Chapter 17
Day Seven
Now I know why my brother and Christian call this car a beast. It certainly has a mind of its own, like a barely restrained wild thing. But I have no choice except to master it.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, feeling the pulsing of the engine, is like perching in a saddle atop an antsy pony that’s been chomping spring grass. There’s this sense that one little nudge and it will bolt.
I ease the car into the street, thankful I don’t have to reverse it out of the narrow garage. Backing a car isn’t something I’ve done too often, and the last thing I want is to graze the paintwork on my brother’s pride and joy. If I’m careful, he’ll never find out I’ve driven it. Christian’s not going to rat on me. Not after what I’m about to do .
It’s been at least a year since I’ve been behind the wheel. I don’t drive, but I can drive. Ollie encouraged me to do lessons, but I didn’t go the next step and sit my licence. Right now, I regret making what felt like a sensible decision. I couldn’t see the point when I didn’t have a car. Not only do I not need one—London’s public transport system is second to none—but it’s a luxury I can’t afford. Parked up most of the time, sucking pounds I don’t have for insurance and on-road costs, it wouldn’t be a smart move.
Once out of the driveway, I pause, knowing I should punch the address into the car’s navigation. I glance up and see Christian standing in the doorway, face rigid in shock, waving at me and yelling. This guy cares for me, so I know it only comes from a place of concern. I don’t like being the source of the distress on his face. But there’s no choice but to put him through this short-term pain. I’m doing this for him. Because, damn it all, this squooshy feeling inside of me, when I think of Christian Steele—the one that’s crept up on me on stealthy feet—tells me I care about him too.
I don’t hesitate. Slamming my foot on the accelerator—grateful it’s automatic and I don’t have to worry about my poor gear-changing skills—I’m off down the street, the raucous scream of the engine advertising my escape.
A few blocks away, while I’m still on the quiet leafy streets of Kensington, I find a spot to pull over. I pick up my phone, ignoring the two texts from Christian. My mind is made up and I fear reading them will only undermine my resolve to do what I must. Another arrives, and as the dog howl echoes through the car, I switch the phone to silent. Driving will take all my concentration and I don’t need that distraction .
Thinking about Christian in any way is a distraction. I’ve caught myself daydreaming at work. Chuckling about things he’s said—like “Do we really need that nativity scene in the kitchen? I feel like Baby Jesus is judging me every time I’m in the fridge reaching for a beer.” Smiling to myself about things he’s done—such as when I came home on Wednesday to find a five-foot inflatable Frosty the Snowman standing in a corner of the downstairs toilet, who now watches me every time I sit down to pee. I had no idea you could order and have such things delivered to the doorstep in literally an hour until Christian moved in.
For someone who is so adamant he’s not a fan of Christmas, Christian is more than just tolerating my obsession, but leaning into it for me. Much as I claim otherwise, his constant teasing about my OTT Christmas aesthetic is a flow of warmth and fun between us, and the thought it won’t be there when he goes next week gives me an unexpected pang of loss even now when it hasn’t yet happened. I told myself I liked being alone; I was happy having the freedom of a house to myself, with no one to tell me what to do.
But Christian’s not no one, he’s someone. Like all those fangirls out there, I may have fallen for him. Unlike them, my feelings are not built on an image, but a knowing of the man behind the rock star strutting around the stage. His vulnerability, the side of him they will never see, stirs a tenderness in me. He’s done it again, distracted me, and I go back to my task.
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. The crazy 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 actual road, 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. Someone is 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.
The man who appears from the left wears a crooked smile on his face, bracketed by deep lines. His tanned skin looks oddly out of place on this mid-winter day, as if he’s just jetted in from the south of Spain. Wiry bristles of steely grey hair, cut flat like an exotic form of scrubbing brush, sit above darker brows. His eyes sparkle, an unusually intense shade of blue that reminds me of Christian.
He’s not a big man, but he walks with the confidence of one. Even though he’s dressed casually—jeans, a sweater with a Burberry logo and a pair of chunky Nike trainers that make his feet look huge—he projects the air of the boss as much as if he wore a suit and tie.
“Get your big ugly mug out of here, Raymond, you tosser,” he says, in an accent straight out of EastEnders. He elbows the big man aside. “You’re scaring the girl.”
“Hello, luv.” He extends a broad hand with thick stumpy fingers. “Tommy Bunt.”
I respond without thinking, offering my own. He clasps it firmly, but with care not to crush my fingers against the row of heavy gold rings adorning his every finger. Diamonds sparkle off some, their flashy rays at odds with the very down-to-earth ordinariness of this man.
“Nice to meet you, Tommy.” My voice comes out small, betraying my bravado is only surface deep. “I’m Haley.”
“Christian’s girlfriend, eh?” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you. But I’m damn glad you’re here.”
“So am I.” A raspy voice sounds from somewhere above. I look up to the top of the grand central staircase, with its gleaming bannisters and deep burgundy carpet. Loreena Bunt stands in the centre, barely recognisable.
Normally dressed like some exotic bird, in flamboyant clothes and extravagant colour, today she’s wearing skinny black jeans and a plain cream roll-neck sweater. Her famously big hair isn’t teased into its usual golden halo. It hangs long and loose, as if she’s a refugee from a surfer movie. Naked of makeup, her face is still attractive, but she looks more like the forty-something woman she is. The bruised hollows beneath her eyes suggest sleepless nights. Like Christian, the aftermath of Wild From The Win weighs heavily upon her.
“So am I,” she repeats softly, advancing towards me down the stairs, her smile warm, her face open and welcoming. She stands tall, taking elegant steps, like a debutante descending into a ballroom. Those jerks might have tried to beat Loreena down, but they haven’t succeeded.