Page 36 of The Twelve Days of Christian
Rachel’s earlier text has what I need—the address for Loreena and Tommy Bunt. She sent it through, along with the suggestion we go there tomorrow. Sitting at my desk, leafing through notes on eczema and mange, while having that information in my possession, it monopolised my brain, eating away at my common sense. Thecrazy idea I had last night became a certainty. I have to go today, alone.
Every day goes by is another day where the lies about Christian and Loreena swirl across the internet, and I’m not sure we can prevent that; not with last night’s episode now unleashed into the world.
But Christian is trapped in that house, powerless to do anything about it. He got another email from the bastards this morning reminding him of his contractual obligations to remain where he is until after the final episode when the winner is revealed airs on TV, and to speak to no one before the live in-studio post-mortem the following day.
However, I’m not bound by that. I can at least try to find some way to help him. And that starts with Loreena. She’s likely also a prisoner under house arrest, but even the toughest jails have visiting hours, and I’m off to demand my time with her.
The images of the village of Sarratt that pop up when I enter the address into my maps app are far removed from what I expected. Only a few miles from the town of Watford, yet it’s a world away. There’s idyllic countryside, with a stone church, meandering canals, rolling green farmland, thatched cottages and manor houses. I suspect it’s more manor house where I’ll find the Bunts.
Before I resume driving, I fire off an email to my course tutor. With fingers crossed, I hope they’ll allow me to take the exam with the next class intake. Or if I’m really lucky, they might grant me a pass based on my coursework, which would be the best outcome, given that string of straight A’s for my assignments and practicals. My low-key obsession with getting perfect grades might pay off.
Guilt at the lie grips me as I type the words, but there’s no option. I’ve never taken a day off in my life when I wasn’t actually sick; never forged a note from my mum. Yes, I’m a goody two-shoes. My lack of practice at deception triggers a nauseating fear I’ll be so bad at lying I’ll be found out.
Another reason not to crash the car. It would be fairly difficult to sustain the untruth I’m home in bed with a blinding migraine if I end up in hospital after a traffic accident. I also have this irrational feeling about using the migraine as an excuse, as if next time I have a real one—thankfully that’s not so often these days—no one will believe me. The girl who cried wolf. With a tentative tap, the message is gone. There’s no going back now.
I take a deep breath and edge out into the street, steeling myself for what lies beyond the next intersection. In moments, I will be on Notting Hill Gate in the thick of lunchtime traffic and soon on the A40. When I was learning to drive, I hated the motorway; wanted to cling to the city streets with one or two lanes and sluggish traffic, but today there’s no realistic alternative. I hand over my trust to the soothing voice of the navigation, set my mouth in a determined line and drive.
As I merge into the slow lane coming onto the motorway, I grip the wheel so hard my fingers hurt. I’m aware of the curious looks from other drivers. It’s probably not every day they see a bright yellow Porsche hugging the left-hand lane, sedately keeping below the speed limit. It’s not only my nervousness from lack of experience; if I’m pulled over by the traffic police, there’s more than a speeding ticket coming my way.
I follow the instructions carefully—A40, M40, M25, A404—each one just as daunting. Finally, the exit leads to an actualroad, not another motorway. I breathe a sigh of relief, taking a hand off the wheel one at a time to flex my aching fingers. I roll each shoulder backwards and forwards in turn, trying to ease the tense, painful knots.
Now I no longer need to focus my attention so tightly on the traffic, thoughts of what lies ahead of me creep in. What if I’ve driven the thirty miles out here and they won’t see me? Loreena might have decided to go to ground and let it run its course. Knowing her, she may plan to give them a giant middle finger by carrying on as if nothing has happened. But I saw her on that TV screen. Her tear-streaked face and the huddle of contestants trying to comfort her suggest that whatever happened got underneath that hard-arse devil may care attitude she presents to the world.
And last night’s episode, the way it portrayed her as some sort of victim to Christian’s villain? If it’s one thing Loreena Bunt isn’t, it’s a victim. I’m counting on her being as blindingly angry as Christian, the difference being she might be able to do something about it, with my help and Rachel’s smarts.
The road narrows until it’s little more than a lane buried between high hedgerows that look like they’d be home to all the creatures that adorn my favourite Christmas baubles—and Christian’s body. The navigation announces the destination is on my left and I swing into the wide entrance to a driveway.
Ahead of me, flanked by two high stone walls, a set of wrought-iron gates with a row of pointy Fleur de Lys along the upper edge bars my way. I imagine it’s an effective deterrent. No one would want to climb over such an evil-looking barrier. With a tap of a button, the electric window whirs downward and I push the intercom. I look up to see a small camera directed my way. Someoneis watching me and it’s creepy knowing some invisible person scrutinises my face.
“State your name and business, please.” The voice through the speaker has an unfriendly metallic tone to it.
“Haley Templeton,” I say. “I’m Christian Steele’s girlfriend.”
Driving here, I felt a growing panic. What if having come all this way, the Bunts refuse to let me in? I needed something compelling. I figured this lie might do the trick. I’ve told so many lies today I’m already going to hell, so why not another?
I don’t think Christian would mind. The way he looks at me sometimes, I think he might even like it. If I admit it, I might like it too. But if there’s a chance for this unexpected friendship between us to blossom into something more, it has to wait. Right now, the best thing I can do for Christian is carry on with this mission.
The intercom falls silent, the faint hiss of static the only reply. Perhaps the person speaking had to think about it a moment. Or ask someone else for permission to let me through. Eventually, the gates glide open.
There’s no sign of a house at first; only a winding driveway between massive oak trees, bare of leaves. Branches like stark fingers reach for each other, meeting above my head, while others point at the gloomy grey sky. I inch forward, the car gliding over the fine gravel surface; the mosaic of tiny pebbles crunching under the tyres.
Over a small rise, the house comes into view. Walls of honeyed stone rise three storeys, two broad wings either side of a turreted central tower. Not quite Downton Abbey, it’s impressive all the same. By comparison, Ollie’s beautiful country home down in Somerset seems modest.
The trees give way to gardens, manicured lawns and shrubs trimmed into precise geometric shapes—balls and pyramids, elaborate spirals and cones.
I pull up under the pillars of a portico and step out onto huge stone pavers. Beyond the imposing columns, water cascades in layers down a tiered fountain. A frowning Neptune sits on a rocky island at its centre, one arm held aloft, clutching his trident, the other cradling a pitcher. Water pours from it, spilling into the lower level where horses with curled manes like the crests of waves leap from the depths as if trying to escape. It’s stunning, but the friendly bubbling water is not enough to drown out the pounding of my heart or soothe the knot in my stomach.
I walk up the steps to the door, my boot heels echoing in the cavernous entry way. In the centre of the door is a gigantic Christmas wreath. Red and green velvet ribbons ensnare stems of sleek green holly and bundles of cedar. Gilded pine cones and seed pods sprayed silver glint in its depths. The tiny bird figurines nestled amongst the greenery are so realistic I expect them to take flight at my approach. A huge deep red velvet bow drapes artfully from the base. I trace my fingers across the greenery and the fragrance of the woods, overlaid with a hint of cinnamon, fills my nose, a sweet soothing smell.
The beauty of the wreath gives the imposing wooden door a benign feeling, as if the house welcomes me. I’d love to spend more time examining the intricate work, but that’s not why I’m here.
I reach for the huge brass knocker, then freeze, hand poised in mid-air as the door swings open. It’s not a stiff butler in a starched suit that greets me, but a man in a leather bomber jacket. A man I recognise. It’s the guy who accosted me outside Christian’s apartment. I take a step back, my instinct to flee triggered.
“Hello, luv,” he says with a smirk. “Here to do the cleaning, are we?”
His smarmy face makes my hackles rise, like Mularkey in the park one day, when an aggressive dog zeroed in on us, intent on starting a brawl. In the same way as she did then, rather than run, I choose to stand my ground and prepare for a fight.
This guy will not be the reason I fail to see Loreena Bunt. Seeing me draw myself straighter and narrow my eyes only provokes greater amusement in his. I peer around his bulky form at the sound of approaching footsteps from somewhere inside the vast entry hall beyond.
