched like I want to hit him. I thought I showed amazing restraint, because Ididwant to hit the prick. But I didn’t—because I’m not the thug they’ve made me appear here.
And I can still feel the humiliating pressure of that security guy’s hand on my head as he pushed me down into the back seat of the car. Like a cop forcing a criminal under arrest into a squad car. I watch myself shrug the bastard off, pissed they’re making me look like the bad guy; as if I wasn’t going willingly. By that stage, I was more thanhappy to leave, even if it meant walking to the coast and swimming back to the mainland.
But no, it’s what they don’t show that unleashes a hot rush of fury, causing my nostrils to flare, turning my knuckles white from tension and my mouth thick with disbelief. And, because of what they’ve relegated to behind the scenes, the viewing public will be as confused as Haley. She turns to me, eyes doubled in size, mouth dropped open, as on screen the car speeds down the metal driveway, whisking me away from the nightmare that wasWild For the Win.
Then, in unison, our eyes turn back to watch the aftermath, as the stream of misinformation flows from the sickening pair of morons fronting this whole disaster.
