Chapter 4
Day One
When you have an elderly fur kid, your ears become as attuned to the sounds of them as those of new parents with a young baby. In the night, lying in my king-size bed, with Tully and Mularkey taking up more than their share of it, I always sleep lightly, subconsciously monitoring their presence. Most of the time it’s companionable snuffling, as they snuggle into their hollows in the covers. Although more frequently these days, those softer sounds morph into raucous snoring. I’ve learned to zone it out for the sake of waking up a functioning human being the next morning.
Doggie dreams sometimes intrude on my own too, as they scrabble with wonky legs that no longer work well in real life. Hearing them relive long gone frolics and the thrill of the chase always brings a smile. I love that they still have this pleasure available to them, even if it’s only while asleep.
Tonight the dog noises don’t trigger comfort. Half an hour after she dragged herself up beside me, I’m concerned about Tully. She’s gone from the odd quiet whimper to actively in distress. She’s panting—even though it’s not warm—and drooling. A couple of times she’s retched but nothing’s come up. Normally I’d be pleased the dog didn’t actually puke on my bed, but not tonight. I sit up and trail my hands carefully across her stomach. It feels distended. When I flip on the bedside lamp, I read an expression of pain in her dark eyes.
Deep-chested dogs like Tully are more prone to bloat, and it’s a killer. If it’s what I think it is—and I’m fairly certain, having seen quite a few dogs present like this at the clinics I’ve worked in—she could be dead by morning. I need to get Tully to a vet and I need to do it now.
But no cabbie will take me and two dogs; I can’t leave Mularkey here alone. The only option is Ollie’s car, his pride and joy: a Porsche 911. A GT2 RS to be as precise in naming it as he is.
I always maintain fame and money haven’t affected my brother, and that’s ninety-nine percent true. The other one percent is the outrageous German sports car parked in the garage. At least beyond the aggressive exterior, it harbours a rear seat of sorts. Designed for stuffing in a few parcels or a gym bag, it will be tight, but I think the girls will fit.
However, there are two large problems with this plan. One, I don’t usually drive. And two, even if I dared to try, how would I manage in this situation? With me, an unlicensed novice, white-knuckled and trembling in fear, plus two dogs, one whimpering in pain, the other restless with concern at her friend’s distress; it would be an accident waiting to happen. Or, at best, attract a confrontation with an irate police officer and a stiff fine. Neither outcome would see Tully to a vet in time.
I have no choice. It’s Christian or nothing. I tiptoe to his door, aware it’s almost midnight, giving it a tentative tap with the back of my hand.
“Christian.”
There’s no answer. I knock again, with a little more force. Repeat his name. Still silence. Another whimper from my room decides for me. I’m going in, invited or not. The risk of not getting help for Tully is a thousand times more terrifying than the prospect of Christian Steele’s displeasure.
He’s lying with the sheets tossed back. He hasn’t bothered to pull the heavy blackout drapes, and streetlight filters through the filmy curtains, picking out his shape in a surreal half-light. I’m transfixed.
It’s as if we’re in some wintery faery forest, painted in greys and gilded with silver. I’ve stumbled across the elven king, slumbering in a tumbled nest of pale ferns (in reality an expensive set of Garnet Hill sheets). My gaze follows the curves of his naked upper body, pale and beautiful in contrast to the deepest indigo etched on it in a glorious riot of patterns and plants. I’ve seen his tattoos before, of course, but always at a distance; from the side of the stage, or front row VIP seats. Generally, it’s only his forearms and hands exposed, and the v of his neck. And ogling him in the magazine, I’d focused on the whole man, the very attractive body, not the extra decoration.
As I edge closer, almost reluctant to wake him when he looks so peaceful, I see higher up, on his biceps and beyond, animals peep through the foliage. A wolf stares back at me from one shoulder, a lifelike gleam in its eyes. There’s a fox and a badger. A squirrel and a tiny field mouse. It’s as if Christian invited the same artist who created my precious Liberty Christmas bauble to use his skin for a canvas, and it’s enchanting.
There’s an unexpected gentleness in the subject matter. It’s the innocent feel of The Wind In The Willows . Even the wolf has a benign expression, not the snarling beast one might expect on an angry young musician. He really is a contradiction. Farm boy turned rock star. Formidable tattoos with secret softness.
I’m hoping there’s a similar softness inside of him now, as I reach over, laying one palm against his shoulder. It’s cool and smooth and I shiver a little at the contact.
“Christian.” I shake him gently and he startles awake.
“What the fuck?” Then, as recognition strikes, he relaxes. “Shit, Haley. Sorry, you gave me a fright.”
“Yeah, I’m not the best sight to wake up to.”
He gives me a strange look, before reassembling his features.
“What’s up?”
“It’s Tully. Christian—” My voice breaks. “I’m so scared. She’s sick. Really sick. She needs the vet. I think it’s bloat.”
“Bad in cows. Worse in dogs, right?” Of course, growing up on a dairy farm in Cheshire, he has a practical knowledge of animals.
“Often fatal.” I choke on the words. I’m hoping we can get her there before her stomach flips. Gastric torsion. Then the odds of saving her drop away to a frighteningly small number. “Can you drive us?”
“Of course.” He springs from the bed, totally unashamed of his nakedness. I look away. He might not be embarrassed, but I am definitely uncomfortable with his lack of inhibition .
“Oops, sorry.” He snatches at the sheet on seeing my discomfort. I’m heading for the door, anyway.
“Ollie’s got a car here?” He calls after me over the rustle of clothing.
“Yeah, the Porsche.”
“Yes,” he hisses. “All right.” He sounds pleased at the prospect. “Well, we won’t need a police escort to get us there in a hurry. That baby can go.”
Diving back into my own room, I swap pyjamas for jeans and a sweater. As I’m tugging on my boots, there’s a soft tap on the door. I usher Christian in, his lips a taut line of concern. His dark brows knot at the sight of the dog sprawled on the bed, too distressed to even acknowledge his presence.
“There’s no way I can carry Tully. I’m afraid you need to be both paramedic and driver here, Christian.”
“Hey there, girl. Not feeling so good?” He sits on the bed next to her, murmuring into the folds of her neck. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re going to get you some help.”
His voice soothes her. Her panting stops a moment, and she swallows down a whimper. She’s a big dog, but he scoops her up like a baby. She looks up at him, and while there’s still pain in her eyes, there’s also trust, and I relax a little, feeling in his capable arms things are not quite so bad as they were.
I clip a lead on Mularkey, and we head to the garage. One click of the fob triggers a discreet beep, and I open the passenger door, tip the front seat forward, and she clambers up into the almost non-existent rear seat. I whip around the car, reaching past the driver’s seat to bundle a blanket into the leather cocoon on the other side. Christian gently lowers Tully into the woolly nest I’ve made. She gazes up at us with uncertain eyes, and he stretches a kind hand to her head while Mularkey takes up a sentinel pose, ears pricked, eyes alert, totally focused on her friend.
Christian springs into the driver’s seat and takes the wheel with confidence, like he’s driven this car before. The engine bursts into life with a throaty rumble. He expertly backs out into our quiet street, and the roar of an angry beast fills the night air as he floors it.
“Christian!” I squeal, hands braced on the dashboard. He ignores my protest as we speed through the empty streets of sleeping central London.
“We’re not going to lose her, Haley,” he says, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Not on my watch.”
I press back into the seat, his words reassuring, as we screech to a halt at a red light. Not on his watch. I’m terrified, but at least I don’t have to do this alone.
Despite a suspicious stare from the two occupants of a stationary police car, we make it to the nearest after-hours emergency clinic without incident. Surprising, as I’d have thought any cop worth his salt would have pulled over someone who looks like Christian, with cap pulled low and wearing dark glasses even though it’s the middle of the night, driving an expensive car. Perhaps they’d just started on their mid-shift burger order. Whatever, I’m grateful for their lack of motivation.
We’re in luck as we arrive at the clinic, too. This late on a weekend night, there’s only a small team on duty, but they inspire confidence. The receptionist looks to be in her fifties and fires the sort of questions at me that suggest competence. The kindly vet who appears has a sprinkling of frost on his tight, springy dark hair, and I breathe relief. He will have dealt with this before. The nurse hovering at his shoulder reminds me of my mother, oozing a reassuring efficiency.
They leap into action the moment they see Tully cradled in Christian’s strong arms. He’s not so different to his farmer brothers in this respect, lifting my big girl effortlessly with broad forearms and muscled shoulders. He lowers her gently onto the trolley and they whisk her off into an examining room. I have this sense she’s in safe hands tonight. I slump onto a waiting room seat, Christian on one side, and a subdued Mularkey on the other. She knows her doggie sister is sick.
The receptionist approaches us with a hesitant expression. She clears her throat. I know the drill. They’ll want money up front.
“Ahmm,” she says, glancing at Christian, but choosing to address me. In those clothes, he doesn’t look like somebody who could afford the bill. “We need a credit card, I’m afraid. Of course, we’ll do the best we can for your girl, but this type of intensive medicine can be costly. So we ask for a payment method on admission.”
She seems a little embarrassed broaching the ugly subject of money at a time like this, but I get it. In this profession, no matter how much we’re committed to saving animals, the cold hard fact is medical treatment costs. I swallow down my nerves as I wrack my brains, trying to recall how much room I’ve got on my card. Sure, I live rent free, but choosing to work in the charitable sector means my vet nurse’s wages are low. Living in London is crazy expensive. I’m still paying off my massive student loan, plus debt I racked up through my stupid pride after Jack and I broke up; and the girls’ day-to-day care isn’t cheap .
Before I can fumble in my little cross-body bag, Christian is on his feet. He produces a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and I haven’t time to protest before he’s waved a card at the machine.
“I got this, Haley,” he says. “It’s the least I can do for the girls who’ve welcomed me into their home.”
I hold my breath. Not only is Christian fronting up to pay my bill, he’s flashing around a credit card with his famous name on it in shiny gold letters. The receptionist is fortunately of a vintage that the name on the card means nothing to her. He risked his secret, but it’s safe.
“Thank you,” I say as he eases back on the bench seat beside me. The tears spill over, the whirling inside overtaking me. Fear and worry mingle with profound gratitude at his kindness. He lifts an arm and hovers it uncertainly above my shoulder for a heartbeat, but then wraps it around me, anyway. I welcome his warmth as we settle in to wait. I suppose I doze a little against him, but I’m sure I see every jerky hand movement of the waiting-room clock.
Three hours later, we’re ordered to head home to bed. The veterinary surgeon pronounces Tully’s emergency surgery a tentative success. He’s managed to relieve the build-up of gas in the dog’s stomach. Fortunately, the organ hadn’t twisted, and he’s carried out a preventative gastropexy, anchoring the stomach in place should this happen again—which it well might. Dogs who’ve had bloat once are likely to have it reoccur, so I’ll always need to be vigilant. That’s if my darling girl makes it through the next few hours. There’s still the risk of toxic shock, and they’ll monitor her closely, so they can act quickly if her vitals take a downward dip. We, meanwhile, must wait it out at home, even though I know I’m unlikely to comply with the kind vet’s instruction to get some sleep .
I’m conscious I’m racking up a bill in the thousands for Tully’s intensive care. Christian insists he’s going to cover it, but it’s awkward taking charity from someone I hardly know. Perhaps this is his way of making it up to me for the Wild For The Win debacle. I’ll pay him back, but it’s going to take a while.
Back at the house, he guides me inside as if I’m a faulty robot, unable to propel myself forward. I crash onto the low couch. Mularkey slides up beside me and circles, once, twice, three times, as is her habit. I sit, eyes closed, tears leaking down my face again. I feel so helpless. Knowing as much as I do is worse than being blissfully oblivious; I understand how this could end.
After banging around in the kitchen, accompanied by the chug and hiss of the coffee machine, Christian comes to set two mugs on the table. He’s found my special pumpkin spice coffee capsules, and the sweet smell drifts up. Normally, it would spark immediate comfort, but not when it’s five am after some of the worst hours of my life.
He slides in beside me and draws me into him. He rests his lips against my hair and whispers in the same soothing tones as when he whispered goodbye to darling Tully, before we left her lying sedated in a jumble of tubes. It’s a tender, comforting gesture. I’m grateful for his presence, steadying me; lulled by his warm body wrapped across me, protection against bad things. Unlike when he arrived, he smells good, a fresh whiff of shampoo and shower gel, tangy with a woody note.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s going to be okay. It has to be.”
I angle my face towards him, reaching for further reassurance in his eyes. Their normally fierce blue is soft and they glisten with emotion. He brushes it away with a rough swipe of his hand. I want to believe him, and so I do. For the first time, I realise all my resolve to be angry with him has melted away and although it’s purely selfish, I’m thankful Christian’s here and not in far off Scotland.