Chapter 7
Day Two
I can’t believe he’s done it. The opening music for Wild For The Win taunts my ears as I follow the dogs back into the lounge.
“What’s this?” I ask, even though I know exactly what it is. And even though I have every right to question Christian taking control of my television without asking, the words come out tiny; timid.
I’m still unbalanced from our conversation about Waverley. In my heart I knew it was the truth, but five minutes ago that little part of me that wanted to find fault with Christian not only seized control of my brain, it gleefully painted it all over my face as well.
I mean it’s not like I dislike the guy—I don’t know him well enough to have strong feelings either way—but even if I didn’t like him, that’s no reason to accept the lies I know dog his every step as they do Ollie’s. And after all he’s done for me in the past twenty-four hours, I owe him. So I’m going to cut him some slack, repay him some for my uncontrolled reaction, and let go of my annoyance at his TV takeover.
“Thought it might be best to just rip the band aid off,” he says. “For both of us.”
I sit myself at the opposite end of the couch. Hugging my favourite reindeer cushion to my chest, the joyful tinkling of the decorative sleigh bells is at odds with my dread as the opening images roll across the screen. Mouth set in a tense line, I fight back a retort.
“Look Haley, it’s happened. I’m here, not there. There’s no prize money coming the way of the rescue. We’re both upset about it. But we can’t change the past. Best we both face the situation, eh?”
“OK,” I say, too weary to argue.
“Besides,” he adds, “consider it an intel gathering exercise. If I’m going to fight them, and I fully intend to, I need to study every second of the crap they push out into the world. Maybe you can help me there?” There’s a small pleading note in the question, and he tosses me a hopeful look.
“Sure.” I’m not at all sure there’s anything I can do to help extract him from this mess he’s got into, but I nod obligingly. With his talk of contracts, and NDAs, and legal teams, I’m inclined to think it’s a lost cause. Going into battle with a large media company with deep pockets is as useless as trying to bottle the wind. Pushing the boundaries with people like that is never going to end well.
But I’ve done enough damage for one day by not believing in him. I saw the flash of anger and hurt my doubt provoked in his eyes and shame still smoulders inside me. Right now, I’ll shut up and offer some moral support by watching what I suspect will be a train wreck.
Instead, the hour-long Episode 2 of Wild For The Win fans that small ember of shame inside me into a brightly burning realisation. I’ve judged this guy unfairly. Faced with Christian’s dumping from the show, I’d painted a dark picture of what happened in Scotland. And it’s wrong.
For the first two days at least, he was the model contestant, his actions cutting a bright optimistic swathe through the gloomy spectre of seven other pissed-off and, quite frankly, pathetic contestants. This is a show about surviving in the wild. What the hell did they think they were signing up for—a week in Ibiza?
I watch him step up when the rest of them have no ideas but to wander around the tumbledown farmhouse, whingeing about their plight. I see his patience, herding them into teams, assigning tasks, taking on the trickier ones himself, even picking up a hammer so they all have a weathertight place to sleep the first night. I note his skill in the grimy kitchen, coaxing an old coal range into life and enlisting the best of the rest to help him cook a meal.
He correctly predicted the wife from Watford, Loreena Bunt, might have talents beyond artfully applying lashings of make-up, and enlisted her as head chef. I cringe at her fawning over him, her collagen pout and fake lashes punctuating a face that is no stranger to the Botox needle. It’s also a face that must be known to everyone in the country, her smart mouth and argumentative antics drawing viewers to the Real Wives show like it’s crack cocaine.
But there’s no sign of her belligerence here. Maybe it’s because she fancies her chances with Christian—she certainly looks at him like he’s the main course, even though she must be almost twenty years his senior—but whatever the reason, she complies with his suggestions, proudly delivering dinner to the table with a saucy wink at the camera.
My initial assertion was correct: Christian was marked as the winner from the start. I take no pleasure in being right. It only makes me more sad. He was a lifeline for the dog rescue, the money a sure thing that slipped from his grasp.
Both the studio host, the so slick he’s slimy Bernard Bennett, and on location host Lisa Mayberry, already rate him the frontrunner. Bernard’s studio audience agrees. Episode 2 features the first end-of-episode poll. Eighty-seven percent of them furiously click their voting buttons in Christian’s favour.
Christian says nothing as the closing credits roll; just puffs out a deep, resigned exhale. It must be hard watching the grudging respect of the other contestants, the adoration of the audience, the confidence of the show hosts, while knowing it all came to nothing. He senses my attention and turns to me, expectant. I look into the challenge of those stormy blue eyes and ask the obvious question.
“What happened, Christian? For you to go from that—to this?”
“Well, it started with me refusing to do a challenge.”
I nod. I understand how the show works. After each episode, the audience votes for the contestant they think did the best on the challenge, and the points accumulate, although no one really knows until the final night who the winner will be. Clever editing keeps the viewer on the edge of their seat right until the end. However, there was no disguising the lack of support for anyone but Christian tonight. Surely, a missed challenge in Episode 5 wouldn’t kill his chances, and opting out of a challenge would have only cost him points, not complete eviction .
“But there’s more?”
“Yeah.” He drags his hand down his beard, looking thoughtful, as if mulling over how much to reveal. “And then…I may have threatened the producer…” He grins. A little triumphant laugh escapes. “That got their attention. Bastards deserved it for the stuff they wanted us to do. For what the rest of them felt pressured into doing. I simply let them know my intentions to give a few interviews afterwards. Tell people my reasons for not doing the challenge. I can’t change the things that happened this time, but I can make damn sure they don’t happen again.”
“What things?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that. I do trust you. I know you won’t go around blabbing. But if it comes to court, Haley, you’d have no option but to tell them what you know. Or lie for me.”
From his bitter laugh, I know he thinks that’s ridiculous. What is more ridiculous is I’m already considering the possibility I might. Me, the good girl, the rule follower, the one who never steps out of line. Would I do it? Lie to help Christian? I think I really might and the prospect doesn’t scare me.
“But I can still help, right?” Something has shifted between us over the last hour, as I’ve watched him show me the honest, well-intentioned man he is. There’s another uncomfortable stab of shame as I acknowledge I was more ready to accept evidence of his basic goodness from watching a stupid TV show than I was from all he’s done for me and Tully. I want to make it up to him. “Maybe not perjury… ”
His deep laugh is music to my ears. “No, not that. Not yet,” he chuckles. “You’re off work tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, on personal nursing duties for Tully. Not that I think I’ll be too busy with those, looking at her now.” Hearing her name, Tully grins across at us, her lips peeled back, showing all her wonky teeth. There’s no sign of the seriously ill dog of last night.
I rang in earlier to let my boss know, so she could pull in one of the part-timers to cover. It’s a godsend when you work in a place willing to accommodate the responsibilities of being a dog parent.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Go over to my apartment. It’s not far, just over in Chelsea. I need my laptop. I have all the documents on it—contracts, the original NDA—pages of boring shit that I signed without reading. Megan was furious.”
I can imagine. I’ve met the band’s business manager, the ferocious Megan Lamont, and I’ve heard from Ollie how risk averse she is on their behalf—comments like ‘I can’t even take a piss without running it past Megan’ spring to mind—which is great because I imagine they pay her a large sum to do exactly that. She will be the first to say ‘I told you so’ when she finds out about this disaster.
“Ouch,” I wince. “That wouldn’t have been pretty.”
“No. I’m dreading her finding out about this.” The sick look on his face matches what appears to be genuine fear in his eyes. “Anyway, I need that laptop. Start at the beginning and see if there are any loopholes in those contracts.”
“Sure, I can do that. You’re good for dog nurse duties?”
“Absolutely,” he says, smiling across at Tully perched like a queen on her throne and Mularkey on the chair next door, her attentive lady-in-waiting, alert and attempting to anticipate her needs. “What better way to spend a couple of hours than hanging out with you, eh?”
The soft expression on Christian’s face, as he watches my smiling girls wag their tails furiously under his gaze, melts my heart. His genuine love for the pair of them is written there, and it’s not a look I’ve seen from any other guy I’ve introduced them to so far. Another reason I need to back off from the frosty way I’ve treated him. And also why tingling, butterfly-like sensations twirl inside of me.
“Looks like they’re pretty happy about that suggestion.”
He turns to me and stretches a hand across the gap I’ve placed between us. He rests it over mine, offering a gentle squeeze. Warmth floods through me, up my arm, and settles somewhere in my middle, flowing like honey around the fluttering there.
“Thanks Haley. I owe you.”
“I think we’re more than even Christian. Thank you,” I say, smiling at Tully, who is trying to dislodge the evil cone by butting her head on the arm of her chair.