Chapter 39
Nine Days Later
Tully tumbles from the backseat of the wagon, a whirling orange tornado of excited dog. I head for the other side of the car, where Mularkey’s blue eyes plead with me for freedom.
“Easy girl, I can’t get you out of here while you’re wiggling so much.” Mularkey tugs at the seat restraint while I fumble with the clip. The pressure of her struggles puts tension on the belt, making the task more difficult. The clip finally pops open and she’s off, a streak of silver and white. They both stop for a pee—they like to synchronise—then begin laps around the front garden of Ollie’s country house, before coming to a halt beneath one large tree, planting bottoms to the ground, heads raised and keen eyes scanning the branches .
“Oh, please, not squirrels. We’ll never get them in,” I sigh.
“Don’t worry, I’ll round them up.” Ollie strolls down the front steps towards us. “Remember, I’m their favourite uncle.” He’s right. The girls worship Ollie, probably because whenever he’s home, he ignores my instructions and feeds them treats from his plate.
“Good luck with that when squirrels are involved,” Sam laughs as she pops the rear hatch of her mother’s car, and starts to unload our cases. “Even their favourite aunt can’t convince them away from those tree-rats.”
Sam’s not a big fan of wildlife since a day in the park when, like most eight-year-olds, we ignored the ‘don’t feed the squirrels’ sign, and an overenthusiastic one climbed her leg and bit her hand.
“Yeah, if there’s a squirrel in that tree, I don’t like your chances, Ollie,” I call from where I’m head down in the centre of the back seat, unloosing the belt that’s kept Kona’s travel crate secure on the journey from London to Somerset.
“And so, this is the little guy.” Ollie smiles and steps forward to help me lift the carrier out. “Hey, there little man.” He peers through the mesh, then flips the latch and Kona prances out, pausing to lick at Ollie’s outstretched hand before racing across the driveway and diving onto the nearest piece of grass to squat. “Still peeing like a girl, I see. At what age do they stop that?” He grins at the caramel-coloured pup.
“Think about it Ollie.” I roll my eyes at my brother. Kona is never going to be able to cock his back leg on lampposts like other male dogs, not when he only has one.
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “I forgot, three legs. You don’t notice it with the way he runs around so fast.”
“Yeah. Even with three legs, he’s going to have the best life.” I know that for sure. “You haven’t said anything, right?”
“Not a word,” he promises, with a smile. “He’s going to be so surprised.”
Malcolm, one half of the lovely semi-retired couple who look after Ollie’s house for him, bustles down the steps towards us, hands extended towards suitcases, ready to help.
“Ello there, Haley! You’re ‘ere at last, me lovely!” he calls out, his voice, with its Devon drawl rising and falling like a gentle countryside melody. “We’ve bin waitin’ for ye all mornin’, we ‘ave!”
The wrinkles on his walnut-brown face deepen in a broad smile as I intercept him with a hug. I suspect he and his wife, Audrey, find the big house too quiet when it’s only the two of them. They fuss over us like family whenever we’re here, and we’ve come to feel like they’re family, too.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” I say, unwinding myself from him. “You’re off to your family for Christmas, aren’t you?”
“Aye, this afternoon, me dear. Just need to load up all the li’l uns’ presents, we do, an’ then we’ll hit the road, sure enough. We wanted to make sure all was sorted ’ere afore we left. An’ to see ye too, of course.”
“Well, now you have, you should get going. You’ll want to be there before dark.” Malcolm and Audrey’s two daughters live down near Torquay. It’s only a couple of hours, but when it’s Saturday, two days out from Christmas, the traffic will be hell. “I’m sure everything will be fine here.”
Malcolm’s bushy brows knit in a frown. “I don’t rightly know, me dear. Not with all that film crew muckin’ about in there, actin’ like they owns the place. Right bothersome lot, if you asks me. Struttin’ ’round like lords o’ the manor.”
He casts a sour look at the three huge black vans lined up on one side of the driveway, with a small catering trailer parked on the other. I can imagine Malcolm is not at all pleased with bossy production staff, camera operators and sound techs invading the house. It’s only going to get worse when the band’s roadies arrive.
“They’ll be gone before we know it,” Ollie assures him. “They’re on a deadline.”
He grabs a suitcase, whistles for the dogs, who much to my surprise come running, Mularkey smiling in the lead, Tully laughing at her shoulder and Kona racing behind with small barks as if saying, “Hey, wait for me.”
Stepping into Ollie’s house this Christmas is like falling into the pages of a magazine. The last two years, I’ve brought along some decorations, he’s made sure of a tree, we’ve decked out one lounge and the dining room and it’s been nice. But it’s hard to make an impact on a house of this size without considerable amounts of time and money. Ollie might not have the first, but with the second, this year he’s created something breathtaking. Well, an interior designer with a generous budget has.
“You like it?” he asks.
“Of course I do. I love it.” I don’t know where to look. It’s all so overwhelming. And this is only the entranceway. “Did you get lots of visitors through?”
“Hundreds apparently. Made a good amount of money for the village hall society.”
The nearby village of Nether Wickham, struggling with a leaking roof on their community hall, came up with a plan: ask the owners of stately homes in the area to decorate and open their doors to the public for a couple of weeks before Christmas. A fundraiser for them, and a bonus for us, as our family will spend Christmas surrounded by these amazing decorations.
I stare, mesmerised by the sight. It’s Christmas on steroids, everything supersized. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, shrunk to a tiny speck next to the towering tree, laden with baubles as big as my head. Luckily, it has sturdy branches, enough to support their weight and that of the garlands. Glittering tinsel snakes, they twine around the foliage like an exotic species of full-bodied python in a Christmas-themed jungle.
“We surely did. Visitors pouring in,” a beaming Audrey announces as she joins us in the enormous hallway. Her brown eyes, framed with wrinkles etched by more than sixty years of her cheery personality, sparkle with pride. “My word, so many people there were.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you and Malcolm.” Ollie’s always generous with praise, particularly for these two.
“Oh, it was nothin’ really,” Audrey shrugs. “Even though it meant a bit of extra work, we ’ad a lovely time, we did. I ’ope they do it again next year. Are you nearly ready, my dear?” She looks across at Malcolm.
“I’ll just see our Sam to ’er room, quick as a flash, an’ then we can be off, my love. Won’t take but a moment, it won’t.”
Malcolm reaches for Sam’s suitcase, swinging it with the strength of a much younger man, as he heads for the grand staircase to the second floor .
“You and Christian are down here.” Ollie grabs at my suitcase, heading off to the left. “I’ve given you the one that opens out to the side garden. For the dogs.”
That simple no fuss assumption, Christian and I will share a room, is a relief to my ears after last week’s upset. Ollie really has accepted we’re together. I know he and Christian have talked a lot since, patching up the rift in their friendship that neither ever expected would happen, least of all over me.
“That’s great Ollie. Thank you. It’s perfect.”
Giving the dogs direct access through French doors to the little walled garden will make life so much easier. Especially when one of them is a puppy. Lilian assures me Kona’s toilet-trained, but he’s young, so not reliable at holding on for too long yet.
I spend the next hour unpacking, then grab lunch—Audrey’s left us a hearty beef and barley soup simmering in the kitchen, paired with home-baked bread—before retreating to the safety of the bedroom. It’s busy in the house as the TV crew hustle back and forth, preparing the small ballroom—it’s still crazy that my brother’s house has an actual ballroom—for filming the live segment for a Christmas variety special.
Lying back on the bed, a new book in my hand, I retreat into a fictional world. However, I’m so tired, I eventually put my reading aside, and close my eyes, savouring the peace. Apart from the occasional muffled sound of conversation, and the odd bump and thump from the film crew at work drifting across from the other wing of the house, everything is hushed here in the country.
Exhaustion weighs heavily on me. It’s been a long week. Loreena’s words about the festive season putting pressure on already struggling households have played out in the clinic these past few days. So many dogs surrendered or abandoned, it’s been a scramble to patch them up and get as many as possible into safe foster homes before the holiday break.
We collected Kona this morning, and already another unfortunate wee soul has taken his place at Lilian’s. The Trust’s kennel facilities are full to bursting and the worst is yet to come. I feel almost guilty here enjoying my break. At least the injection of cash from the Holt Foundation has pushed back the spectre of closure for now. And I’ll have my job for as long as I need it, until, without even leaving Camden, I join the Royal Veterinary College intake next autumn.
There’s no dog noise to disturb me. After a brief flurry of activity, sniffing every corner of the bedroom, the girls demanded out once more and are back in the garden, staking out a potential squirrel-bearing tree in the far corner. Kona, flipping from exuberant to exhausted again, in the way puppies do, sought the sanctuary of his crate. I draped it with a blanket, cocooning him in darkness. Now he’s sleeping soundly, with only the faintest whisper of his breathing.
Joining him in a nap seems like a good option. After drawing the heavy brocade curtains on a sickly winter sun, I dive into my suitcase, seeking my new set of pyjamas. I saw them in a shop window on my way from the tube the other night and, unable to resist the wide-eyed dog in a Christmas hat on the front that looked so like Tully (or Christian when he’s trying to tug at my heartstrings), I had to have them.
Christian will give me a hard time about them, I’m sure. He comments almost daily on my extensive pyjama wardrobe, usually when he’s busy removing them from me. With a smile at the thought of him, knowing he’s on his way right this moment, on the road somewhere between here and Cheshire where he’s spent the last couple of days with his family, I slip between the covers.
Ear buds in place, I’m floating on the sound of Christian’s voice, the strum of his guitar and the words of ‘Untouchable’, as he draws me into sleep.
My eyes flutter open at the brush of lips on my forehead, as cool fingers nudge their way along my collarbone.
“God, I’ve missed you,” Christian mumbles against my mouth and my willing lips part in welcome.
“Missed you more,” I say, in between his hungry kisses. “Even if your hands are freezing.”
“Sorry,” he says, dragging himself away with one last reluctant kiss. He sits on the side of the bed, unzipping his boots and tossing them aside with a thud.
“Fuck, it’s mayhem out there,” he says as his fingers work quickly at the buttons of his shirt.
“Really? I thought they’d be done by now. What time is it?”
“Almost three,” he says with a glance at the chunky watch on his wrist. “No, apparently they’ve decided the ballroom is too big. Not enough ‘ambience’ and so we’re going to be in the library. Ewan’s running around like a headless chicken, and the crew are stomping around all pissed off. Believe me, in here is the best place to be for the next couple of hours. Especially given the plans I’ve got for you, sweetheart.”
He tosses me a panty-melting wink, and stands, unzipping his jeans. I allow my eyes to rove over the strong thighs, the solid lines of those muscular arms and the trails of ink blooming there in all their wild beauty. I could look at him all day. The jeans fall to the floor with the clatter of a belt buckle.
“So, you think I’m going to let you hide out in bed with me? Just so you can avoid Ewan?” I prop myself up on one elbow, watching him strip off his underwear as he grins across at me.
“That’s the plan. Plus, there are some new pyjamas that need removing, I see?” One dark brow quirks up, and he tosses me a sexy half-smirk
“Remove away,” I say, sitting up, raising my hands towards the ceiling. He needs no further invitation. He whisks the top over my head, tossing it aside with a flourish. His look is molten as his eyes rove appreciatively across my naked breasts.
“You have the most stunning tits,” he says. “Really, you’re fucking exquisite, Haley.”
I don’t need the words to know he thinks I’m beautiful; there’s no doubting the message in his smouldering eyes, but it still sends an electric thrill through me hearing him say it, how desirable I am to him, how much he wants me, hearing the neediness in his voice. After the hurt of rejection, the betrayal that shredded my self-confidence, Christian has built me up again, restored my belief that I am desirable, I am loveable. He’s given me so much, and I want to give all of myself to him.
He sinks onto the bed, folding me in his arms, skin to skin.
“I’ve missed you, missed this. ”
His voice is gravel, low and raspy with possibility. I’m wrapped so tightly, my breasts crushed against his broad chest; I can feel the thud of his heart. I always feel so small and precious inside the safety of his arms.
“I missed you too. Two days felt like forever.”
I wonder how I’ll survive when it’s two weeks. Or when the band goes on tour and it’s two months. I push the thought aside. That’s one of many things we still have to work out, as we weave his life and mine into one. But I’ve vowed to deal with them as we need to, not let anxiety over future challenges tarnish the wonder of the present.
For a moment we pause, float in this moment, breathing in each other’s presence. Then, he leans me back a little, dropping his head reverently to each erect nipple in turn, swirling one, then the other in his mouth, his tongue flickering, teeth grazing, lighting me up with the sensation.
I cradle my head on his shoulder, inhaling his woodsy scent, so familiar and inviting, tasting his skin as I whimper against him, the heat in my centre rising with each insistent tug of his mouth.
After even this small separation, my need for him is urgent, as is his for me. I shuffle across, arranging myself on his lap, legs wrapped around his hips, grinding shamelessly against him, eager for the contact; the friction, even through the fabric of my pyjama bottoms, feeds my growing arousal.
He shoves me back gently, large hands firmly grasping the waistband, shimmying the pants down, his mouth trailing over each new piece of exposed skin, dotting small nips along my stomach, my hips, thighs, and then his deft tongue lapping at the wet heat at my core. I inhale sharply, encouraging him with the feral sounds that spill unbidden from deep in my throat, and my hands laced in his hair .
“God, the sound of you,” he whispers from between my legs, his breath heavy against my thigh. “I love that sound.”
“Come inside me,” I invite, “if you really want to make me scream.” I’m suddenly desperate for the weight of him upon me, the hard length of him driving deep.
“Oh, I promise I will, sweetheart,” he says, sliding up my body, the eager thrust of his erection making me gasp. We come together greedily, each hungry to find the perfect rhythm that’s already become like a familiar song, needing no thought, only feeling to take us where we want to go.
“Dog,” he mumbles from deep in that languid post-coital state, not quite asleep, but barely awake. “I hear a dog.”
“Hmmm, outside,” I reply dozily. “Squirrel patrol. They can stay out there.” I have no desire to leave the warmth of this bed, with Christian’s limbs still draped comfortably over me, to let the girls in. They turned down my earlier offer, so they don’t get to demand instant attention now.
“You sure about that?” he mutters.
I hear it too. A small yip from the crate in the far corner of the room. I’m instantly upright. Kona.
“Wait there,” I say. “Keep your eyes shut.”
I find my pyjamas scattered on the floor and pull them on. When I reach the crate, Kona paws at the mesh door. I swing it open and scoop him up, a wiggling, licking bundle in my arms .
“What’s going on?” Christian calls.
“No peeking, you. Eyes shut.” I command, making my way to the bed. “It’s a surprise.”
I place Kona on Christian’s chest, and his eyes fly open. He takes in the laughing puppy mouth, inches away from him, that’s aiming a quick tongue at his nose, and his face creases in delight.
“What the fuck? A puppy? You got a puppy?” His hands immediately set to stroking Kona’s floppy ears, dodging playful teeth, while Kona bats at him with his paws.
“No, you got a puppy. Meet Kona. He’s yours.” He doesn’t take in what I’ve said at first, too enthralled with the creature doing a tap dance on his chest. “That’s if you want him.”
Christian’s face splits into the biggest grin.
“Really?”
“Really. And I know your place isn’t ideal for a dog, and I know you’re away lots. He can stay with me whenever you need. The girls have already given their approval. They’re keen to have a baby brother.”
“God, he’s just so perfect. Thank you.” He pulls me in, pressing a kiss on my forehead, which is the cue for Kona to make an opportunistic lunge for my hair.
“No,” I say firmly, laying one finger on his wet nose while tucking the strand back out of his reach.
“Guess we’ll be saying that word a lot for a while,” Christian laughs. He stops mid-chuckle, lifting Kona up above his head and twirling him around, checking him out from all angles. “A tripod.” He smiles up at the helpless puppy, who squirms in his grasp and gives a frustrated bark. “Even more perfect.”