The Twelve Days of Christian (Stellar Riot Christmas)

Chapter 1

Day One

Some days it’s perfectly acceptable to still be wearing pyjamas at lunchtime and today is one of them. Especially if they’re this gorgeous candy-cane coated pair that literally begged me to buy them as a Christmas gift-to-self; and especially if it’s the day I’ve waited a whole agonising twelve months for. Finally, I can indulge in my favourite thing of the entire year: Christmas decorating.

There must be some hidden law of physics that allows time to speed up between one birthday and the next once you hit your twenties, while dragging its heels approaching other annual celebrations with painful slowness. Halloween, Christmas, and New Year’s—I love them all, but this one’s the biggie .

Although, it always seems to be over as quick as one blink of the fake candle lights draped on my tree. Come January 1st, once again I’m damned to eternity in a dreary wasteland—well, only eleven months, but it feels like more. Eleven months to be endured until December 1st, when I can once more set to work creating the perfect Christmas fantasy.

Today is the first Saturday in December—the traditional start of my decorating. The tree must be in place, and it is. Not just any old tree will do. There’s no substitute for a live tree, and I inhale the fresh woodsy scent with deep satisfaction.

There are some tasks a girl of five foot two can’t handle on her own, no matter how determined she may be. Wrangling a monster tree is one of them. However, living in London, nothing is a problem. I got off work early yesterday to meet the delivery guys who manhandled this seven-foot beauty into place. After suffering a self-inflicted headache all day—one so bad it felt like a boisterous Salvation Army brass band had taken up residence inside my skull and was playing their noisiest Christmas carols on repeat—I was grateful for the excuse. Now I admire how the fir tree stands framed by one of the tall sash windows, the delicate needles not quite brushing the white plaster ceiling. It waits patiently for adornment.

But before I can attend to this Cinderella, who will be the belle of the ball when I’m finished with her, my phone rings. Without looking, I know who it is. Britney Spears bellows out ‘Stronger’, my ringtone a tribute to one of the toughest people I know, my friend Samantha. She’s small but fierce and she loves me in the same way.

When I pick up, her familiar “Hi hun,” is submerged in the background clatter of clanging trolleys, and voices echoing off vinyl-coated walls. It might be a weekend day shift, but the A her white satin shoes soaked in muddy puddles. I’m not normally a vengeful person, but being cheated on is enough to send the most forgiving girl to the dark side.

“Looks like the karma train is pulling into the station.”

“Exactly,” she says. “The universe speaks when people do shitty things. They brought it on themselves,” she adds with a satisfied sniff. I hear a flurry of raised voices in the background. “OK, gotta go,” she says. “Incoming. Talk later, eh?”

Despite Sam bringing up the one subject that should make me feel like shit, I’m strangely better at having faced it. Now it’s time to get back to the only important thing about today.

My fingers jab at the phone, seeking an essential ingredient, my extensive Christmas playlists. First up is the Christmas movie collection, the ultimate accompaniment for the task. There’s a blissful sense of freedom as the first bars of ‘Rock’in Around The Christmas Tree’ ring out. I’m straight into Home Alone .

Today, being home alone is not a bad thing. I can flood the house with music to my heart’s content. While technically I share my brother Ollie’s house, he’s so often away I get to revel in the delicious solitude, doing whatever I please. Today that means hard out Christmas music, the perfect soundtrack for decorating.

It’s time to retrieve my treasured old friends, my collection of ornaments, from their nests of tissue where they’ve slept in patient hibernation since I put them safely into boxes back in January. My dogs, Tully and Mularkey, watch, fascinated, as I dance around the tree, seeking the perfect place for every decoration. I’m particular, some might say obsessively so, choosing the exact space between the strings of lights that will show each to its best advantage.

By the time we reach the end of the Love Actually soundtrack, I have only one last bauble to place—a spun glass sphere of pale green, with a hand-painted snowy scene of a deer and fawn under winter trees. It’s a new one from Liberty. On finding the right spot, I celebrate a job well done, bopping across the room to the strains of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’, and singing with the type of abandon only possible when no one is listening.

Tully Hart raises her muzzle skyward, offering her deep alto voice in joyful harmony with mine. As we reach the chorus, Kate Mularkey joins in. We go for that final high note together, but I can’t hold it. I dissolve into giggles at the sight of her earnest little face, pointed at the ceiling as she maintains a surprisingly tuneful “Woooooo.”

This is the first time I’ve been able to have a dog. It seems everyone involved in rescue ends up with an unadoptable dog or two—or more. I’m no different. These came into the shelter as a bonded pair; neglected seniors with a long list of medical issues, and a slim chance of adoption. Especially since most people who visit looking to home a dog inevitably gravitate towards the small, cute ones, leaving behind big lumps like my girls.

Pretty much all of us who work there eventually succumb. I held out for eight months after taking up the veterinary nurse position at one of the clinics run by the Canine Haven Dog Rescue Trust. I stood firm, while needy candidates streamed in the door, each with a sad story, each a dog deserving of a loving home.

But when these two dear old ladies arrived, there was something about them that tugged a little harder at my heartstrings. I couldn’t bear to see them live out their last days in the caring but not homelike conditions of our shelter kennels. Ollie doesn’t care if I bring home one or ten. So here they are.

Alice, our clinic receptionist, is to blame for their odd names. Mularkey’s goggles of white, where her dark hair has lost all pigment, give her the appearance of wearing spectacles. She’s the spitting image of a lead character in one of Alice’s all-time favourite TV shows, Firefly Lane . Sadly, the appealing markings result from a nasty autoimmune condition, expensive to treat, and a factor which made her a poor prospect for adoption.

Her best friend Tully’s ever-present smile reveals broken and missing teeth. Adopters often pass over dogs like her, knowing the potential cost. But I don’t begrudge the dental work that keeps me poor, or the pricey special food I buy so she maintains a healthy weight.

Taking on both of them is a big commitment, but no one with a beating heart could separate these two. I fear what will happen when inevitably one passes over the rainbow bridge. Maybe they’ll be like some old married couples, one following the other, unable to inhabit the world alone.

I giggle to myself as our human-canine chorus ends and plunge back into decorating. There are still gaps to fill with ribbon bows. The task distracts me from not only the wedding happening today but also the dull gnawing that’s taken up residence in my stomach since the events of yesterday morning at my workplace.

The announcement blindsided our team. Despite all the signs being there, none of us wanted to see them. There’s a jab of physical pain in my chest every time I allow the thought to shove its way forward: soon these two scraps of canine mischief might be all I have left of the dog rescue .

Times are tough, and money is tight. Yesterday, Eloise, the President of the Trust, met with us. With the normally bright upturned creases in her cheeks absent, she explained the Trustees are considering closing our outpost clinic in Camden Town, along with the other in Lewisham. Any dogs needing veterinary care would go into the main branch.

She explained how they’ve been struggling to cover the leases for months. Even with the landlord’s generosity in putting the rent on hold, they’re in trouble. With almost a hundred thousand pounds of back rent falling due soon, they need a kind benefactor or a large windfall.

Yes, I’m well qualified, but even if I manage to get another job, it’s unlikely there will be any like this one. Having worked alongside the rescue team, I can’t imagine getting that sort of job satisfaction anywhere else. And as for all our community clients, who dearly love their animals but have limited resources, they’ll struggle to find the reasonably priced care we offer.

My wish is for a Christmas miracle to save us all, and I haven’t given up hope yet. Not while there’s a guy competing on a celebrity reality show who has named the Trust as his charity—my brother’s friend, Christian. I love reality shows and I plan to be glued to this one every night, cheering him on. It’s not a sure thing, but possibility dangles in front of me like a shiny Christmas bauble.

An hour later, with lights, bells, baubles, bows and a dollop of tinsel weighing down every branch of the tree, I flop onto the couch. Last night’s sleeplessness, as anticipation of today battled with a sickening dread of what the next month will bring, has dulled my usual decorating stamina. I need a break before dressing the room .

The two dogs abandon their carolling, ignoring the strains of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’—we’ve moved on to Elf —and join me with warm, wiggly bodies. I melt into the song and their companionable snuggles.

However, we’ve barely gotten comfortable when pounding on the door interrupts our blissful enjoyment of the music. My comfortable doggy huddle dissolves as the two of them race to the door, barking.

I’m not expecting anyone. Ollie’s somewhere in Africa on safari, a reward to himself after his band’s gruelling US tour ended three weeks ago. Sam’s at work and my other bestie Rachel, the lucky cow, is taking her hot fiancé home to Scotland to meet her family.

However, there won’t be any sexy guy knocking down my door. I am currently boyfriend-less by choice. I have no regrets about dispensing with the latest in a string of lacklustre men. Julian seemed quirky and interesting to begin with, but after three weeks of him juggling date nights with me and ‘Elden Ring’, an online game, I decided he was simply strange.

Although the real deal-breaker wasn’t his obsession with gaming. He tried to hide it, but he hated the dogs. I’m a ‘love me, love my dog’ kind of girl and I can only imagine having a serious relationship with someone who doesn’t flinch at Mularkey’s doggy kisses, and can tough out Tully’s eye-watering farts.

It’s too early in the day for carollers. The religious door-knockers have removed me from their regular beat, after Tully lost her shit with one. I have no idea why my gentle girl did so. I can only assume he resembled someone from her sad, neglected past.

I reluctantly stumble towards the door, expecting some salesperson who I’ll struggle to dispatch, given the people-pleasing nature that makes me susceptible to their wiles. However, a second round of a hammering fist on the other side tells me I’m safe from the latest satellite television sales rep. Even they wouldn’t be so insistent.

I leave the chain on, wary it might be one of Ollie’s fans who has tracked him to this address. It has only happened once before, thankfully; about a month after I moved in. I’d opened the door to find two young women looking at me in surprise, as if there was no way someone like me could be the lead singer of Stellar Riot’s girlfriend. Claiming they were old friends, one tried to barge past me. I’m not normally a violent person, but slamming the door on her foot (a completely reflex reaction) left her howling in pain and proved effective at convincing them to leave.

Although any fan obsessed enough to find Ollie’s house would surely know he’s not here. The footage of him at the airport, hamming it up for the cameras, dressed in a ridiculous safari suit, was everywhere. It’s no secret he’s in Africa. The absence of the usual couple of paparazzi lurking outside on the pavement of this quiet Kensington street should be enough to confirm it.

I open the door a sliver. Through the crack, I can see a rumpled set of black jeans, and the sleeve of a padded jacket with a smear of mud on the elbow.

My first thought is it’s Dogman Dave. He’s the homeless guy who has a regular spot outside the Pret a Manger near the tube station. I pass him every day, always giving him a little cash. Or sometimes, if I’m grabbing myself a morning caffeine hit, I’ll buy him a coffee (black two sugars). His dog, Tucker, is a favourite of all who pass. But the absence of Tucker’s smiling face tells me this isn’t Dave. The two are inseparable. If Dave was at my door, Tucker would thrust his wet black nose through it, seeking a pat .

A smell that causes me to wrinkle my nose in distaste drifts towards me and this is the second reason I’m sure this isn’t Dave. He’s often a little scruffy, but always clean. He takes meticulous care of himself and Tucker. No, this is not the Dogman.

My eyes widen as I crane my neck upwards to see that under the cap pulled down low, the man has a black scraggly beard, matching long hair straggling over his collar, and a heavily tattooed hand reaching for the pair of dark sunglasses that obscure his eyes.

He jerks them off and I meet an intense blue gaze. I know those eyes, although I haven’t been this close to them lately. Christian Steele, my brother’s best friend and bandmate, gifted guitarist and a legendary bad boy of the rock world, is staring down at me.

“Let me in Haley, fuck it,” he whispers threateningly. “I need a pee.” It’s so long since I’ve seen him, I’m surprised he even remembers my name. “I’ve been in a car for eight hours and the moment we got within a whisper of London, the bastards wouldn’t even stop to let me have a slash on the side of the road.”

Even through the narrow crack in the door, I can smell beer and bourbon overlaying the rank odour of an unwashed body. I can also see he’s literally dancing from one foot to the other, one hand clutching his crotch. I have no reason to doubt that unless I open this door quick-smart, a rock god is about to piss his pants on my doorstep.

I push the door shut, fumble with the chain, and once it’s free, slowly open the door. But Christian shoves past me, heading straight for the bathroom. Of course, he knows where to go. I’m sure he’s spent nights here before.

Just as well, because Christian has no time to stop and ask for directions. He discards a duffle bag and slings a guitar case from his shoulder. Both litter the hallway. He doesn’t even pause to close the bathroom door behind him and I hear a cascade of urine being expelled at high-pressure. It tumbles into the bowl accompanied by a long, low groan of relief. He seems to pee forever.

Intrigued by this stranger, Tully and Mularkey launch themselves from where they’ve been observing from the couch and dive into the bathroom. Like all dogs, they want to be everywhere people are, assuming joining visitors in the toilet is perfectly acceptable. While I’m totally comfortable having an audience of two in the loo, I’m not sure if Christian will feel the same way.

I pause, weighing up whether I go after them and risk seeing him with his pants at half-mast and catch a glimpse of those famous taut butt cheeks naked. Not that I haven’t seen them before. I confess I let my voyeuristic tendencies get the better of me and checked out the tasteful but very sexy shoot he did for a men’s health magazine earlier this year. Rachel dumped a copy on my coffee table. I held out for a day before curiosity got the better of me. Even now, I can summon visions of that beautiful body. Not helpful right this moment.

Charging into the bathroom will most likely incur his wrath at my lack of respect for privacy, but if I don’t, he might get angry with my girls. When I hear a deep throaty laugh, followed by his gravelly voice, I push out a heavy breath of relief, saved from having to decide.

“Guess a man can’t even pee on his own around here.”

Tully lets out a happy woof, and Mularkey echoes her. He emerges still buttoning his jeans, but leaving his belt buckle dangling. The dogs dance at his heels as if they, too, captivated by his charisma, have become canine Christian Steele groupies .

“God, I can’t tell you how much I needed that,” he says, dropping backwards onto my couch, sprawling there as the dogs seize the opportunity to ambush him. While they are unequivocal in their instant liking for him, I myself am still on the fence.

There are reasons to like Christian. The first is, of course, he’s cliché rock star material—dangerously good-looking.

Second, he’s my brother’s bandmate and friend. In looks and personality, Christian and Ollie are like two sides of the same coin, dark and light, shadow and sunlight. Their music shows the same contrast; my brother writes the swoony lyrics and more upbeat melodies; Christian provides the counterpoint with his angsty words and melancholy chords interspersed with aggressive guitar riffs. What they print in the press tells a similar tale—implying if life were a movie, Ollie would be the romantic lead, all-round nice guy and hero of the hour; and Christian would be his evil twin.

But I know Ollie. While people inevitably gravitate to him, and he’s always friendly in return, he only lets a few into his inner circle, and of those, he considers only a couple true friends; Christian is one of them. Ollie is a good judge of character, so despite Christian’s thundercloud demeanour, his reputation for breaking hearts and guitars, and some ugly rumours that have swirled around him, there has to be something good underneath.

It looks like I’m about to find out now his brooding presence has invaded my house. He drapes his large, beautiful body across my couch. Tully and Mularkey, the traitors, lick at his face like he’s some delicious new toy.

What the hell is he doing here? I’m bewildered, because he shouldn’t be. The main reason I was prepared to give Christian Steele the benefit of the doubt that he really is a likeable and good-hearted person was him popping up on my TV screen two nights ago in the opening episode of Wild For The Win . It’s one of those reality TV shows, where celebrities try to outplay each other. The winner claims a hundred thousand pounds for their nominated charity. Christian’s choice of charity is the Canine Haven Dog Rescue Trust, my employer, and a worthy organisation, which just so happens to need money desperately right now.

I was so impressed when he revealed it with a cocky ‘I’m going to win this thing’ grin. I’m not so impressed now, because, right this moment, he should be in Scotland filming.

“Christian.”

I try to keep my voice neutral, despite the crushing realisation if he’s here in my living room, then the chances of the shelter dogs receiving this much-needed cash are now toast—along with my job. My last little Christmas candle-flame of hope sputters and dies. Snuffed out by something he’s done. This man who’s ignoring me.

“Christian,” I bark out. The need to know why he’s torn away the last shreds of possibility of a merry Christmas and a happy New Year for all of us overcomes my normal timidity. He whips his head towards me, but makes no attempt to fend off the probing dog tongues.

“What the hell are you doing here?”