Page 50 of The Twelve Days of Christian
I’m a little disturbed by this latent aggression surfacing in me. I’ve always been a runner, not a fighter. Probably just as well, given the bullying when I was a kid. If I’d risen to the invitation every time someone hassled me and wanted to settle it with fists, I’d have been in brawls almost daily. With my size—tall even then and muscular from all the farm work—I may well have come out on top in some. Although in the village school, that would only have made me more of a target, and added visits to the headmaster’s office and parents summoned to school to the list of reasons for my father’s dissatisfaction with his youngest son.
So why now? Maybe this is the first time I’ve felt passionate enough about something with the whole snare issue; and about someone—Haley—to consider laying my body on the line, as well as my heart. It’s strange to have this hatred for Jack surging through me.
On impulse, I scoop up my phone. Instagram is on there somewhere. I know I’ve got an account. Not that I’ve ever posted. Our social media manager, Vivi, takes responsibility for presenting me and the rest of the band online, with carefully curated shots designed to appear unscripted. She insists on me taking a look every so often, and I comply, giving nodding approval at the version of me there, even though I couldn’t care less.
This is the first time I’ve ever opened the app without Vivi’s prompting. I have to wait for it to reload, the small arrow and circling icon giving me a moment to wonder if this is wise. I do it anyway.
There’s a little magnifying glass in the top corner and I type in his name. Why am I not surprised when I see his ridiculous handle: @jackthelondonlegend. If there was any doubt this dude’s a douchebag, after seeing that, there’s none. My eyes flick to the profile details below, which only confirm it.
How Haley could even hook up with this guy, let alone fall for him, is completely at odds with the woman I know. She deserves so much better, but perhaps she’s only realised that now. The fact he still has the power to hurt her breaks my heart. Scrolling down his pictures, I still want to punch him.
The most recent shots are in Venice. There are a few touristy ones, ornate buildings and canals. In most, he’s with his arm wrapped around a woman. Paige, I presume. In every one, she’s grinning like the cat that got the cream. More like the booby prize, if he ends up treating her the way he treated Haley. She’s pretty enough, straight blonde hair to her shoulders, big blue eyes, wide and innocent, like a Disney cartoon character. But she’s not innocent. She’s as guilty as her arsehole of a husband.
I jump across to her profile and the recent pictures are almost a mirror of his: a wedding and a honeymoon. More of the wedding on here, some wedding prep ones. Maybe a hen night—god, could she have been callous enough to invite Haley? I don’t see her there and feel pleased. Even if she did get an invite, Haley had enough self-respect not to front up.
Rachel and Samantha aren’t there either. While I don’t think I’ve won either of them over yet, their absence in these photographs is evidence of why they’re hesitant to give me their approval. They’re good friends, who have stuck by Haley in a really shitty time of her life, and they don’t want me to be the source of any more problems.
However, what guts me most when I think of Haley, and causes a seething heat to rise inside me, isn’t the cute honeymoon shots, all romantic. They just make me want to puke. It’s not the wedding pictures—with satisfaction I note lots of umbrellas in those; even the weather gods didn’t approve of what they did. The thing that makes me regret even looking, causes my fingers to tense like claws around the phone and triggers a roar of hatred in my ears is what I see when I jump across to his profile and scroll back further.
There are photographs, so many of them, from the time before they shafted Haley. When he waswithHaley. Even a couple taken in Venice, of all places. This guy has no class, taking his wife on a honeymoon to a city where, not that long ago, he’d spent romantic days with Haley. Pictures of Jack and Haley, laughing, happy, together—in love maybe, although the thought sickens me. Because it had to have been one-sided. Haley probably did love the bastard. But he didn’t love her back, despite the expression on his face, or the pretty words he most likely whispered in her ear. If he’d loved her, he wouldn’t have done this.
And when I flick across to the woman’s feed, there they are—pictures of her and Haley, too, the best of friends, at a bar, on the beach, and then one the most sickening of all: the three of them. Was he fucking this Paige then? Screwing around behind Haley’s back while posing there as if she’s the only woman for him. Most likely. And, if it wasn’t for the fact I can’t easily replace it right now, I’d hurl this phone across the room.
Why would you not remove those photographs? I shake my head in disbelief. It’s as if they want the whole world to see the then and the now, and show how Paige has snared the prize, edging out herfriend to win this man—who’s such a great catch. Yeah, right? Those two deserve each other.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table in disgust. And then change my mind.
I know it’s childish, but I can’t help myself. I grab it up, and go to the picture Jack’s posted of himself leaning against the railing of a water taxi, the dark green canal sparkling behind him. It’s only a one word comment, but it brings me immense satisfaction as I hit the blue arrow:Wanker.My mouth twists in a smirk as I see it recorded in black and white, indelible, my name against it for him to read.
While I’m standing there, admiring my work, the phone vibrates in my hand, lighting up with a text. My first instinct is to ignore it, like I’ve ignored all the others. But when it’s Ollie’s name there, I swallow down my guilt at the memory of last night and tap the screen.
It’s dated yesterday, around eleven pm. Right around the time I was falling asleep, wrapped around his sister, like he somehow knew. Where the message has been for all the hours since I have no idea; drifting around in the ether like some digital messenger pigeon until just now, finally homing in on its target.
OLLIE:Just checking in to say I’m alive. Hope my sister is looking after you. No point texting back. Coverage still shit. Got a signal here but tour guide says it won’t last. This place is amazing. Not sure I’m ever coming back. Fancy taking over lead vocals?
I close the message quickly, dropping the phone like it’s burning hot. While I do want my friend to come back, right now it might be a very good thing if Ollie stayed away a bit longer.
Chapter 25
Day Eight
I don’t hear fromHaley at all. No phone call, not even a text. Once the fairy lights are back in place, I head for the kitchen and begin on dinner. I figure she’ll appreciate something warming. She seems to like Italian, so I grab my phone and pull up a recipe for meatballs I’ve made before. The smell of tomato and herbs simmering on the cooktop fills the house.
I throw more wood on the fire, pick up my guitar case, and settle with my instrument. My fingers automatically begin to play around with the little tune that’s been in the back of my head lately. For the first time today, something besides Haley occupies my mind. Losing myself in music is always a place to find certain pleasure when the rest of the world seemsso unsure, like now.
It’s not until around four when I hear her stomping her boots on the mat at the front steps and I know she’s home. The dogs and I arrive at the door, flinging it open in welcome. Her cheeks are pink, her dark hair dusted with a few white flakes. Framed against the backdrop of the grey world outside, where snow swirls in delicate feather-soft flurries, her deep green coat intensifying the colour of her eyes, I take a mental snapshot. I want to remember her like this. Just in case things don’t go to plan. In case this moment is as rare as the snow settling on the ground behind her. Snow in London in December isn’t unusual, but snow with the absence of rain and sleet that usually rob us of this perfect Christmas picture is almost unheard of. It’s like even the weather knows there’s something special happening here between us.
I step back and usher her past the dogs with their tapping feet and lashing tails. She strips off a pair of woollen gloves, unbuttons the coat and shrugs it from her shoulders into my waiting hands. I hang it on a peg on the big old-fashioned coat stand and then turn back to her. I spread my arms wide in invitation, unsure whether last night’s closeness and this morning’s comforting hug entitle me to have her step inside them now.
She relaxes into my embrace like an exhausted marionette, as if she’s danced one too many times across the stage, and is relieved when the puppet master releases the strings, allowing her to collapse in a heap. I’d like to slump against her with relief at her choice. She crossed a line with me last night, and thank god she hasn’t leapt back over it in regret. But I’m careful. If I pressed myself against her as I’d like to, she’d be confronted with the instant hard-on stiffening in my jeans.
“How did it go?” I try to sound nonchalant, as if not so much depended on the outcome of this day.
“Pretty good, I think.” The tickle of her words across my neck makes me shiver. She steps back, taking my hand. “Pour me a wine, and I’ll tell you about it.”
I let her lead me to the kitchen, where she settles on a stool. While I open another bottle of the merlot, she scrabbles for dog treats in a big jar on the counter. The dogs circling at her feet snatch them from her hands, disappearing to the lounge to gnaw on their antler chews.
“Is that what happens to Santa’s reindeer when they retire?” I raise a brow, my mouth sliding into a teasing grin. “Dogs chewing on bits of old Rudolph in there, are they?”
