Chapter 38
The Next Day
“No fucking way,” Tommy mutters through gritted teeth as a gigantic brush hovers over his face.
Neither of us anticipated they’d swoop us off to hair and make-up. I’m observing from a swivel chair next to him. The make-up artist, Luka, declared my own attempts at painting my face passable, needing only the slightest touch of extra colour to suit the harsh stage lights. He’s focused on Tommy, now.
“Got good bone structure there, Tommy.” Luka smiles, blissfully unaware of—or pointedly ignoring—the bristling man in the chair. “A bit of product on that hair, yeah?”
He reaches for a large pot of clear gloop. I see Tommy’s body cringe further into the seat as Luka’s fingers dive in, coming out with a glistening blob of jelly. He massages it between his palms, then plunges his hands into Tommy’s thick hair, taming its broom-like bristles into hip-looking spikes.
Luka turns back to me. “And Haley darling, I’ve got a little extra idea for you.”
He grabs at a curling brush. With a few deft twirls, he transforms my normally straight dark hair. Elegant spirals frame my face. The soft waves make me feel pretty and feminine, so different from my usual practical hairstyle.
That little boost of confidence damps down the sour taste in my mouth from the nausea that rises every time I think of what I’m about to face. The eyes of the world will see me revealed for the first time as no longer simply a nobody. Now, I’m a somebody because a person who cares for me happens to be famous; and some are going to judge me harshly because of that.
I’m opening myself up to criticism, even hatred, simply because Christian says he loves me. But I’m up for it. Not to say I’m not afraid. I’ve seen from the inside how bad this could get. Ollie’s unhappiness at the media attacks on Kendra reverberated through our family. The memory now whispers a warning. I’ve seen the sadness and anger in Christian when he talks about how they crucified him and Waverley. The echoes of the past pain still linger.
Although he’s ready for it this time. We both know what to expect; no outpouring of vitriol by some heartless journalist will crush us. We will get through this together.
Christian is fiercely protective of me; and I recognise that, even two weeks ago, when he first stood at my doorway, something about this man stirred my own protective instincts .
We’ve made a pact: we’re going to trust each other on this. Nothing can penetrate the shield built of his love for me and my feelings for him.
It’s too soon for me to find the words; I’m not brave enough yet, too scarred by the last time I let myself label an emotion as love—but I am falling for him. I have the courage to say I’m falling in love. Such a crazy term, like it’s a helpless plunge—and maybe it is. Or perhaps there was never any other option but Christian for me.
I stand, smoothing down the deep ruby velvet of my dress, the fabric luxurious under my fingertips. I took Bethany’s suggestion to choose something glamorous, a kind gesture on her part, ensuring I didn’t arrive here unprepared. Although, I’ve seen these post-final episodes before, and I knew the women would be in their finest outfits, with not a hair out of place, as if to remind the world this is the real them, not the wild unkempt creatures they became during the competition.
I don’t think I’m particularly vain, but it felt important the world sees me at my best. Many are going to question Christian’s judgement. I don’t want to give them any extra ammunition.
This is the dress I bought for The Brits, back in February. With the band nominated for Best Group, it was the biggest event I’d ever been to. Still reeling from Jack and Paige’s betrayal, seeing myself in the mirror that night, my bare shoulders framed with the soft ruffle of velvet, I’d had this sense of opportunity, as if this dress was a first step in reinventing myself. Little did I know back then that behind Christian’s appreciative glances, there was so much more. Wearing it tonight, I feel like his High Lady, the swirl of soft fabric rippling behind me as I walk towards the studio door, although nervousness still flutters in my stomach .
Tommy grabs my hand. “Ready?”
He grins at me, cocky and confident. I accept the squeeze gratefully, needing his reassurance, because although Peter Holt called me to explain what should happen when we go in there, nothing is certain. Tommy shoves open one of the double doors, ignoring the light above that flashes ‘Do Not Enter - Filming In Progress’.
We pause hand in hand at the top of the aisle, where steps flow down towards the stage. Heads in the audience turn, and we’re met with a mixture of puzzled frowns and wide-eyed curiosity. On cue, a production assistant races up the stairs towards us, hand raised, blocking our way. He knows the script.
“You can’t come in here. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Tommy Bunt, Loreena’s husband, and no little twerp is going to stop me from having my say about all of this.”
Tommy waves a hand at the group on the stage. Loreena sticks to the script too, eyebrows flying towards her forehead, then creasing in as much of a frown as the Botox allows. The audience gasps, fascinated by the scene. It’s time for my lines.
“And I’m Christian Steele’s girlfriend, Haley Templeton.”
My words are met with even bigger gasps. Some of the women look distraught. I hear a few hisses of disbelief and disgruntled murmurings. Several shoot me evil glares. I expected that reaction as jealous fans realise Christian is taken. There’s genuine sympathy in the eyes of a few; everyone knows what’s supposed to have gone down between Loreena and Christian in their little tent.
One guy has a camera trained on us, but other cameras are capturing him. He looks towards the floor manager, theatrically swiping a finger across his throat, as if questioning whether he should cut away. The floor manager looks between us and the group on the stage, gives a shake of his head, pausing dramatically before delivering the lines with a deep, convincing sigh.
“Let them in.”
The tension in the room is palpable. Almost everyone expects this is about to get ugly and their anticipation wafts around us.
Loreena lets out a small gasp, raising her hand to her mouth. Beside her, Christian refuses to play the game. His eyes meet mine, soft and trusting, the blue like a friendly sea, a tranquil shade which he seems to summon only for me. His lazy smile says it all, and he no longer cares what the world sees.
There is no doubt the audience wonders how he can smile, given the four players in this scenario, about to meet for the first time following the insinuations of infidelity. They presume I’m about to rip that expression away from his cheating face as an awkward scene unfolds for their pleasure.
They watch in fascinated horror as Tommy links his arm in mine and leads me down the aisle, head held high, like a proud father walking his daughter to the altar. Both of us are proud of what we’re doing here, part of bringing the truth to light and, in the process, hopefully getting a truckload of cash for others whose troubles are far greater than some bad publicity.
No one seems to question the convenient extra empty couch on one side of the stage, set there waiting for us. Tommy and I take a seat, Loreena giving us a sneaky wink. Christian’s eyes flicker towards me, brows raised in query, as if checking I’m OK. I give a slight nod and a smile. I can’t pretend to be angry at him like they want.
“Well, this is awkward.” Behind one hand, Bernard Bennett directs the little aside to the audience, accompanied by a knowing grin. But he doesn’t know anything. That smarmy little shit is in for a shock. He turns back to Loreena and Christian.
“So, Loreena, Christian, given all the rumours swirling around the two of you and what went on in that tent.” His voice is thick with innuendo. “Maybe it’s time to spill the beans, let the cat out of the bag, dish the dirt—”
“Bernard!” His exasperated co-host Lisa Mayberry, fixes him with a disparaging glare.
Loreena leaps in. “Look, I’ll make no secret of the fact I adore this man.” She smooshes Christian’s face, pinching his cheeks like an adoring mother with a baby, and he flicks her hands away playfully.
“But I’m sorry, people. Much as you might be in love with the idea of us.” She points a finger back and forth between them. “Much as it might be disappointing, I haven’t gone all Anne Hathaway on you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter as the audience realises they’re not witnessing the real life re-enactment of that popular movie about a romance between an older woman and a singer in a boy band.
“There is something going on between us—but not that.”
Her strident voice hushes to almost a whisper. “Christian, you know you’re like a son to me.” He squeezes her hand, and she wipes at one eye. But Loreena’s not one to show too much sentimentality on TV. She turns to face the audience, leaning forward, one scarlet nail pointing at her face, as she attempts to pull her high brows into a frown. “And I mean, really people? I know my surgeon is good, but I’m old enough to be his mother.”
There’s a whicker of laughter, as the audience is taken in by her self-deprecating tone. Loreena’s face is still stunning, even if propped up by artificial means, but she’s made her point .
In the next beat, she rises from her seat, grabbing my hand, pulling me up onto my feet beside her. With a flourish, she raises her arm and twirls me beneath it like a dancer, posing me for a moment.
“Anyway. Look at her? Isn’t she beautiful?”
There’s a patter of applause, although some don’t join in, fixing me with hard, envious stares. I think I catch a faint booing sound, but I brush it off. Christian is mine, no matter what they think. Loreena guides me to sit beside my boyfriend, who’s smiling up at me in soft reassurance. She releases my hand to find his, then flings herself into the space next to Tommy.
“And this is the man I love and who loves me.”
She pats Tommy’s knee, and he scoops her into a hug before planting his mouth on hers in a kiss so passionate I can hear the mutual slurping as they devour each other on national television. There are whoops and catcalls and a round of exuberant applause from the audience.
Christian’s arm slides round my shoulder, and he places a delicate kiss on my cheek, pulling me into him. No one seems to notice us. All eyes are riveted on Loreena and Tommy’s enthusiastic public make out—until the slam of the double doors at the studio entrance draws everyone’s attention.
Bethany Holt stands at the top of the stairs, dramatic in a high-necked black dress, cut away to reveal her pale angular shoulders. Beside her, Peter is in a variation of the jeans, band t-shirt (this one Led Zeppelin) and the loose shirt he wore last time I saw him.
Bernard and Lisa wear twin slack-jawed expressions of shock as their boss strolls towards them, his wife a dark exotic creature beside him. Stagehands scramble to produce two tub chairs. Peter and Bethany slide into them. Glasses of champagne materialise in front of them, as well as one for me and what looks like whisky for Tommy.
The other contestants sit stunned, uncertain mutters between them. Lisa Mayberry hurriedly schools her features into a pleasant expression, her voice calm.
“Everybody, such a pleasure to introduce you to the people who make all of this happen—Mr Peter Holt, Managing Director, and his wife Bethany. This is such a surprise. To what do we owe the honour, Peter?”
Peter pauses to sip at the champagne and clears his throat. “Well, first, I’d like to congratulate our winner, Gavin Markham. Such a great cause too, Gavin.”
Gavin beams beneath his thick dark beard, and the audience applauds wildly. He was obviously a popular winner. The only truly nice person amongst them. I’m glad he made it through.
“Beth and I are very proud our show is able to help out groups like Gavin’s ‘Football For All’. There’s so much need out there.” The audience nod and murmur in approval. “But…” He glances around the group seated on the couches, eyeing each one meaningfully. “There are other things about this show that we’re not proud of. In fact, I’m downright ashamed of some things that have happened on our watch. And that’s why we’re here.”
Lisa and Bernard shuffle uncomfortably in their seats, eyes darting towards the floor manager, hoping for a cue. He simply shrugs, spreading his hands wide, his expression of bewilderment mirroring that of almost everyone in the studio.
“We’re here to apologise. We’re also here to assure you Wild For The Win —and every other show under the Veritas banner—is going to operate a little differently going forward. You see Veritas, means truth, and I’m undertaking that from hereon in, that’s what people are going to get. We’re going to put the real back in reality.”
He points at the audience. “Now, you know how it goes on these live shows. You get to hear all the stuff that happened behind the scenes. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? What really happened?”
There’s a ripple of applause.
“ I can tell you what really happened. And what didn’t.”
Peter Holt spends the next ten minutes charming the audience with a blend of casual charisma and disarming sincerity. A few in the audience dab at their eyes when he offers Loreena and Christian an unreserved apology. There’s a cheer from the crowd when he announces he’s sacked producer Hugh Partridge and more heads may still roll. Lisa and Bernard shrink under the force of his pointed stare.
The audience applauds wildly when he announces the animal welfare stance he’s insisting on for all their future productions. There are warm cheers for Bethany as she presents both Christian and Loreena with one of those oversized cheques—one hundred thousand pounds each for their chosen charities—not from Wild For The Win, but out of her and Peter’s own charitable fund, The Holt Foundation. I didn’t know this bit was coming, and my heart leaps in my throat when I realise they’ve not only saved the dog rescue—my job is safe.
“One more thing. One more thing.” Bethany bounces in her seat like an overexcited child, interrupting Lisa Mayberry, who is trying to wrap things up. “A last, very important thing.” She turns to me with an enigmatic smile and then casts her gaze across the audience. “ Do you believe in fate?” Her voice is hushed, mysterious. She’s greeted with enthusiastic nodding.
“Me too,” she says. “And a few days ago, fate delivered an incredible young woman to our doorstep.” She stretches out her arm, palm raised. “Haley Templeton, people.” There’s an answering patter of applause as I shuffle in my seat, uncomfortable under the questioning stares of strangers. Bethany fixes her eyes back on the audience.
“You know there’s a belief.” Her voice rises, her tone emphatic. “One I hold very dear. I believe whatever you put out into the universe comes back at you threefold.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Haley, you’ve put so much good out into the universe. Now it’s your turn for it to come back to you.”
One of the assistants appears from the wings clutching another giant cardboard cheque, and even from here I can read my name on it in large looping writing. And the amount, all those zeroes. So many zeroes.
“Stand up, babe,” Christian whispers against my ear. “This moment’s all for you.” I gulp in air, summon a smile although I feel like I want to throw up, and wobble over on my heels, to where Bethany stands, with Loreena now also on her feet beside her.
“This is just from us darling, Loreena and I.” Bethany’s eyes, today a disconcerting shade of yellow like a predatory big cat, meet mine and now they glow golden. “You’re already doing such a great job working hard in the vet clinic, but we also know you want to do more. This is for you, sweetheart, to become the best you can be.”
The two women move to flank me, each laying an arm across my shoulder, and I feel their affection. Two people who were strangers a week ago, who believe in me. It’s humbling, and I mumble out words of thanks, but they’re awkward as swirling emotions take hold. I don’t even hear the hosts’ closing words, too overcome by the gesture, as the realisation hits me: I can go to vet school.
“You knew,” I say. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
The after-show party was a whirl of champagne and laughter, congratulations and good wishes, even from a few unexpected people like Lisa Mayberry. But now, here, in the silence of the limo, I have time to reflect. I’m not ungrateful for Bethany and Loreena’s generosity, but damn it, if the need to be independent isn’t whispering those same old snide suggestions inside my brain.
I’m a failure; I can’t stand on my own feet, always indebted to someone else; I live in my brother’s house; I’m in a job I worry I’d never have got on my own merits, sure one of my mother’s friends put in a good word for me before the interview.
“I didn’t know,” Christian says, and I believe him. I can trust him to be truthful. “I knew the two of them were up to something—Loreena was on her phone all afternoon, and shooting me smug looks.”
“Surely you must have been the reason for it? How else would they know?”
I lean against Christian’s shoulder, breathing in the spicy smell of cologne mingled with the fresh leather scent of the seat. Outside the black limousine, Christmas lights dazzle overhead, making little rainbows in the droplets on the window. Christian told the driver to take us the long route home. The central streets, Oxford and Regent, Carnaby and Bond, look like movie stars on the red carpet, each trying to outdo each other with the most ostentatious dress.
“You must have told them something.”
“Only Loreena,” he sighs. “But I swear, Haley, I didn’t even tell her you wanted to go to vet school. And certainly not that you couldn’t because of the money. I wouldn’t do that to you. That’s no one else’s business but yours. Yes, I did tell Loreena in conversation I thought you’d make a great vet. You’ve seen what she’s like, a first class meddler whose brain shoots off in all directions without warning.”
I can’t help but laugh at the very accurate summing up of our friend.
“And the moment she and Bethany laid eyes on each other in the green room, they hit it off straight away. Insisted they both go to hair and make-up at the same time and spent the entire time chattering away. Look out world now those two have found each other.”
“Poor Tommy and Peter.”
“Are you going to do it?” he asks.
“Vet school? Wow, the fact I could hasn’t even sunk in yet. I don’t know. It’s so weird when something you always wanted so badly but thought you’d never have, just drops into your lap.”
“Don’t I know it,” he says, voice low, his blue eyes tender. “Happened to me twelve days ago, and my advice is, go for it. You won’t regret it.”
He presses his lips to mine and in that perfect moment, the passing lights rippling across us in colourful strands as if dancing in celebration, I know he’s right.