Chapter 11
Day Three
Christian’s face is expressionless as the third episode of Wild for the Win blares into life on the TV screen. That’s no surprise—he’s seen all of this before. Although from what I’ve heard, the edited versions of these so-called ‘reality’ shows bear little resemblance to the reality of those living them.
I hadn’t realised how annoying the theme tune is. It’s deliberate, of course; they want to etch it into your brain, triggering an automatic response every time the endless trailers air, stimulating anticipation of what’s to come in each new episode.
Tonight, dinner finished in plenty of time, we’re tuning in to see how the eight contestants are paired. It’s a thing on this show; in the first six episodes, the celebrities are forced to work with someone they’re actually competing against, adding a layer of tension as they strive to achieve common goals, while keeping their eye on an individual win at the end. There have been some explosive pairings over the years.
“And tonight…” Host Bernard Bennett gazes skyward, with a dramatic pause. “Tonight we get to see fate play its hand, watch how the dice roll, observe lady luck cast her favour, check how the cards fall…”
“Bloody hell,” I snort. “How many different ways can he say it?”
“As many as he likes, but it doesn’t change a thing. There’s no luck involved, believe me,” Christian says. “They know well in advance who they’ll put together. They make very sure there will be maximum fireworks. Well, usually.” A small satisfied smile twitches around his mouth.
Lisa Mayberry fixes her co-host with a glare and interrupts his meandering.
“So, Bernard, how about we get started?” she gushes through pouty, pink collagen lips. “And first up, come on over, Christian Steele.”
Sitting in a chair opposite him, I shuffle in my seat, self-conscious at the pressure of his gaze upon me. He’s watching me, watching him.
I see Christian make his way on camera, taking a seat on a rumpty sofa in the lounge of the farmhouse. His rock star swagger is there, but his face is all angular tension. I don’t blame him. Anyone would be nervous knowing they are about to be forced into spending several days in the company of someone they probably hated on sight.
“Well, well,” Lisa croons. “I bet there are some ladies out back right now who’ll be hoping their name comes up.” She places an arm around his shoulders. “Especially with those overnighters. Cosied up in a tent with Christian. What do we think of that, people?” She gives a wink as the studio audience back in London laughs and applauds. “I’m sure Christian has made a little list of prospects…”
“You think so?” Christian replies, the sarcasm lost on the vapid presenter. I’m pleased he’s giving them a hard time.
Lisa is either too dedicated to the script or too stupid to notice, and carries on, oblivious.
“Well, let’s check my list, because that’s the only one that matters.”
An irritating burst of her childish, wide-eyed laughter topples out. She pauses theatrically, looking down at her clipboard. She licks at her lips, tilts her head towards Christian with a flirty smile as if she’s vying for the place on his team, and takes a deep dramatic breath.
“There’s a spot here on the couch with your name on it— Loreena Bunt .”
“Holy shit,” I say. I can’t suppress the shock of what I’ve just seen from spilling onto my face and coating my words.
It’s not only the announcement that floors me. Christian on the screen smiles, a mirror of the man next to me whose face is lit up with a triumphant grin.
“And there,” he says, “is where they made their first mistake.”
Loreena explodes onto the stage in a froth of pink, the fake fur jacket, so inappropriate for the setting, but perfectly matching the thick coat of iridescent lipstick smothering her wide mouth. She bounces onto the couch with delighted shrieks, grasping Christian’s head, and planting an exuberant kiss on his cheek.
“Oh my god, Christian. Loreena Bunt? ”
“There you go again, Haley.” His voice is quiet. “Believing everything you see on TV.”
Chastened, I lean back, reassembling my features and herding my words. I pick up the snow globe on the side table and twirl it in my hands, my thoughts as chaotic as the flurry of tiny flakes inside.
“It’s just so—unexpected.”
Christian chuckles, a fond smile softening his face.
“Everything about Loreena is unexpected. I swear, if you met her, you’d like her. She’s smart and funny—and sure, there’s a touch of that OTT screen Loreena there—but she’s not the crazy bitch they want her to be. She’s a very good actor, and it’s made her a lot of money.”
“OK,” I say. “So you and her didn’t…”
I stutter into silence, embarrassed the thoughts in my head have spilled out of my mouth. To my horror, I realise there’s even a twinge of jealousy at the prospect Christian and Loreena might have hooked up. Where the hell did that come from? I push it away fast.
He laughs. “Fuck no. God, even if she’d suggested it, I’d have run a mile.”
“Not your type?” I tease, trying to cover my stumble.
“Well, there is the fact she’s almost old enough to be my mother, even though she’s in good shape. And you’re right, there’s way too much make-up and cosmetic surgery there for my tastes. I prefer women who don’t buy into all that shit.”
I feel his eyes roving over my untidy hair, and brush it back, conscious of my face naked of anything except a sweep of BB cream this morning and probably now long gone. I see his approval. I’m not imagining it. When Christian looks at me, he likes what he sees. It could merely be I don’t trigger his aversion to women who need to hide behind a mask. Or it might be a sign of something else. And if it is something else—that he finds me attractive—I’m not at all sure how I feel about that.
A dangerous thrill shivers through me, suggesting parts of me like that idea very much, while my cautious brain screams at me to stop it. This guy is not right for me for so many reasons. Hell, I’ve only just got to the stage of accepting he’s not the arsehole the media portrays. But underneath, my body is waking up to the animal attraction that draws women to Christian even though they don’t know him. My mind tells me if they did get to know him, like I’ve been doing these past few days, it would only add to their desire. I struggle back to the safety of the topic at hand.
“Yeah, but…” I feel a strange need to defend Loreena. “It’s easier when you’re young. While I don’t think I’d go there, I can see why some women feel they need a bit of extra help as they get older. Every woman wants to feel attractive.”
“I suppose so,” he concedes. He nods at the screen where an animated Loreena, an arm draped across his shoulders, burbles at the camera. “And in Loreena’s case, while it definitely doesn’t do it for me, it works for the person that matters most. Apparently, her husband, Tommy, adores her.”
He’s right. I cast my mind back to the Real Wives of Watford series, remembering the occasional appearance of the husbands. There was no disguising the jealousy from the other wives at Loreena’s blissful marriage. Tommy Bunt, a rough around the edges rather cocky little man, as well as self-made multi-millionaire from an automotive parts business, made no secret of the fact he loved his wife. I nod in agreement, but say nothing, not sure whether I want to advertise my obsession with Real Wives given Christian’s current feelings towards reality TV.
We sit through the rest of the reveals which take up most of the episode. There’s a short challenge tonight. A bit like on Masterchef, they’re given a mystery box of bizarre ingredients from which they have to create dinner.
Loreena takes charge and I’m impressed by her ability to organise and innovate. She boils up two gnarly turnips, and mashes them furiously, while directing Christian. He dices the onion, wiping away tears, fries it with the canned sardines and tosses in some chopped herbs. Mixed altogether, shaped into fishcakes, and browned in the pan, they don’t look too bad. Even Lisa Mayberry braves a tentative nibble and declares them edible. Christian and Loreena win, of course.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Steele,” I say. “You never told me you can cook. I’m putting you on dinner duty from now on.”
“Happy to,” he says. “Especially as you’ll be back at work tomorrow.” He tickles Tully’s head. Showing no trace of the dog who has recently survived emergency surgery, she raced Mularkey to the couch earlier, claiming the spot next to Christian. “I can look after this one. You’ll be a good girl, won’t you Tully?” She answers with a rhythmic thud of her heavy tail and a long high-pitched fart like a train whistle.
“Awww, fuck Tully.” Christian grimaces as a foul odour wafts up, fanned by her tail, so even from my seat in the armchair, I catch a whiff. “That’s a ripper.” He chokes theatrically. “Glad you’re not sleeping in my bed tonight, baby.”
“Sorry,” I say, heat rising in my cheeks. Damn dog has no manners. “Put her down on the floor if you want. ”
“Hell, no.” He affectionately scratches her neck around the edge of the cone. “I’ve missed having a dog. Even though they do come with farts. Tully stays.”
We turn back to the final minutes of the show, and the crucial voting phase. Whatever the crowd might feel about Loreena, at the end of the episode, the votes are overwhelmingly in their favour. Whether it’s the halo effect of teaming up with Christian, or the fact the audience sees what he does—and now he’s pointed it out, I too realise Loreena isn’t so bad—most buttons click for ‘Team Christeena’. Trust Bernard Bennett to coin a nauseating couple’s name for them.
Loreena is certainly a better partner for him than the other three airhead women in the group; and it’s not only because they’re young and pretty, or because I may just happen to feel a sense of relief that it’s not them sharing a tent with Christian over the next two nights on the show. Loreena is smart, and as I know Christian has no chance of winning, I hope she does.
“If it’s OK with you,” Christian says, stretching as a yawn steals across his face, “I might take a book and go to bed. I’m knackered. God, I must be getting old. Once, a couple of all-nighters wouldn’t have even made me break stride.”
I laugh. “It’s nothing to do with age. We’ve both had a pretty shitty few days. Stress is exhausting. I think I might do the same. Work tomorrow, so I’ll need to be up early.”
He stands and the dogs slither off the couch and twine themselves around his legs so he can hardly move, upturned faces questioning.
“Hey, since you need to get up early and I don’t, why don’t I take these two into my room tonight?” he says, as Mularkey mouths his tattooed wrist playfully. It looks like she’s trying to gulp down the tiny swallow that flutters across the tanned skin where he’s peeled back his shirtsleeve.
“They’ll have you up at least once to go potty.”
“Not a problem.”
“And they snore. Loudly.”
“Then they’ll have competition. I do too,” he says, with an embarrassed grin. “Scar tissue from a broken nose as a kid.” He slides a finger along the centre of it, and I follow it, seeing the slight bump. “I was shit at cricket. Didn’t even see the ball that smacked me right between the eyes. The guy bowling thought it was hilarious until the blood started pouring out.”
I can’t help but giggle at the thought of Christian snoring. What would all those fangirls think if they knew? None of them would ever imagine having hooked up with this man, with his sexy bed hair and come-play-with-me eyes—two features I’d never paid attention to until he was here in my house—he might roll over and start snoring.
“You’re not laughing at my misfortune, are you Haley?” he teases.
“No, just shut the door so I don’t hear you all competing. It’ll be like a very bad orchestra. However, that too has its problems. You run the risk of dying in the night, asphyxiated by a Tully fart.” A grin splits his face. “Please don’t tell me you’ll out-fart her as well.” The grin broadens.
That’s definitely not something the fangirls would think of. But yes, even rock gods burp and fart like normal people. I know they do. Living with my brother, he’s just as gross as any guy when you get him home.
“I don’t think anyone can out-fart Tully,” he says. Hearing her name twice, she butts at his leg with the cone. “OK, ladies. Time for a pit stop.” They seem to know what he’s saying and bound off down the hallway to the back door that leads out to the garden.
He goes to follow them, then hesitates. He turns those blue eyes on me; no longer hawk-like, they are more like a soothing summer sea.
“Haley, I can’t thank you enough for what you did today. And every day since I arrived.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, with a flush of pleasure. It hits me that even if I didn’t owe Christian for everything he’s done for me with Tully, I’d happily help him. He’s a good guy and I like him. Just like he and my brother, two opposites, somehow Christian and I fit alongside each other well; we’ve become friends.
Two nights later, I sit at the dining table, wondering what the world would say if they could see this domestic scene. I’m reading through my notes for the exam I’m taking on Friday. While I’ll never be a vet like I dreamed of back in high school, I’m determined to become the best, most qualified damn vet nurse I can be. Passing this Dermatology Certificate might also help secure me another job if I lose this one. Christian is busy clearing the table. He reaches for my plate.
“Done?”
“Yeah, it was good, Christian. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
While I was at work yesterday, Christian ordered in a mountain of groceries and had them delivered to the doorstep. And, for the second night in a row, I’ve arrived home to the smell of dinner filling the house, and a meal that puts even my reasonable culinary skills to shame.
“Mum insisted,” he says. “She held out hope the next generation of women married to Steele men might fare better than she did. Dad is old school. Expects food to appear magically in front of him.”
“So your brothers cook?”
“Nah, not anymore. I’m not sure their wives even know they can. Perhaps I should enlighten them sometime. It’s tempting.” He gives an evil smirk, as he whisks away my plate, so empty there’s not even a trace of the delicious salsa he’d made to go with the vegetable bake.
We’ve fallen into a strange normalcy these past two days. I go to work. Christian stays home with the dogs. At the clinic, Alice teases me about my overly attentive focus on my phone. Texts arrive regularly throughout the day, mostly photographs of the dogs—and Christian—being adorable. Occasionally, it’s him venting at the mess he’s in, or lamenting the futility of his quest for a way out of it.
He’s spent the days trawling through his laptop but finding no solutions. Today he admitted defeat—for now. Rachel has promised she’ll beg off work early tomorrow and call in. I haven’t told her exactly what I need her to do, not that she’d blab. I’ve only said it’s legal stuff, and it’s messy. Until tonight’s show, where the world will know that Christian Steele is no longer in the wilds of Scotland, it’s safer to say as little as possible. Beyond that, Rachel is our best hope.
Tonight I arrived home to the smell of dinner cooking, and Christian sprawled on the couch reading. I’m used to book-loving men. Like me, Ollie was raised by two teachers who know the value of the written word, and he’s a voracious reader. But I didn’t expect it of Christian. I kind of thought that wall of books in his apartment was simply part of the aesthetic. I got the impression that in his family, practical skills, especially outdoor ones, were everything. Somehow, just like he bucked the family expectations and forged a career in music, he also found books.
Today, he found my books.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed one from your room,” he confessed. “I’ve read most of what Ollie’s got out here.”
He waved my beautiful gilt-edged copy of Wuthering Heights at me, and it did something really weird to my stomach. There’s something sexy about seeing a man immersed in the pages of my favourite classic. Am I imagining him as Heathcliffe to my Cathy? A week ago, I’d have thought he’d have the perfect brooding man vibe, but now I know he’s way more stable than Heathcliffe, and a lot better person. Still, there’s a little thrill that he’s into love stories, even ill-fated ones like theirs.
The dishwasher hums to life, as Christian gives the counter top a final wipe down, neatly hangs the tea towel and then turns to me with a gloomy expression.
“Time to face the music.”
He glances down at his fancy watch, the one I teased him about the other day, given watches like that cost about the same as a family car. Of course, he got it for free, some brand he’s representing. I’m not sure what tonight’s events will mean for all of that. Will his income from those endorsements go the way of the money for Canine Haven, evaporating alongside Christian’s decision to make a stand? I hope whatever he stood his ground for, it’s worth it.
I follow him to the lounge, feeling like I’ve been summoned to the town square and forced to watch an execution .
Last night, on Episode 4, he and Loreena slayed the challenge. ‘Team Christeena’ was the only pair to have a decent little camp set up in the forest, right down to a neat fire pit for cooking. Apparently, their correctly pitched tent was the only one that didn’t leak. And, according to Christian, the only one with a blanket rigged up inside, so the two of them had a little privacy. Not that the show hosts would have revealed that, given their love of nauseating innuendo about everyone ‘sleeping’ together. Just like they made a thing about everyone squatting behind the bushes, when apparently off camera there was a line of Portaloos. As Christian continues to advise, don’t believe everything you see on TV.
With the dogs each claiming an end of the couch, I head for the vacant armchair, but Christian grabs my hand.
“Sit with me.”
There’s a quiet plea in his voice and I don’t need to be asked twice. He needs me to be there for him through this. I snuggle into the tiny space beside him, nudging Mularkey over a little, and point the remote.
The TV fires into life, and as the opening music for Wild For The Win blares at us, Christian’s body is hard and rigid against mine. Tonight, there’s no sign of the relaxed guy who sat through the previous three episodes with me; who even laughed and joked a little.
Jaw clenched, brow furrowed, he leans forward towards the screen. With fists balled on his knees, the knuckles are white. I place a hand over his, circling my thumb, but it’s as if he’s in his own world right now, and it isn’t a happy one.
I can’t go there with him; no way I can understand what it’s like. All I can offer is quiet support and belief in what he tells me; what the footage rolling across the screen doesn’t show.