Chapter 32
Day Ten
I crane my neck, scanning the imposing columns of arched brickwork, like curved brows, with banks of windows rising five storeys beneath each of them. The building is impressive and far more attractive than one would expect. Even industrial architecture was beautiful back in the old days. Inside the walls of this intimidating former warehouse building, and the sprawl of old factory sheds behind, lie the offices and studios of Unscripted, the production company filming Wild For The Win —and which a couple of years back created Star Power .
I’ve been here before, three years ago. In fact, I came here many times, summoned for studio interviews, some with only Mum, Dad, and me sharing our reactions to the emotional rollercoaster ride my brother was on. Others included Ollie; him clasped between us, our family supporting him while he shared his hopes and dreams. Dreams that came true—not in the way he imagined back then, discarded before the finals—but with the show giving him a shot at something even better than a solo career. Ollie can hold his own on stage, his mellow voice enchanting the crowd, and his playful banter and shining personality endearing him to them. But when he steps out there with the band behind him, magic happens.
Christian was there for those interviews, too, with his family. My memories of them from that time are vague, but not of him. Like Ollie, he’s mesmerising on stage on his own. But his power over an audience is different, a quiet intensity, the emotion pouring from him through music that makes you feel like he’s baring his soul. It’s still there when he’s with the others, but you have to look harder for it, as if he’s happy to hide some of his vulnerability, his bandmates a cloak for emotions he’s still not comfortable sharing.
Not like when he sang for me the other night. There was nowhere to hide. I don’t think he wanted to. He’s done hiding what he feels for me. And, while that’s frightening, there’s something thrilling that this deeply private man, this thoroughly good man, cares for me. It’s ignited a need to do everything in my power to help with the shitty situation he’s in.
Which is why I’m here, about to demand this guy sees me. Peter Holt is Managing Director of Veritas Media Group, and so answerable for the actions of their subsidiary, Unscripted Productions, the company responsible for this mess.
I feel the weight of the pet carrier in my hand shift as Kona wakes up. He’s been such a good boy, sleeping through the entire ride, the cabbie impressed with his tiny passenger. I place the carrier on the footpath and peer in. The puppy yawns up at me, showing neat white teeth, an adorable baby land-shark giving me his friendliest smile. However, it’s not his sweet face I intend to use to get what I want today.
“Good boy, Kona,” I coo and he wags his pointy tail, its small thwacks vibrating through the carrier. “Right buddy, let’s go. Time for you to turn on the charm.”
I scoop up the carrier and head up the steps. The double doors are almost twice my height, old school, not automated, with gleaming brass handles. I shoulder one open.
Inside, I’m immediately confronted by a reception desk. The woman behind it is straight out of a punk rock band, with lipstick the colour of dried blood, skin as pale as Morticia Addams, and black hair teased into a spiky halo.
“Good afternoon,” she says. “How can I help you?”
My jaw drops open. The refined accent, and her polite words issuing from lips curving in a sweet cupid’s bow, are so at odds with the rest of her appearance. I slam my mouth shut and shuffle uncomfortably under her gaze. Although there’s a friendly expression in her freakish eyes—they’re a bizarre shade of purple that can only be from coloured contacts—my bravado at marching in here, insisting Peter Holt see me and Kona, trickles away.
“I’ve come to see Peter Holt.”
I try to sound confident, as if I’m meant to be here. But in my bulky puffer jacket, scrubs visible beneath, and a bobble hat pulled low, I definitely do not look like I should be here. Not in this room, where the aesthetic is urban cool. With some in ripped jeans and designer tees, others in chic athleisure wear, the staff look like they’ve tumbled off the pages of a street style magazine. They’re dotted across a vast open plan office, most working at desks behind banks of screens, while a few relax on couches with slim laptops balanced on their knees.
“Peter,” she says slowly, with a broadening smile. It causes her eyes to crinkle and I see she’s not as young as her avant-garde outfit and makeup suggests. She may even be old enough to have actually been in a punk band. “Is he expecting you?” Her dark brows knot as she scans her own gigantic computer screens. “I can’t see…”
“No,” I say. “But it’s important.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, like she means it, “but Peter has a full afternoon of meetings today. Can I make an appointment for another day?”
“Please.” I’m not above begging. Despite her formidable appearance, she’s got kind eyes, and I hope she might see the desperation in mine. “I need literally five minutes.”
It’s only now she notices the dog carrier sitting by my feet. Her eyes widen and her brows fly upwards when, as if on cue, Kona lets out a small yelp.
“Is that a puppy?” she says, her mouth tipping up at the corners.
I nod.
“You brought Peter a puppy?” Her expression is bemused, and there’s confusion in her eyes.
“Well, yes—no—not exactly…”
“Oooh, can I see her? Him?”
“Him,” I say. “OK.” Maybe Kona will charm her into letting me see the elusive Peter.
I bend down, open the mesh door, and he tumbles into my waiting arms. I stand, cradling him against my chest, and he nips at the loose strands of my hair that have escaped my ponytail, oblivious to the crowd of people making a beeline for us.
It’s like Stellar Riot has dropped into the middle of a busy street at midday. The staff materialise from their workstations, clustering around Kona and me, with chuckles of laughter, and shining eyes, as he works his puppy magic on the room. He wiggles in my arms, paws extended towards them, as if he’s hoping to crowd surf across the group.
“Awww, he’s only got three legs,” someone whispers. There’s a rippled murmur of sympathy.
“You first, Bethany,” another voice calls. “Just don’t hog him too long.”
The receptionist unwinds herself, slides from behind the desk, standing tall and lean, arms spread like black wings. With gentle hands, she takes Kona and lays him across her shoulder, his tongue lapping at her long pale neck. Her eyes fall shut in dreamy bliss, as her nose ruffles the puppy’s mochaccino fur, drinking in the smell of him.
“Guess I know what you want for Christmas.” A voice, thick with humour, drifts from the back of the space.
The crowd parts and a man in black jeans and a white band t-shirt of The Cure, under an open plaid shirt, strolls between them. A smirk splits his face beneath a pair of velvet brown eyes. Although he’s the most casually dressed person in the room, the deference of the staff and his unruffled demeanour leave no doubt—he’s the boss. Peter Holt. Probably in his forties, he looks vaguely familiar, with his swarthy complexion, and a shock of black curls tumbling untidily to his shoulders. I’m reminded of a pirate—a friendly enough one with his beaming smile. The heavy silver ring in each ear completes the picture.
“Oh darling, yes,” the woman, Bethany, breathes, “if only we didn’t live in a glass box ten storeys up.” Her mouth curves into a rueful smile.
I watch his hand reach towards her, smoothing the puppy’s head with ring-bedecked fingers. Ornate heavy silver gleams on every finger of the other too, as he gently tousles the woman’s wild hair.
“So, what brings Haley Templeton in here on a Monday afternoon, stopping my staff from work?”
My head snaps away from his hands and my disbelieving eyes jerk upward to meet his teasing expression.
“I never forget a name or a face,” he says.
“Or every handbag or pair of shoes I buy,” the woman drawls, her painted mouth twitching in amusement. “Husbands,” she shrugs.
“ Star Power , three years ago.” He points a finger my way. “Your brother, Ollie, made it to the semis. Could have gone further,” he says. “But the people seemed to have a soft spot for all the freaks that season.”
“Yes,” I croak out, in shock. “That’s right.”
“Peter Holt,” he says, extending a hand to me. Mine shakes a little as he squeezes it, the gesture warm against the hard metal of his grip.
“Haley was hoping to see you,” the woman says, words a little muffled with her mouth buried in Kona’s fur. “But haven’t you got Hugh Partridge due any minute?”
“Oh fuck, yes,” he sighs. “Sorry Haley. Beth will make you a time—how’s tomorrow morning? ”
Panic leaps in my chest. Time is running out; if I’m going to make any difference, I need to talk to this guy now, with Kona here to press my point.
“Please.” My voice comes out a desperate plea. “It really needs to be today. Just a few minutes. It’s about Wild For The Win .”
Peter Holt’s eyes narrow. “Is it now?” His dark brows angle down in a fierce knot, like the captain of the pirate ship contemplating drawing his cutlass. “Well then, as that bellend Hugh just so happens to be the producer of Wild For The Win , you’d better come into my office.”
“Beth, honey,” he says, turning to his wife. “How about you let her bring the puppy?” He’s already mesmerised by Kona; a good sign. “Maybe make her a coffee, too? She looks frozen to death. And when Mr Partridge arrives, don’t let him make himself comfortable.”
A minute later, I’m seated inside the sleek glass walls of Peter’s office, the only one inside the vast otherwise open-plan space. Kona’s sliding around on his desktop, lunging at Peter’s hands as they play a game of puppy tag.
Beth delivers me a mug of milky coffee. I warm my hands on it, but the sweet liquid does nothing to soothe the agitated lump in my throat. Peter pauses a moment in the game and I meet his gaze with nervous blinks when he looks my way.
“So, what’s up, Haley?” he asks.
All my resolve to berate this man for what his company has done fades away in the face of his friendly tone and obvious delight in Kona’s antics. Peter’s likeable, and I didn’t want to like him. I swallow hard, trying to summon my indignation .
“You need to do something about Wild For The Win, ” I blurt out. “Do you know what happened up there?”
He looks at me a little shamefaced.
“Honestly? No,” he says. “To be frank, I can’t stand the damn show. I’d drop it tomorrow if I could. But you know how it is—got to pay all these people somehow.” He waves a hand at the staff outside who’ve given up on a chance with Kona and have drifted back to their work. “My accountants said no. That we need it to prop up the bottom line. Cheap to produce. Draws the audience. Boosts the ratings. Keeps the bean counters happy. So, no, to my embarrassment, I haven’t paid it any attention at all.”
“Well, perhaps you should have,” I bite back, my fire rekindled. The sight of him enjoying the antics of a puppy, while animals and people have been hurt by something he is ultimately responsible for, seems so wrong.
His eyes snap to mine, dark brows creased. “Perhaps you need to tell me why.”
I scoop Kona off the desk and back onto my lap, his warm weight reassuring, and begin. Peter’s full attention is on me. Elbows on the desk, fingers steepled, he listens without interruption as I detail the whole sorry mess—the snares, the unfair portrayal of Christian, the duplicity over Loreena’s departure—before circling back to the reason I brought Kona. I rouse the puppy from his snooze and lift him back onto the desk. The puppy wobbles a little, trying to take control of his three legs, the stance a bit more difficult without a fourth to anchor him.
“Christian had a dog like Kona once. A tripod. He lost his leg in a snare. It was a long time ago, which makes it even more sad that still, today, we haven’t totally banned them. And that shows like Wild For The Win support using them.”
“That’s why he was upset.”
“Yes.” I meet his eyes, pleading my case. “And that’s why I’m here. Look, I know you can’t undo what’s happened. But there’s still time to change what happens next.”
“I see,” he says quietly, chin in hand, eyes raised in thought to the high white ceiling. After a long moment, he turns his gaze back to me, reaching to scoop Kona in a hug against his chest. “OK, I’ll see what I can do.” I let out a breath. He’s going to help. “As it seems you already know—” He pauses to suck at his lip. “The legal team has this sort of thing sewn up pretty tight. There are contracts and agreements in place. It’s not always possible to undo them. But even if I can’t, you have my word—there will never be snares used on any programme this company makes. In fact, I’m going to take on the oversight of animal welfare myself. It seems we can do better. A lot better.”
“Thank you, Peter,” I say, as he stands and passes Kona to my waiting arms.
“Do you have to go?” He holds the puppy a moment longer, as if reluctant to release him.
I nod. “Yes. Got to get back to work—and get this little guy back to his foster mama.”
“Damn,” he says. “Looks like I have no excuse to avoid that prick Hugh Partridge anymore,” he grins.
He jerks his head towards a rangy man squeezed into a tiny tub chair in a small alcove beside the entrance, his long legs angled out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Bethany obviously took Peter’s comment literally. Hugh looks like he wishes he was anywhere but here. There’s a scowl on his arrogant face and his fingers drum impatiently on the side of the chair. I’m hoping his day is about to get a lot worse, but just how much Peter can or will do to fix the situation is still unclear.
He turns, offering Kona one more affectionate pat on the head.
“Besides, if you don’t get that puppy out of here, Bethany will have our house on the market and insist we buy something dog friendly.”
“Maybe you should,” I smile.
“Maybe we should,” he agrees.