Chapter 40
Later That Night
If you asked someone to imagine the most idyllic English Christmas scene, it would look like the library of Ollie’s house tonight. Except for the two large cameras, the web of cables crisscrossing the floor, and the crew clothed in black gathered around for final instructions from the floor manager; and the drum kit to one side and three guitars propped on stands in front of a leather couch and two chairs. But otherwise, the room oozes festive cheer.
Not one, but two trees twice the size of mine, decorated in a traditional style, frame the couch. They glisten with trails of gold tinsel and winking fairy lights. Dotted in between are giant baubles of deepest emerald, and rich ruby red bows the colour of the velvet dress I’m wearing .
It’s the same dress I wore to the Wild For The Win finale. So what, I’ll have been seen on national television twice in the same outfit within a fortnight. No matter that the Princess of Wales seems to get away with recycling her dresses just fine, I’m fully prepared for someone to criticise my choice, and I don’t care—I feel strong and beautiful in this dress and that’s all that matters. That and the fact Christian told me it’s his favourite of all my outfits. Although he did mention in the next breath, it made a refreshing change from Christmas pyjamas.
Every surface in the room is decked out with tastefully placed ornaments, luscious garlands and wavering candles wafting scents of sandalwood and cinnamon. There’s the smoky overlay of burning pine, from a fire crackling in the enormous hearth.
The room has a homely feel, despite its oversized proportions. I can see why they chose it over the ballroom. It’s the whole vibe they want for this variety show—performers in their own home, enjoying Christmas with friends and family. That’s why we’re here. Mum and Dad neatly sidestepped the invitation, pleading a school benefactor’s Christmas party they absolutely must attend. But, uncomfortable as it is facing live cameras, I won’t shy away from doing this for Ollie and Christian.
Sam and I take a seat on our allotted sofa. It’s wide and comfortable, and the forest green and red tartan upholstery fabric fits the Christmas decor perfectly.
“Hi, I’m Tabitha, Teddy’s girlfriend.” The bubbly blonde woman already seated at one end, who looks barely old enough to be out of school (although Ollie says she’s twenty-two), blinks at us nervously.
“Hi, I’m Haley, Ollie’s sister. And Christian’s girlfriend. ”
I offer her a welcoming smile and try not to let the sympathy I feel for her show in my eyes. Girlfriend, in Teddy’s case, doesn’t have the same meaning as what the title means to other guys. Unfortunately, sweet, quiet, unassuming Teddy is the only one of the band still susceptible to the temptation of groupies. One day he’ll grow up, but until then, girls like this will rotate in and out of his life as if it’s the revolving door of a busy hotel. So this week, it’s Tabitha. Next week, who knows?
“Samantha, sort of Ollie’s sister, too.” Sam leans across me, smiling at Tabitha, before settling back into the seat as we exchange a discreet, knowing look. I’ve warned Sam off Teddy. The last thing I need is one of my friends succumbing to his boyish charm.
Garrett’s wife, Liv, pale and serene, arrives to take the final space beside us. She offers a slender hand and a shy smile. I’m surprised to see her. Garrett, the bass player, a few years older than his bandmates, draws a very firm line between his career and his personal life. He’s protective of his gentle wife, rarely subjecting her to the limelight.
I wonder if Christian and I will get to that point, or if we’ll even want to. Maybe it’s because Ollie’s in the band too, but I kind of like the idea of being part of it all, sharing in this thing Christian loves. In surviving the publicity around Wild For The Win , I’ve found unexpected strength, tucking away my fears of what fame will bring until the day comes when I actually have to face them. And, when it does, Christian and I will stand together, each trusting in the other.
Right on time, at five forty-five, the guys amble in. Teddy seats himself at the drums, his flying hands settling into small flurries of rhythm, random snippets, many of which I recognise.
Ollie takes his place in one of the oversized armchairs, Garrett in another. Christian heads for the couch. His eyes meet mine as he picks up his guitar. His mouth tips up in a smile, soft and sultry, as if it’s just a moment between us and there aren’t twenty others in the room.
The guys all strum away, tuning up their instruments one final time. It’s an acoustic set tonight, Stellar Riot unplugged, perfect for the intimate nature of the segment. Familiar riffs drift towards us, teasing what’s to come on the playlist.
Marky Lomas, one of the more likeable television hosts, strolls in wearing neat pale grey chinos, a white button down and a navy sports jacket. He takes a seat next to Christian and gives us a wink.
Right on the dot of six o’clock, a hush falls across the room, as we’re counted in to the livestream. After a bit of reasonably painless banter between Marky and the band, cameras swivel towards us. I resist the urge to cringe under their gaze, try not to think of how many people will be watching out there, or worry about making an idiot of myself on live TV.
Ollie does the introductions, his casual ease in the situation damping down my anxiety a little. I manage to summon a coherent response to Marky’s unexpected spontaneous question about my job, and stick to the script when he mentions Christian and I being in a relationship and wishes us the best. As Marky moves aside to a chair, and the cameras turn back to the band, I exhale in relief, grateful that for the rest of the next ten minutes, my role is simply to be part of a supportive audience.
The band launches into ‘Angel Mine’, a fan favourite, and within moments of the well-known song washing over me, I can almost forget this is anything but the guys having a jam session at Ollie’s house .
They follow it up with one of their latest songs, ‘Captured’, which has been well-received and is currently hanging in around number ten on the charts. It’s got this compelling bass line and a killer chorus courtesy of Ollie and Christian’s combined brilliance. I’d bet money on it going higher after tonight.
Two great choices, and the Stellar Riot fans will be happy. One more song, and this will all be over and we can be ourselves again, without worrying about the lurking second camera, swivelling between the band and us.
I’m taken by surprise when Christian opens his mouth to introduce the final song. It’s so unusual for him to step in as frontman. Usually, he’s happy for Ollie to take that role. He scrubs one hand at his neck, bites at his lip, and begins.
“As most of you know, my life’s been in a bit of upheaval the last few weeks. I’d use other words to describe it, but hey, this is a family show, right?”
A burst of laughter ripples across the room. Christian’s not quite as bad as Rachel, but he’s had a few famous stumbles with unfiltered language in public. He strokes at his beard, casting a grin at Ollie.
“Some of that upheaval has been pretty tough. But there’s one thing that’s upended my life in the best way possible. One person, in fact. And that’s Haley Templeton.”
I see him begin to stand and realise what’s happening here. Inside I’m screaming “No, no, no,” while outwardly I smile and rise to my feet, a reluctant robot. Guitar in one hand, he extends the other to me and guides me to the space next to him on the sofa. Anxious nausea rises in my stomach, and I tighten my grip on his hand as if he’s the only thing stopping me from crumbling under the weight of all those unseen eyes watching me.
“Sorry, I didn’t warn you,” he whispers. “This is my surprise.”
“Just promise me you’re not about to go all Billy Mack on us,” I splutter out, leaning in close, quietly teasing him as I try to steady myself. “Promise you’ll keep your clothes on?”
“I promise,” he says, with a low chuckle. “You OK?”
“Yeah, I’m OK,” I whisper back, even as I realise the tiny microphone on the lapel of his shirt captures my every word, and his too, and offers them to the world.
When he speaks again, he doesn’t turn to the camera. Instead, his eyes fix on me, the blue deep and intense.
“We planned to do ‘Untouchable’ to finish tonight. But as it’s my song, I got to tell them no. We’ve got a new song to share. One I wrote in the last couple of weeks. It’s similar, because I wrote it for Haley, just like I wrote ‘Untouchable’ for her three years ago. Would you believe up until about a week ago, she didn’t know that?” He laughs, a soft seductive chuckle. “It’s been my little secret. So, now you know too. With this one, right from the start, I’m making no secret of the fact it’s for her. It’s called ‘December Promise’. And it goes like this.”
Teddy counts them in; the guitars find their way forward in a crash of chords, and Christian’s voice rises to meet them.
It’s a love song. I know it from the eyes of this man, fixed on mine, his heart laid out raw and vulnerable. It’s there in the lyrics too, his declaration of love for me. And, as I promised, back when I had no idea of Christian’s feelings or what he’d come to mean to me, I take his words with gentle hands knowing how much this costs him, understanding the risk he takes in offering it to me. And knowing that later, in the quiet time, when it’s just us without the world watching, I’m ready to take that risk too.
I wonder if there’s a camera capturing him from this angle. I hope so, because I want to replay this moment again, over and over and over, reliving it often across the years stretching ahead of us. When my memory becomes hazy, I want to be able to summon this image of him, the beautiful clarity of his voice, his face, his words, his love, and bask in the knowledge it’s all for me.
While part of me protests allowing so many eyes to observe this intimacy between us, I’m prepared to share our love so the world can see the truth of Christian Steele, how good, and true and loyal he is. No one who sees this man tonight, singing this song for me, could ever doubt otherwise.
As he finishes, the last vibration of guitar strings quivering in the air like a sigh, the final shimmering flutter of the cymbals fading into nothing, the room pauses for a moment in silence, and then everyone breaks into applause. Christian lets his guitar fall to the floor and scoops me into his arms, and our mouths meet in a deep, lingering kiss.
“Surprised?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Very surprised,” I say. “You wrote me a Christmas song.”
“I did.” His mouth tilts into the lopsided grin I love. “How did that happen?”