Page 2 of The Twelve Days of Christian
The announcement blindsided our team. Despite all the signs being there, none of us wanted to see them. There’s a jab of physical pain in my chest every time I allow the thought to shove its way forward: soon these two scraps of canine mischief might be all I have left of the dog rescue.
Times are tough, and money is tight. Yesterday, Eloise, the President of the Trust, met with us. With the normally bright upturned creases in her cheeks absent, she explained the Trustees are considering closing our outpost clinic in Camden Town, along with the other in Lewisham. Any dogs needing veterinary care would go into the main branch.
She explained how they’ve been struggling to cover the leases for months. Even with the landlord’s generosity in putting the rent on hold, they’re in trouble. With almost a hundred thousand pounds of back rent falling due soon, they need a kind benefactor or a large windfall.
Yes, I’m well qualified, but even if I manage to get another job, it’s unlikely there will be any like this one. Having worked alongside the rescue team, I can’t imagine getting that sort of job satisfaction anywhere else. And as for all our community clients, who dearly love their animals but have limited resources, they’ll struggle to find the reasonably priced care we offer.
My wish is for a Christmas miracle to save us all, and I haven’t given up hope yet. Not while there’s a guy competing on a celebrity reality show who has named the Trust as his charity—my brother’s friend, Christian. I love reality shows and I plan to be glued to this one every night, cheering him on. It’s not a sure thing, but possibility dangles in front of me like a shiny Christmas bauble.
An hour later, with lights, bells, baubles, bows and a dollop of tinsel weighing down every branch of the tree, I flop onto the couch. Last night’s sleeplessness, as anticipation of today battled with a sickening dread of what the next month will bring, has dulled my usual decorating stamina. I need a break before dressing the room.
The two dogs abandon their carolling, ignoring the strains of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’—we’ve moved on toElf—and join me with warm, wiggly bodies. I melt into the song and their companionable snuggles.
However, we’ve barely gotten comfortable when pounding on the door interrupts our blissful enjoyment of the music. My comfortable doggy huddle dissolves as the two of them race to the door, barking.
I’m not expecting anyone. Ollie’s somewhere in Africa on safari, a reward to himself after his band’s gruelling US tour ended three weeks ago. Sam’s at work and my other bestie Rachel, the lucky cow, is taking her hot fiancé home to Scotland to meet her family.
However, there won’t be any sexy guy knocking down my door. I am currently boyfriend-less by choice. I have no regrets about dispensing with the latest in a string of lacklustre men. Julian seemed quirky and interesting to begin with, but after three weeks of him juggling date nights with me and ‘Elden Ring’, an online game, I decided he was simply strange.
Although the real deal-breaker wasn’t his obsession with gaming. He tried to hide it, but he hated the dogs. I’m a ‘love me, love my dog’ kind of girl and I can only imagine having a serious relationship with someone who doesn’t flinch at Mularkey’s doggy kisses, and can tough out Tully’s eye-watering farts.
It’s too early in the day for carollers. The religious door-knockers have removed me from their regular beat, after Tully lost her shit with one. I have no idea why my gentle girl did so. I can only assume he resembled someone from her sad, neglected past.
I reluctantly stumble towards the door, expecting some salesperson who I’ll struggle to dispatch, given the people-pleasing naturethat makes me susceptible to their wiles. However, a second round of a hammering fist on the other side tells me I’m safe from the latest satellite television sales rep. Even they wouldn’t be so insistent.
I leave the chain on, wary it might be one of Ollie’s fans who has tracked him to this address. It has only happened once before, thankfully; about a month after I moved in. I’d opened the door to find two young women looking at me in surprise, as if there was no way someone like me could be the lead singer of Stellar Riot’s girlfriend. Claiming they were old friends, one tried to barge past me. I’m not normally a violent person, but slamming the door on her foot (a completely reflex reaction) left her howling in pain and proved effective at convincing them to leave.
Although any fan obsessed enough to find Ollie’s house would surely know he’s not here. The footage of him at the airport, hamming it up for the cameras, dressed in a ridiculous safari suit, was everywhere. It’s no secret he’s in Africa. The absence of the usual couple of paparazzi lurking outside on the pavement of this quiet Kensington street should be enough to confirm it.
I open the door a sliver. Through the crack, I can see a rumpled set of black jeans, and the sleeve of a padded jacket with a smear of mud on the elbow.
My first thought is it’s Dogman Dave. He’s the homeless guy who has a regular spot outside the Pret a Manger near the tube station. I pass him every day, always giving him a little cash. Or sometimes, if I’m grabbing myself a morning caffeine hit, I’ll buy him a coffee (black two sugars). His dog, Tucker, is a favourite of all who pass. But the absence of Tucker’s smiling face tells me this isn’t Dave. The two are inseparable. If Dave was at my door, Tucker would thrust his wet black nose through it, seeking a pat.
A smell that causes me to wrinkle my nose in distaste drifts towards me and this is the second reason I’m sure this isn’t Dave. He’s often a little scruffy, but always clean. He takes meticulous care of himself and Tucker. No, this is not the Dogman.
My eyes widen as I crane my neck upwards to see that under the cap pulled down low, the man has a black scraggly beard, matching long hair straggling over his collar, and a heavily tattooed hand reaching for the pair of dark sunglasses that obscure his eyes.
He jerks them off and I meet an intense blue gaze. I know those eyes, although I haven’t been this close to them lately. Christian Steele, my brother’s best friend and bandmate, gifted guitarist and a legendary bad boy of the rock world, is staring down at me.
“Let me in Haley, fuck it,” he whispers threateningly. “I need a pee.” It’s so long since I’ve seen him, I’m surprised he even remembers my name. “I’ve been in a car for eight hours and the moment we got within a whisper of London, the bastards wouldn’t even stop to let me have a slash on the side of the road.”
Even through the narrow crack in the door, I can smell beer and bourbon overlaying the rank odour of an unwashed body. I can also see he’s literally dancing from one foot to the other, one hand clutching his crotch. I have no reason to doubt that unless I open this door quick-smart, a rock god is about to piss his pants on my doorstep.
I push the door shut, fumble with the chain, and once it’s free, slowly open the door. But Christian shoves past me, heading straight for the bathroom. Of course, he knows where to go. I’m sure he’s spent nights here before.
Just as well, because Christian has no time to stop and ask for directions. He discards a duffle bag and slings a guitar case fromhis shoulder. Both litter the hallway. He doesn’t even pause to close the bathroom door behind him and I hear a cascade of urine being expelled at high-pressure. It tumbles into the bowl accompanied by a long, low groan of relief. He seems to pee forever.
Intrigued by this stranger, Tully and Mularkey launch themselves from where they’ve been observing from the couch and dive into the bathroom. Like all dogs, they want to be everywhere people are, assuming joining visitors in the toilet is perfectly acceptable. While I’m totally comfortable having an audience of two in the loo, I’m not sure if Christian will feel the same way.
I pause, weighing up whether I go after them and risk seeing him with his pants at half-mast and catch a glimpse of those famous taut butt cheeks naked. Not that I haven’t seen them before. I confess I let my voyeuristic tendencies get the better of me and checked out the tasteful but very sexy shoot he did for a men’s health magazine earlier this year. Rachel dumped a copy on my coffee table. I held out for a day before curiosity got the better of me. Even now, I can summon visions of that beautiful body. Not helpful right this moment.
Charging into the bathroom will most likely incur his wrath at my lack of respect for privacy, but if I don’t, he might get angry with my girls. When I hear a deep throaty laugh, followed by his gravelly voice, I push out a heavy breath of relief, saved from having to decide.
“Guess a man can’t even pee on his own around here.”
Tully lets out a happy woof, and Mularkey echoes her. He emerges still buttoning his jeans, but leaving his belt buckle dangling. The dogs dance at his heels as if they, too, captivated by his charisma, have become canine Christian Steele groupies.
“God, I can’t tell you how much I needed that,” he says, dropping backwards onto my couch, sprawling there as the dogs seize the opportunity to ambush him. While they are unequivocal in their instant liking for him, I myself am still on the fence.
