by Fern Britton
The clock told her she had half an hour before the kids were dropped by the school bus at the end of the drive: half an hour in which to put the kettle on for a cup of tea before getting supper on the go. Still infuriated by the way Maureen had managed to pour cold water on her mood and her achievement, she began to sort out the recyclable rubbish for collection. To hell with it! With a savage pleasure, she hurled the lot into one bag and dumped it outside the back door, delighting in the knowledge of how outraged Maureen would be if she found out. Going back inside, she sneaked a packet of blue Silk Cut from the glasses cupboard on the wall above the worktop, pulled one out and put it between her lips. Flicking the gas lighter for the hob, she lit it and took a drag. She opened the french windows and blew the smoke into the warm spring air. Loathing but relishing every last puff, her head swam as she pictured her mother’s disgusted face. Tough shit. This is the new Christie Lynch: fearless, hard-working and top mum.
Expecting food, Mrs Harbord and Mrs Shrager, her two speckled Sussex chickens, ran to greet her. She had given in to the children’s pleas and bought them as Easter presents. They watched her for a second, their busy button eyes reminding her of Maureen’s. Disappointed when no grub was forthcoming, they walked very precisely over to the flowerbed, looking as if they were wearing new shoes and didn’t want to get chewing gum stuck to the soles. They wiggled down into a dust bath, sending up a small cloud of dirt as they fussed and flurried their feathers. Leaving them to it, Christie stepped outside. Her garden had been tended lovingly by the previous owner but now Mother Nature had woven a natural magic all of her own.
As she wandered, she went through the pros and cons of work. Should she stay with the paper she’d come to hate? The list of pros was pitifully short. She liked the deputy features editor. That wasn’t enough. Her days of investigating and exposing dodgy businessmen were long gone. The paper had been moving downmarket in a bid to increase its circulation and it was becoming clear that Christie’s style and character were no longer such a close fit. As a result, the commissions were becoming less frequent as the younger freelancers were given the jobs.
In some respects, that had come as a relief. After all there were only so many bread-makers, bicycles and dishwashers a woman could compare without going round the bend. Her last two budget assignments had been fish slices and cat food. She sighed. There must be more to life. Occasionally she got thrown the odd family piece, such as when she, Libby and Fred had trialled a low-cost holiday weekend in Llandudno (never the Maldives, of course) or a celebrity-oriented feature that no one else wanted, but her heart was never in them. They certainly didn’t give her anything like the adrenalin high she had felt that morning on Tart Talk. They paid the bills but had no impact on the bank loan Nick had left her. Moreover, she still missed the headiness of the early days of MarketForce when she had worked in a more investigative arena and was able to exercise her brain. When she attempted to move into writing more meaty opinion pieces that would demand research, suggesting as possible topics the anonymity of rape victims or the future of inner-city children excluded from school, she had been told firmly that the News was no longer the paper for that sort of thing. She stopped to pull out a rogue sycamore seedling. Yes, the cons were far outweighing the pros.
If Nick were here, he’d say she had to follow her heart – but he wasn’t. And because he wasn’t, she had to earn some cash from somewhere so she could sort out her finances and begin to lavish much-needed attention on the house. Besides which, she knew she couldn’t/shouldn’t let life pass her by. What had happened to the girl who used to make Nick rock with laughter? It was definitely time to give her career a kick-start. If she could do that, everything might change. She thought of Julia’s card in her pocket, took it out and read the details: ‘White Management: Britain’s Number One Talent Agency’. An agent of that calibre wouldn’t give out her cards on a mere whim, surely.
She turned it over in her fingers and reached for her mobile. How strange that Fate should have led her to Julia just when she needed her, exactly as it had led her to that first chance encounter with Nick. Perhaps this was a sign. From him?
‘Oh, God! I hate weddings.’ Christie looked up at the stoic lines of the Victorian church, which sat on a grassy island in Ealing, surrounded by large, graceful Edwardian houses. Overhead, there was enough blue to ‘make a pair of cat’s pyjamas’, as her mother was fond of saying, but the wind had got up, chasing white clouds across the sky. Christie was forced to hold on to her wide-brimmed hat as she progressed with the other guests through the churchyard and into St Stephen’s.
As she stepped into the church, the organist was playing something she knew well but couldn’t identify. Church music’s a little like lift music, she thought, immediately familiar but impossible to name. She caught a whiff of incense, lavender and beeswax, none of them quite overwhelmed by the scent of the lilies that decorated the aisle and pew ends.
This was the third wedding she had been to in almost as many months. She had reached an age when all the girls she knew were getting married – except her, as her mother liked to point out with a sharp little glint. ‘Darling Christine. You’ll never meet a man unless you try harder. You career women will learn eventually that old age without a man is just . . . old age.’
Christie smiled as she accepted an order of service from a young boy swamped in his hired tailcoat, and went to find a seat. She spotted her sister about halfway down the aisle, sitting at the end of an almost full pew – Mel turned and called Christie’s name, the single ostrich plume bouncing wildly in her hair as she waved. A flamboyant fashion-design student, she was everything that her shy, neutral-coloured sister was not.
‘Christie, I’ve saved a seat for you.’ She turned to the rest of the pew, encouraging them to shuffle along to make more room. ‘Can you squish up? Sorry, what’s your name?’ she asked the slightly reserved man sitting on her left.
‘Nick. Nick Lynch.’
Mel gave him a wide smile. ‘Nick! Let me introduce my gorgeous, very single big sister. If you’re on your own, please chat her up and make me happy. If you’re not on your own, then point her towards someone who is. It’ll make my day! And our mother’s, too, because she thinks Christie’s destined for spinsterhood.’ She stopped for a second to give Christie an encouraging grin. ‘Don’t look like that, Chris! I’m only trying to help.’
Embarrassed, Christie smiled an apology at the amused-looking Nick before squeezing into the space that had been made for her. She was hoping Mel would shut up, but her sister was on a roll and there was no stopping her. Now her attention had turned from Christie to the groom, who was standing at his seat in front of the altar, talking to the best man, then turning towards the church door, expectant and nervous.
‘I wish I could help him too,’ Mel confided in a whisper. ‘I wonder if he knows what he’s letting himself in for. I was at the hen do and there was no stone unturned . . . if you know what I mean! Here she comes. The blushing bride – with plenty to blush about.’
A shaft of sunlight suddenly lit the arched doorway and in stepped the bride on the arm of her proud father.
‘Bet she’s got no knickers on under that dress,’ Mel whispered. ‘It’s her trademark.’
Nick caught Christie’s eye over the trembling ostrich feather. He was smiling.
‘Mel! Sssh.’ Christie stifled the urge to gag her sister and burst out laughing.
‘Another good man bites the dust,’ Mel insisted. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’
And with that the organ went into a hosanna of tumbling chords. The groom turned for his first glimpse of his bride, and as their eyes locked, he blushed rather sweetly. She, on the other hand, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. She continued her journey down the aisle, and their mutual gaze never wavered until they were duly joined in holy matrimony.
The reception in a nearby hotel was long and dull. The photos had taken for ever and the food as long again to make an appearance. Christie’s
feet were aching. She sat in a quiet corner of the ballroom and looked at her watch. When would be the right moment to slip away without being rude? She hoped she could make her excuses before the disco hell began. She spotted Mel and beckoned her over. ‘Mel, I’ve got to go in a minute. I have to make an early start on a piece I’m writing for the News. It has to be in on Monday and—’
‘Oh, please stay a bit longer, you party pooper. You know Mum’ll grill me tomorrow. “Who did Christine talk to?” “Did she dance with anyone nice?” “What are we going to do with her?” ’ Mel impersonated her mother’s elocuted voice perfectly. Christie giggled but still kissed her sister goodbye and, with promises of phone calls and a takeaway during the week, slipped into the gathering gloom of the car park.
As she fumbled for her keys, she dropped her new handbag, spilling its contents onto the tarmac. Crouching to pick them up, she was aware of another person bending to help her. She turned and looked straight into the eyes of the man she had met in the church: Nick Lynch.
‘Hello, again. Your sister tried to introduce us before the service and I completely failed to chat you up. I’m Nick.’
‘Thank God you didn’t. I’d have been mortified. I’m so sorry.’ She picked up her purse and her keys, while he grabbed her makeup bag. ‘I’m Christie. Please ignore Mel. She’s quite mad and the doctors don’t often allow her out, but you know how lax security can be!’
They both laughed and then, in the silence that followed, Christie took in his face. Nice. Not too good-looking but pleasant with wide blue eyes, brown curly hair, broad cheeks and a slight dimple in his chin. He was a couple of inches taller than her and stockily built, but maybe that was his morning suit.
And he looked at her too. Later he would tell everyone it was love at first sight but in truth, even though he fought a strong compulsion to kiss her there and then, it took a few walks in the park, cups of coffee and dinners with friends for them to be absolutely certain that they were meant to be together.
Chapter 4
‘Julia’s ready for you. Follow me.’
Christie stood up, straightened her jacket and followed Julia’s PA, who had introduced herself as Lily Watson-Fellows – ‘Call me Lily’ – out of the plush reception area. They left behind the frenetic atmosphere created by two receptionists, who were buzzing about, answering phones and furiously typing, and entered the silence of a long corridor. The first door on the right was labelled ‘Lenny Chow’. Inside the small, no-frills office, lined with shelves crowded with bulging files, a shirt-sleeved Chinese man of about forty was tapping at a calculator and making notes on his screen.
‘That’s Lenny, our accountant,’ Lily said, in passing. ‘He’s indispensable and sorts out the money side of things for the agency.’
Lenny looked up and smiled at Christie through his wire-framed glasses. ‘Hallo.’
‘Hallo,’ she replied, taking in his open, happy expression and his slicked-back black hair. This was a face that said integrity and duty, she thought. However, she couldn’t but notice his nails were bitten to the quick.
‘Ciao, Mr Chow.’ Lily laughed.
Christie transferred her attention to the framed glossy photographs of White Management clients that hung on the walls. Most of them were household names, actors and presenters, often in the company of a perfectly groomed and always beaming Julia Keen – a hand on a shoulder, sharing a joke, deep in conversation – clearly a woman with a wardrobe, not to mention a roll-call of A-list talent. After passing Lily’s cupboard of an office, Christie was shown into an elegant white room with a plush air-force-blue carpet and two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a spectacular view across the glittering Thames to beyond the London Eye. On the other two there were more photos, framed front covers of Broadcast and Stage & TV Today and an in-depth profile of Julia from the Observer.
‘Sit down, darling.’ Julia gestured at the black leather sofa opposite a low, round, glass coffee-table where one white orchid arched in solitary splendour. ‘Coffee?’
When Lily had been dispatched to get caffè latte for Christie and water for Julia, the agent emerged from behind her preternaturally tidy desk. She was dressed as immaculately as the last time they had met, this time in a drop-waisted coffee-coloured jersey dress that spoke designer, though Christie had no idea which one. Her feet were encased in spike-heeled suede ankle boots and a short fur jacket was slung over her shoulders. Christie felt rather understated in her jeans with last year’s black jacket over a plain white shirt. Julia brought with her the distinctive scent of Prada Cuir Ambre – smoky leather and scary.
‘Now, what can we do with you, I wonder,’ Julia spoke almost to herself.
‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’ Christie refused to let herself feel intimidated. Whatever Julia had to say to her, she would hold her own.
Julia gave a brusque laugh to show she’d heard, but she was obviously more preoccupied by her own thought processes. ‘You know,’ she began tentatively, ‘I think you’ve got real potential as a live on-air presenter. Your appearance on Tart Talk was very well judged. As you gained confidence, the audience responded well to you. I liked that.’ She was focused on the nail of her left index finger, which she was slowly stroking with her right thumb. ‘You’re intelligent and express yourself well. That’s important.’
‘Thank you.’ High praise indeed.
Julia shifted her gaze to Christie. ‘And you look good too. The camera likes you and that’s crucial in this business. And you’re not the average female presenter. A young widow. Two children. Juggling the work-life balance.’
Christie felt herself melting under the other woman’s attention. Julia had the invaluable knack of making a person feel as if they were the only one in the world who mattered while they were with her.
‘In the first place, let me see if we can get you more appearances on Tart Talk to help you find your feet. Then I’ll put out some feelers. There’s a couple of people I think you should meet.’
‘That would be wonderful.’ Christie couldn’t believe this was happening. To be taken so seriously by such a big player in the entertainment industry was more than she had dared hope for. Several of Julia’s clients had been quoted publicly, crediting her with their success. Just a little of that would be enough. Despite the speed with which Julia had agreed to see her, she had still half expected a polite brush-off.
Within a few minutes the meeting was over, bar a rapid summary of the formal terms of any agreement between them. Julia rapped them out too quickly for Christie to take in the minutiae but she did catch her commission rates: ten per cent on all of Christie’s media work (‘Your bread and butter, darling’) and fifteen per cent on any commercial work, personal appearances, conferences, endorsements . . . that sort of thing (‘The very welcome jam’).
‘Is there some kind of formal written contract between us?’ Christie realised how naïve she must sound but wanted to be clear.
Julia gave a little laugh. ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Just a simple gentleman’s agreement based on trust. So much easier. My clients all have complete faith in me. The payment for any work I secure for you is sent to me and I take my percentage. The rest is paid directly into your bank and a remittance slip supplied for your accountant.’ She looked up at Christie. ‘Do you have any problems with that?’
Christie allowed a micro-second to elapse as she absorbed what had been said. ‘No, of course not. But I’d appreciate you sending me a note confirming it, just in case I’ve missed anything.’
Julia gave her a wintry smile.
The following morning Julia phoned to say again how thrilled she was to be representing Christie and promised to get to work on her behalf immediately. Christie was stunned that Julia had taken time out of her busy schedule to call. This was it. Now it was up to her to be worthy of her new agent. If only Maureen could be as supportive. Had Nick sent Julia to be her champion? To do what he no longer could?
Their arrangement
paid dividends immediately. Tart Talk wanted more of her, and within a couple of months, Christie was beginning to feel like an old hand at the presenting game. Even more reassuring, she was rediscovering a side of herself that had withdrawn from public since Nick’s death. A Christie who was more confident, funny, unafraid to voice her opinions or even to shock her mother (which Mel found hysterical) was coming out of the shadows. She had begun to look forward to the mornings when she was picked up by a driver and whisked to the studio for eight thirty. In the production meeting, she swigged her Starbucks with the other presenters as they laughed and chatted their way towards an agenda for that day’s show. As her confidence grew, she had established her own character within the group: potential best-friend material, who talked an edgy sort of sense. Sometimes the others ribbed her for being a bit old-fashioned, and she still regretted the day she had risen to the bait, announcing, ‘I have been to Agent Provocateur, you know. There’s more to me than meets the eye.’ On air, too. The girls had never let her forget it.
The practical benefit was that her bank balance was healthier than it had been in months – well, years, if she was honest. Earning three hundred pounds an appearance meant she had been able to make small inroads into Nick’s bank loan and, with Julia’s assurances of more work to come, had found a local builder to give a price for the collapsing conservatory, the leaking roof and the wonky chimney. When they were fixed, she would move on to the long-awaited overhaul of the plumbing and central-heating – last winter, scraping ice off the inside of the windows had been no fun – and finally she’d be able to get down to redecorating the rooms.