by Fern Britton
Maureen, meanwhile, had come to accept that this was the career path her daughter had adopted for now. She had even been known to accept the odd compliment on Christie’s behalf in the village high street. Christie had once or twice noticed someone in the supermarket glance at her in recognition, and felt the satisfaction of doing a good job and knowing people liked her for it.
But at the beginning of July, Tart Talk was coming off air for eight weeks over the school holidays. Although not a proper regular on the show, Christie had come to look forward to her appearances, even to scything through Mel’s wardrobe – and, of course, to the much-needed income. She was unsure what she was going to do, bereft of all three.
*
One morning, Christie was in the kitchen with her second cup of coffee. She had left the kids at school an hour earlier, Libby complaining that she needed a new pair of Ugg boots (‘In the summer?’ asked Christie) and arguing that she didn’t want a haircut on Friday and, no, her skirt was not too short. Fred, in contrast, was itching to get stuck into the kick-about going on in the playground with his mates. How much less complicated a boy’s childhood was, Christie reflected as she cleared the draining-board.
Of course, she ought to have been writing the piece she was compiling on celebrities who suffered from bipolar disorder – she’d put it off for so long that the deadline was in danger of whizzing by her – but every time she got a new commission from the Daily News these days, she found it harder to galvanise herself. Christie wasn’t interested in bitching about the latest breed of female celebrities and the editor knew that. Her days at the News were definitely numbered. The only question was whether she or they would cut ties first. Her only regular income came from her new ‘Straight from the Heart’ column for Woman & Family magazine: a nice little earner, courtesy of Julia. But with Tart Talk off the air and no certainty that she’d be asked back, she prayed that Julia would get her something else. She needed the security of knowing she had more guaranteed TV work.
Still putting off going to her laptop, finding any displacement activity more appealing than writing the bipolar piece, she idly turned the pages of the News. Her attention was caught by the TV7 logo. The headline screamed ‘NOT ONE, NOT TWO, BUT THREE FOR G’. Gilly Lancaster, the glamorous co-presenter of Good Evening Britain, the nightly news programme, was having triplets.
Her absence will be another blow for the popular programme, which was hit almost a year ago by the death of handsome anchorman Ben Chapman (34). He was found in the indoor swimming-pool of über-agent Julia Keen’s (49) luxury weekend hideaway. After the verdict of accidental death, Gilly was supported by TV bosses and viewers and has taken the show to the top of the ratings. When she’ll start her maternity leave is to be announced, but TV7 will be looking for a replacement. Who will take over? Gilly says she will be back on the show as soon as possible and in the meantime is delighted and looking forward to giving her husband the family they have longed for. She is 35. (How dangerous is a multiple birth in elderly women? Pages 23 and 24.)
Christie remembered again the swimming-pool incident, which had been all over the papers. A tragedy for Ben’s family, but it must have been very difficult for Julia, too. Not only the accident itself but the inevitable press speculation surrounding it must have damaged her reputation in some quarters. Despite her weepy denials, there had been definite suggestions that the client-agent relationship had developed into something less than professional. Having met Julia now, she had only admiration for the way her agent seemed to have weathered the storm and apparently not let the tragedy affect her, personally or professionally. What strength of character she must have. Christie shut the paper and went upstairs.
She opened the door to her study and, as always, felt a special calm overtake her. This was her sanctuary, her private room. The faded floral wallpaper was peeling from the cornices, one of the walls smudged brown by a large patch of damp. Nick’s colleagues had given her the Edwardian mahogany desk at which he had worked. On either side of the knee-hole there were four pedestal drawers with brass handles, and on the rectangular moulded top there was a worn red-leather writing insert. She liked the idea of her elbows resting where his had, her knees filling his space. Above her lap there was a longer drawer that she filled with postcards and cards she thought might one day be useful. Behind her stood an old leather chair and a filing cabinet, its surface ringed with coffee-mug marks.
The July sun warmed her face as she sat down and looked across the garden to the fields beyond. She glanced up at the curtain-free metal rings on the brass rail above the window, then at the bookshelves to her left, which were filled with favourite novels, mostly by the crime-writers to whom she’d become addicted after Nick’s death. She found that losing herself as she unravelled one plot-twisting mystery after another removed her from her grief. A couple of years on, she took as much if not more pleasure from them. In front of the books she had placed her treasures: the cribs from the tops of the children’s christening cakes, a tiny toy cat in a basket given to her by Libby, a plastic Superman from Fred, and several Fimo figures they’d made together.
On the wall to her right hung a large picture that she and Nick had found when they were on holiday in the Limousin. Sunshine cut through two rows of sentinel-straight trees that flanked a country road, similar to so many they’d driven along. Beside it, there was a wedding photograph with a scribbled note from Nick stuck to the frame: The happiest day of my life. Love you. N.
She pulled out a tartan biscuit tin from the top left drawer of the desk. Inside were all the other love notes that Nick had written to her. When he was alive, she’d find them pinned to the back of a cushion, under her pillow, in her purse, among the cutlery in the kitchen drawer, fluttering from the pages of a book. Just a few words that often meant so much. She touched them, imagining his fingers on them once, as hers were now. She shut the lid, returned the box to the drawer and switched on her laptop.
Two hours later, having delved into the bipolar psyches of five lesser celebs, she was feeling rather manic-depressive herself. She’d made a passable stab at the feature but would polish it up the following morning – right now she wanted to get to school in time to talk to Fred’s teacher about his total lack of interest in reading. Libby had rarely been seen without a book on the go when she was Fred’s age but he was only happy with a football. Was that boys? Or did he have a problem she hadn’t recognised?
Just as she was switching off her laptop, the phone rang. She didn’t have a chance to say more than ‘Hallo,’ before she heard, ‘Christie Lynch? Janey Smythe here. I’m Jack Bradbury’s PA from TV7. He’s asked me to arrange lunch with you at the Ivy on Thursday. I know it’s short notice but could you manage that?’
Christie was astonished by the unlooked-for invitation. Why would TV7’s director of programmes want to see her? She had only met Jack Bradbury once at Tart Talk’s wrap party, and was sure she hadn’t made much of an impression. Presumably he wanted to talk about the show, but why? Julia hadn’t mentioned anything and the producer, Helen, had always been the person who’d liaised directly with her. She thought quickly and decided it was politic to accept. ‘Of course. That would be lovely. Thank you.’
Was she doing anything on Thursday? She couldn’t remember. But, whatever, she’d cancel it. She didn’t want to jeopardise any chance she had of returning to the new season of the show.
‘One o’clock, then.’ And Janey Smythe had gone.
Christie sat down at her desk again and stared out of the window, past the trampoline and the horse-chestnut trees to the field beyond, where sheep grazed contentedly in the sunshine. Why would Jack Bradbury want to see her? She was hardly more than an ant in his world. She picked up the phone again and dialled White Management. She was put straight through to Julia.
‘Jack Bradbury’s invited me to lunch at the Ivy.’
‘Ah.’ Christie detected a note of surprise that almost immediately vanished, as Julia continued, ‘I’ve been t
elling him to call you for ages and at last my hard work’s paying off. They all listen to their auntie Julia in the end. Would you like me to come for support? I can always get the best table.’
‘His PA said she was making the booking.’ Was that a snort of annoyance she heard? ‘But I’ll be fine on my own. I just wondered if you knew what was behind it.’
‘I’ve got an inkling . . .’ She clearly had no such thing and was as taken aback as Christie by the invitation. But she recovered herself quickly. ‘If my plans come off this could be very good for you. Just make sure you look your best.’ Christie didn’t rise to the veiled insult about her dress sense. ‘And don’t talk too much about your dead husband. Jack likes people to be upbeat. Tell him how much you love Tart Talk and want to build your TV career, where you see yourself going. Be confident and positive and flirt with him – he’ll respond to that. Of course, him being aware that you’ve already got me on side will help. He’ll tell me how you did.’
Christie was beginning to feel like a five-year-old being prepped for an interview at a new school. However, she respected what Julia had to say, so heard her out without objecting. Eventually she hung up, none the wiser about the reason behind the invitation. She would have to wait until Thursday. But waiting didn’t come easy to her. She had never managed to conquer that sense of nervous anticipation – especially before the more momentous events in her life. It was as if she had a sixth sense that something important was about to happen.
Waiting for the doorbell to ring, Christie’s stomach was churning. She remembered how, after dropping the entire contents of her handbag at Nick’s feet, he had produced his business card and handed it to her with a smile.
‘I owe your sister a chance to chat you up so if you feel like it give me a ring.’
They shook hands and laughed again before getting into their respective cars and driving off.
Mel was thrilled when Christie told her. ‘God knows what he’s like, Chris, but he’s a lawyer so Mum will love him. Serial killer or not, go for it.’
Her sister stood over her while Christie dialled his number. Expecting the voice of a secretary, she was surprised when Nick answered. ‘Christie, how good to hear from you. I was worried you might think I was a serial killer or something.’
Mel, who was sharing the receiver, gave a thumbs-up. ‘Sense of humour! Good sign,’ she whispered.
Nick continued, ‘I don’t want you to think I give my card to every beautiful woman I meet.’
Mel pretended to swoon.
‘In fact, you’re the first. Was that very presumptuous of me?’
Christie wrenched the phone from Mel’s grip, and sat on the sofa. ‘Of course not. Do you think I’m too forward ringing you well before the designated “Thou shalt not ring back for seventy-two hours” rule?’
‘Of course not! OK – so what are you doing tonight?’
‘Play it cool. Play it cool,’ mouthed Mel, who had picked up the cordless extension from her bedroom and was sitting next to Christie.
‘Nothing. Free as a bird.’
Mel thumped her forehead with a palm, and Christie stuck out her tongue at her.
‘Great. Where are you and what time shall I pick you up?’ After he had written down her address and phone number they hung up.
Mel was bouncing up and down with excitement. ‘You’re going to have to tell me everything the minute you get home. I won’t go to bed till you phone. Otherwise . . . I’ll tell Mum.’ The worst threat she could muster.
Christie laughed and swiped her sister with a cushion.
The rest of the day dragged. Christie should have written up an article about surfing the net, a fast-growing phenomenon that even Maureen was interested in. Instead she went shopping. There was a small second-hand dress exchange at the end of the road where she found the perfect Armani LBD. At a fraction of its original cost, it was still way over her budget but, how did you dress for a lawyer?
At last it was five to seven and the window of her top-floor flat was open so she could keep leaning out to see if he’d arrived. She’d shaved her legs, washed her hair and was just putting on the last coat of mascara when the doorbell rang. She jumped – and got mascara on her nose. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ With a tissue covering the blot she hung out of the window and saw him standing on the steps. ‘Coming,’ she yelled, then leaped into the bathroom, cleaned herself up and ran downstairs.
They went to a small Greek restaurant off Charlotte Street. All rather clichéd – red and white check tablecloths, candles in retsina bottles and scarlet geraniums on the tables – but special all the same. He told her about his upbringing: only son of a now-retired lawyer and his wife, educated at a state grammar school with an ambition to follow in his father’s footsteps. She told him about her darling father, a printer in Fleet Street for thirty-five years who had succumbed to a brain tumour four years earlier. As a little girl she would sometimes go with him to watch the Sunday edition go to press on Saturday night. Maybe those times with him had hooked her to journalism.
It was almost midnight when they got back to her flat. She invited him in for coffee but he declined. As he left he gave her the tenderest of kisses and promised to call in the morning. When she opened her flat door, the phone was ringing. She picked up, knowing exactly who it was.
‘Well? Shall I buy a hat?’ It was Mel.
Chapter 5
‘Perhaps he’s going to offer you a permanent job on Tart Talk. Breathe in, for God’s sake!’ Mel pulled the zip of the dress between Christie’s shoulder-blades and up to the top.
Christie had called in at her sister’s tiny Chiswick flat on her way to the Ivy, only to be told that the black trouser suit she’d chosen for the occasion was all wrong, too severe.
‘I wish. But none of the others have ever talked about leaving.’ Christie turned to her, each breath a dangerous test of the seams. ‘Is it meant to be this tight?’
‘No, it’s not. Get it off quick, before it rips. Here.’
As the zip was undone, oxygen flooded back into Christie’s lungs and the dress fell to the floor among all the others Mel had suggested and Christie had discarded. Somewhere in the creative chaos of her bedroom Mel was sure she had the perfect outfit. It was just a question of laying her hands on it. Once again, the younger sister had taken charge and picked her way to the wardrobe, saying, ‘You may be a brilliant wordsmith, but you have no style at all. You’re so lucky I’m here. I finished the Vogue shoot yesterday and I’m off to Mauritius on Saturday.’ Bags hung off the end of her bed; jewellery was scattered entangled across two bookshelves and the mantelpiece; scarves and belts were draped over the chair back and the open wardrobe door. Wherever a hanger could hang, it did, both inside and outside the wardrobe, off the back of the door and the window frames, all carrying the trophies that came with being a fashion stylist and victim. But Christie’s mind wasn’t on the mess.
‘I only talked to the man for a couple of minutes at the end-of-term party and he didn’t seem fabulously impressed by me. Why would he want to meet me again so soon?’
‘Maybe so he can get to know you better. What about this glorious Vivienne Westwood? I got it for a shoot the other day and don’t have to get it back to her till next week.’
‘He’s not that type. And that dress definitely isn’t mine.’ It was a blue and white floral shawl-sleeved wrap with a slightly asymmetrical bodice that would make her stand out far too far in a crowd. Perhaps she should have gone with Maureen’s equally ridiculous suggestion of something from Country Casuals.
‘Bollocks! Just get it on.’
Christie had always envied the way Mel was so sure of her opinions and never took no for an answer. She supposed that if anyone knew what she should wear to lunch with a head honcho at the Ivy, it ought to be her. She reached reluctantly for the dress.
‘You’ve got to look the bloody part, woman. No one’s going to laugh at you. There! It’s absolutely perfect.’
‘I don’t know
.’ Christie turned in front of the mirror, uncertain. Mel stood behind her, dressed in tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt, assessing her.
‘You look like a woman for once! Really great – honestly. I know what.’ Mel picked up a large Stella McCartney handbag, dug out from its depths a lipstick and painted her sister’s mouth a glossy pale orange. ‘The perfect finishing touch. What do you think?’
‘No. It is so not me.’
‘Shut up. Yes, it is.’
Just at that moment the doorbell rang. It was the minicab.
‘Get out of here, Cinders.’ Mel kissed her cheek. ‘And don’t worry about the kids – I’ll be there when they get home from school. See you later. Love you.’
Christie grabbed a white Joseph jacket that she’d tried on earlier, slipped on her new L. K. Bennett peep-toe wedge sandals and hobbled downstairs.
*
Sitting in the taxi, feeling sick at the driver’s inability to brake gently and the prospect of her impending lunch, Christie remembered her first meeting with Jack Bradbury. The room had been packed with people – not because the wrap party was so enormous but because the green room they’d been allotted was so small. At least, it was compared to the one next door where there were huge celebratory shenanigans going on following the recording of an Elton John retrospective. After a couple of drinks, Grace and Sharon had persuaded her that, instead of the warm white wine and cold sausages provided for their party, they deserved something a little more A-list. Together, the three of them had sneaked to the kitchen of Studio One where, unnoticed in the hubbub, they liberated a couple of bottles of Krug and two glass plates of exquisite canapés – sage crostini with duck pâté, crab and asparagus tartlets, summer-vegetable roulades – destined for the dinner-jacketed liggers at Elton’s bash. How much more appreciated they’d be by the people of Tart Talk.
