Chapter 14
Day Six
Alongside me, Christian’s body is coiled as tight as the trigger on one of the damn snares he hates so much. As the theme song for Wild For The Win blasts from the TV, the opening credits for Episode 6 rolling across the screen, his mouth thins in a terse line. The moment he sees me looking, it moulds into a curve, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. I pat his knee, and he reaches across and squeezes my hand. We’re partners in this now, him and me.
“You should relax a little,” I say. “Surely the worst is over.”
We faced the footage of his eviction together last night, and now he’s away from those jerks they can’t hurt him anymore.
“I suppose so,” he says. “I’m worried all of it was for nothing. What if, behind the scenes, the cruelty still went ahead? ”
“I doubt it,” Rachel says. “They wouldn’t take the risk. Once one person called them out, raised doubts, they wouldn’t have risked another.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he sighs, his shoulders dropping, a little less on edge from her reassurance.
Christian trusts Rachel, even though it’s obvious she’s not a fan of his. Her help wasn’t the silver bullet we’d hoped for, but it is something. Loreena Bunt is the key even though for now she’s out of our reach. Over dinner, Christian praised Rachel to the point where she told him to shut up. But I know my friend has a big ego—she’s quietly pleased she found a way forward, and secretly loved his every grateful word.
“I still feel bad about Loreena.” He frowns as she appears on the screen, poking at a small fire with a stick, and giving the steaming billy can sitting on a frame above it a stir. “I totally fucked up her chances.”
“Maybe not. I think Loreena can take care of herself.” Rachel has a distinct hint of admiration in her voice.
“Yeah, I suppose she can, can’t she?” He chuckles a little at the thought. This time, a genuine, undiluted smile lights Christian’s face.
I smile too, realising my less-than-charitable opinion of Loreena—and now I’ll admit it, the unexpected stab of jealousy I felt back on the night when they partnered up—has evaporated. Seeing her through Christian’s eyes is part of the lesson he’s taught me about myself. In the past, I’ve been as bad as the rest of them out there; quick to judge, forming opinions based on flimsy superficial evidence, believing the crap the media spins. But I’m determined to not be that person anymore. I want to be a better person, for myself; and for him.
“She’s an inspiration,” Rachel says, as they continue to focus on Loreena. She’s gamely shoring up the tent, even though the rain pours down. One of the other contestants gives her some shit, and she flips him a middle finger. “I love the way she doesn’t care what anyone thinks.”
We sit and watch in silence. There are fireworks between some of the other pairs. It seems it’s not all warm and cosy inside those tents. The pressure is showing as they bicker and snipe. Hunger is taking its toll as some turn their noses up at their wild food concoctions. I can’t say I blame them. They look disgusting.
One of the guys—who I’m sure I last saw as a naked contestant on one of those horrible dating programmes—steps behind a large tree and the cameras follow. He’s certainly bundled up in plenty of clothes now, with a faint dusting of snow on the ground. He slides his hand deep into a jacket pocket, producing a silver flask. Toasting the viewers with a secretive “Slainté”, he slugs back the illicit alcohol.
“Ooh, whisky,” I say, remembering its pleasant warmth sliding down my throat last night. It was surprisingly good, at least to me, a whisky rookie. “Anyone want one?” I offer.
“Nah, I’m driving,” Rachel says. “Plus, after four days in Scotland with my family, I think I need a break from whisky.”
“Better not,” Christian says. “Ollie’s already going to be pissed about us drinking half a bottle last night.”
He’s right. It’s probably not the best idea, but not because I’m worried about Ollie. I hold the whisky directly responsible for latching my mouth onto Christian’s last night. I thought he enjoyed it as much as I did, but he hasn’t said a word today. What that means I don’t know—for me or him.
My feelings for Christian flicker like the fairy lights on my fabulous tree standing over there in front of the window. They’re like bright eyes blinking at me as they rotate through all their different programs. Sometimes they pulse slowly, a steady, comforting rhythm, almost hypnotic. It’s a mantra, telling me it’s fine to feel this way; this is how it’s meant to be. Other times they flash rapidly, like an excited beating heart. And then they launch into a wild random sequence, both delightful and unnerving. That’s what they’re doing now, the perfect accompaniment to the swirling inside of me that’s growing every day he’s here.
I’m jolted back from gazing lovingly at the tree, as beside me Christian lurches forward, a sudden intense fixation on the TV. His eyes are torn wide, hands pressed to his mouth.
“Fuck, no,” he says, his tone lethal.
In front of us there’s Loreena, crying, suitcase in hand. Other contestants crowd around her. One guy wraps an arm across her shoulder, rubbing at her back with a soothing hand. The mics seem to have failed. Their words are erratic, a faint burble. What the hell is happening?
A burly guy in a security uniform approaches, putting a large paw on Loreena’s arm. She flicks him off; her plump lips contorted in a scowl, her brows fighting against the Botox, plunging downwards in an angry frown. He steps back, startled, as she pushes past him, and dives into the waiting car.
She tries to drag the suitcase after her, but it’s too big and sticks in the doorway. She gives it a violent shove, and it lurches back. Loreena leaps out of the car after it and screams at the driver to open the boot. He gets out and tries to help her wrangle the case, but she’s not having any of it. She hisses at him like an enraged wildcat, poking at his chest with one of her pointed red nails, a threatening scarlet talon. He raises both hands as if to placate her, backing away, and sliding back into the driver’s seat. Finally, she wrestles the case into the boot, slams it with a deafening crash, and stumbles into the rear seat of the car. The security guy thrusts the door shut, and it races away.
It’s déjà vu. Just like Christian, Loreena Bunt is no longer on Wild For The Win.
Christian grabs the remote, turning up the volume so there’s no possibility of missing the conversation between the contestants, hanging on their words. All of us are trying to make sense of what we’ve just seen.
“You can’t blame her,” says Kelly, a scrawny blonde who never even made it to the altar in the last season of Love By Arrangement . “After being alone in that tent with him, of course she’d want to leave.”
“Surely you’ve read about him in the papers? He’s a shit,” says Tiffany Rose, the soap star, her character recently killed off in a fiery car crash. No doubt she needs all the screen time she can get and isn’t missing her chance here.
Tiffany’s co-star, who goes by the unlikely name of Chardonnay, is equally damning. “Honestly, what woman puts up with a guy like him?”
And so it goes on. Bit by bit, person by person, the producers fabricate an elaborate lie. With snippets of comments taken out of context, then stitched back together again, they’ve created a monster worthy of Dr Frankenstein .
Although it’s not said directly—because suing for slander is still a possibility—anyone watching will come to the same inevitable conclusion: Loreena wasn’t asked to leave; she chose to. And Loreena chose to leave, not out of solidarity with Christian, but because she’s upset by something Christian did to her .
“Can they do that?” I croak, my horror at what’s happened here rendering me almost speechless.
“They can, and they have,” Rachel says quietly.
Beside me, Christian is a man frozen in time, anguish carved on his face, unable to take his eyes off the screen, unable to turn away from the vile insinuations that continue to swirl back and forth.
Finally, they cut to ads, offering a chance for him to break free. When he moves, it’s an explosion. He slams his hand on the remote so hard it skews off the table, flying through the air and landing with a clatter. He’s a storm cloud tumbling down the hallway. His bedroom door crashes shut, the house quaking as the sound reverberates off the walls.
“Do you think he really…”
“No!” I blurt, leaping to Christian’s defence.
Rachel’s brows fly upwards. “You seem awfully sure about that.”
“I am. He’s not like that Rache.”
“You know, as my mum always says, where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
“That’s the thing here, Rachel. There never was any smoke. All that stuff about him and his girlfriend? A heap of crap. Just like they did to Ollie.”
She has the decency to look a little ashamed, as she should be. She might be engaged to another guy, but like all my friends, Rachel has a soft spot for Ollie. Everyone hated what they did to him as much as I did.
“Fuckers,” Rachel spits. How she manages to control that potty mouth in a courtroom I’ll never know. “He’s screwed.”
“Why would they do that?” I can’t understand what they hoped to gain from this.
“An insurance policy perhaps? In case he was brave enough to out them, take his chances—if they discredit him, who will the public believe?”
“Yeah, but was it necessary? To go that far?”
“No,” she says, looking thoughtful. “But it did make for some pretty memorable TV. No one’s going to forget that in a while. If the programme’s been struggling, hooking viewers in with a big controversy will make sure they get another season.”
“At the expense of people who don’t deserve it. Messing with their lives.”
“You see why I don’t usually watch this stuff, don’t you?”
She’s gentle in her chiding, but I’m still ashamed. Viewers like me feed this voracious machine that chews people up and spits them out simply to make money and boost ratings. A blushing warmth creeps up my face.
“Hey, it’s OK,” she says. “Don’t feel bad. This one was supposed to do some good, wasn’t it? I was watching too.”
She grabs at my arm, offering a solid squeeze.
“Yeah,” I say. “Looks like they had us all fooled.”
“I was even on Team Christeena,” she laughs. “Anything for the dogs.”
That’s another thing we have in common. Rachel’s a champion for dogs too, under that severe suit and stern lawyer demeanour. She’s been an angel, taking on pro bono work for the Trust. That’s why, despite her grumbles, she happily gave her time to help out Christian tonight. She knows his heart’s with the animals, too.
“How’s it going down there at the clinic?” she asks, her voice a little wary.
“A bit grim,” I say. “We’re all trying to keep positive, but it’s hard knowing we might be out of a job soon.”
“Something will come through, I know it will,” she says.
“Just not Wild For The Win .”
“No, we might have to find our Christmas miracle somewhere else. This house looks like one great big summoning spell for it,” she teases, standing to gather her coat and briefcase.
“It had better start working its magic soon. The clock’s ticking.” I survey my beautiful decorations, savouring the small surge of happiness they bring, even in the middle of all this mess.
“It will happen,” she says. “All those rich people love to make themselves look good by splashing a bit of Christmas spirit around.” She quirks a brow. “What about Ollie? He’s always happy to throw money around. Would he come through for you?”
My breath comes out, a sharp exhale. Her eyes bore into me, and I shrink a little under her scrutiny, before deciding this is the one person who might understand my selfishness at not wanting my brother to help.
“Yeah, he would. But I don’t want to ask him.” I swallow, fearful of putting it into words. I wander over to the Christmas tree, rearranging an ornament that’s slipped, adjusting the arc of a strand of tinsel, moving a light that’s tucked behind a branch. Delaying.
“You know I think I only got the interview for this job because Mum knows one of the trustees, right? ”
She nods, and her eyes soften. It might not be true, but it’s the thing that tarnished my delight when I phoned my parents to tell them I’d been offered the position—my mother pointedly mentioning how only a week earlier she’d seen the woman at some school fundraiser. When I voiced it to Rachel, of course she shot the idea down, trying to bolster my confidence. But I can’t let go of the sickening possibility. I blunder on.
“So, if Ollie was to give them the hundred grand, it would kind of feel like he’s buying me a job.”
“I get it.” She steps in, pulling me into a stiff hug, and I fight back tears, not wanting to dampen the front of her smart jacket. “Honey, if there’s another way, we’ll find it.”
She strokes my hair with awkward fingers. Warm fuzzies don’t come naturally to Rachel, so I know she’s worried about me. I step back, and she gives a small relieved huff, self-consciously smoothing down her skirt.
“Call me if you need anything else. Promise?” I nod. “And don’t worry. I’m not giving up on your miracle, OK?”
As I shut the door, I’m hoping Rachel is right. But our clinic isn’t the only thing deserving of a Christmas miracle. There’s a man locked in the room opposite mine who deserves saving, too.