Page 67 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“You brought Peter a puppy?” Her expression is bemused, and there’s confusion in her eyes.
“Well, yes—no—not exactly…”
“Oooh, can I see her? Him?”
“Him,” I say. “OK.” Maybe Kona will charm her into letting me see the elusive Peter.
I bend down, open the mesh door, and he tumbles into my waiting arms. I stand, cradling him against my chest, and he nips at theloose strands of my hair that have escaped my ponytail, oblivious to the crowd of people making a beeline for us.
It’s like Stellar Riot has dropped into the middle of a busy street at midday. The staff materialise from their workstations, clustering around Kona and me, with chuckles of laughter, and shining eyes, as he works his puppy magic on the room. He wiggles in my arms, paws extended towards them, as if he’s hoping to crowd surf across the group.
“Awww, he’s only got three legs,” someone whispers. There’s a rippled murmur of sympathy.
“You first, Bethany,” another voice calls. “Just don’t hog him too long.”
The receptionist unwinds herself, slides from behind the desk, standing tall and lean, arms spread like black wings. With gentle hands, she takes Kona and lays him across her shoulder, his tongue lapping at her long pale neck. Her eyes fall shut in dreamy bliss, as her nose ruffles the puppy’s mochaccino fur, drinking in the smell of him.
“Guess I know what you want for Christmas.” A voice, thick with humour, drifts from the back of the space.
The crowd parts and a man in black jeans and a white band t-shirt of The Cure, under an open plaid shirt, strolls between them. A smirk splits his face beneath a pair of velvet brown eyes. Although he’s the most casually dressed person in the room, the deference of the staff and his unruffled demeanour leave no doubt—he’s the boss. Peter Holt. Probably in his forties, he looks vaguely familiar, with his swarthy complexion, and a shock of black curls tumbling untidily to his shoulders. I’m reminded of a pirate—a friendly enough onewith his beaming smile. The heavy silver ring in each ear completes the picture.
“Oh darling, yes,” the woman, Bethany, breathes, “if only we didn’t live in a glass box ten storeys up.” Her mouth curves into a rueful smile.
I watch his hand reach towards her, smoothing the puppy’s head with ring-bedecked fingers. Ornate heavy silver gleams on every finger of the other too, as he gently tousles the woman’s wild hair.
“So, what brings Haley Templeton in here on a Monday afternoon, stopping my staff from work?”
My head snaps away from his hands and my disbelieving eyes jerk upward to meet his teasing expression.
“I never forget a name or a face,” he says.
“Or every handbag or pair of shoes I buy,” the woman drawls, her painted mouth twitching in amusement. “Husbands,” she shrugs.
“Star Power, three years ago.” He points a finger my way. “Your brother, Ollie, made it to the semis. Could have gone further,” he says. “But the people seemed to have a soft spot for all the freaks that season.”
“Yes,” I croak out, in shock. “That’s right.”
“Peter Holt,” he says, extending a hand to me. Mine shakes a little as he squeezes it, the gesture warm against the hard metal of his grip.
“Haley was hoping to see you,” the woman says, words a little muffled with her mouth buried in Kona’s fur. “But haven’t you got Hugh Partridge due any minute?”
“Oh fuck, yes,” he sighs. “Sorry Haley. Beth will make you a time—how’s tomorrow morning?”
Panic leaps in my chest. Time is running out; if I’m going to make any difference, I need to talk to this guy now, with Kona here to press my point.
“Please.” My voice comes out a desperate plea. “It really needs to be today. Just a few minutes. It’s aboutWild For The Win.”
Peter Holt’s eyes narrow. “Is it now?” His dark brows angle down in a fierce knot, like the captain of the pirate ship contemplating drawing his cutlass. “Well then, as that bellend Hugh just so happens to be the producer ofWild For The Win, you’d better come into my office.”
“Beth, honey,” he says, turning to his wife. “How about you let her bring the puppy?” He’s already mesmerised by Kona; a good sign. “Maybe make her a coffee, too? She looks frozen to death. And when Mr Partridge arrives, don’t let him make himself comfortable.”
A minute later, I’m seated inside the sleek glass walls of Peter’s office, the only one inside the vast otherwise open-plan space. Kona’s sliding around on his desktop, lunging at Peter’s hands as they play a game of puppy tag.
Beth delivers me a mug of milky coffee. I warm my hands on it, but the sweet liquid does nothing to soothe the agitated lump in my throat. Peter pauses a moment in the game and I meet his gaze with nervous blinks when he looks my way.
“So, what’s up, Haley?” he asks.
All my resolve to berate this man for what his company has done fades away in the face of his friendly tone and obvious delight in Kona’s antics. Peter’s likeable, and I didn’t want to like him. I swallow hard, trying to summon my indignation.
