New Beginnings

by Fern Britton

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to give these to you before.’ Gilly passed the flowers to Christie who thanked her and looked vainly for a vase in which to put them. The only one there held the wilting good-luck flowers that Libby and Fred had picked from the garden that morning. Defeated, she put the posy on her dressing-table.

  Gilly was oblivious to the fate of her gift and carried on: ‘Julia’s told me so much about you. We talk all the time. Is she here yet?’

  ‘Not yet. She called to say she was running late.’ If Gilly wasn’t going to refer to what had happened earlier, then Christie wouldn’t either. Starting out with a confrontation or an apology would not make any kind of working relationship. She’d happily accept the olive branch and leave it at that.

  ‘She’s so amazing.’ Gilly sat in the other chair, wincing as she slipped off a shoe and rubbed her slightly puffy feet. ‘When I started, she made everything so easy. She knows everyone.’ A burst of laughter escaped her lips. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Excited, terrified and numb,’ said Christie. ‘I’ll be glad when the first show’s over.’

  ‘You’ll be absolutely fine. Sam’s a poppet. He’s learned so much since he’s been working with me.’

  Christie disliked the patronising note that had crept into Gilly’s voice.

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  Julia had explained that she’d secured Gilly a clothes budget and a stylist who shopped with her, but the show didn’t run to doing the same for the second-string pre senters. Once Christie had proved herself, perhaps she’d be given a budget of her own. Until then, with Mel’s help, Christie had vowed she wasn’t going to be made to feel like Second-hand Rose.

  ‘This dress?’ She adopted a jokey pose. Mel had found a very simple figure-hugging bluey-purple shift with cap sleeves that seemed ideal for her first appearance.

  ‘Fabulous.’ Gilly’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. ‘The perfect colour for you.’ She was interrupted by another knock at the door, their call to go to the studio. ‘Follow me. This place is such a warren. I don’t want you to get lost.’ She slipped her shoe back on and, limping, led the way.

  Although she knew what to expect, Christie was always surprised by how small and intimate the studio was. The low, black ceiling was hung about with hundreds of studio lights that raised the temperature to Saharan heights. People were standing about, chatting quietly or listening to whoever in the gallery outside was talking to them via their earpiece. Across the smooth, shiny floor looped fat black cables attached to five cameras topped with autocue hoods that were focused on the brightly lit set, like monsters watching their prey. Against three of the walls were what looked like scuffed Ikea room sets. In the middle, two curved cream sofas sat empty in front of a softly lit orange backdrop. A carafe of water, two glasses and a box of Kleenex (for the more emotional interviews) were placed on two low tables. To the left was the demo area, the empty white corner that the designers could magic into anything: today, a kitchen set. On the right, in the hard-interview area, two uncomfortable-looking chairs faced each other across a coffee-table against a wide photographic backdrop: a collage of well-known buildings from around Britain.

  As she waited for the floor manager to come over, Christie became aware that a couple of scene hands were staring at her, then looking away and smiling as if having a joke at her expense. Before she had time to ask them what was so funny, the director was talking in her earpiece.

  ‘Christie, hi. Ian here. Just sit on the cream sofa and let Camera Two have a look at you.’ As she sat down, his voice abruptly changed. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’

  ‘I’m sorry? What’s the matter?’ Christie was completely thrown. She looked around for Gilly, who had admired her outfit, but she had vanished among the crew. If something was so obviously wrong, why on earth hadn’t she said so when there had been a chance to put it right?

  ‘The matter? No one wears blue on set. Surely you know that. You’ll disappear into the chroma-key.’

  ‘Chroma-key?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Someone tell her, for fuck’s sake. And in the meantime – Lillybet!’ he bellowed down the talkback to one of the runners, all of whom were pretending not to notice what was going on. ‘Take her down to Wardrobe and see if they’ve got something suitable. Anything other than fucking blue!’

  The entire studio had turned to look at her.

  Wishing this was a nightmare from which she’d soon wake up, Christie was marched away through the maze of corridors. Lillybet quickly explained that chroma-key was a bit of TV magic that allowed all kinds of photos, films and weather maps to appear where they weren’t. Some chroma-key screens were green. Good Evening Britain’s was blue. When they reached Wardrobe, she banged open the door, avoiding a giant pile of discarded shoes, and yelled, ‘Quick. Emergency. Nell, we need something right now.’ She grimaced apologetically at Christie, who was feeling so small she barely noticed.

  Nell, a slight girl dressed in black with purple-and-black stripy tights, punky red-and-orange hair standing on end and a multi-ringed right ear and right nostril, emerged from behind a rail of clothes. Obviously peeved at being disturbed, she eyed Christie up and down. ‘Haven’t got much in at the moment,’ she said grumpily.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. The show starts in fifteen,’ said Lillybet. ‘It does matter to me,’ interrupted Christie, realising she didn’t want to be remembered for making her first appearance on Good Evening Britain in a sack. Maureen and Mel would never let her live it down, never mind the press. And Julia! Oh, God. ‘There must be something you’ve got that isn’t too awful.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Nell disappeared again and came back with a maroon skirt and a cream shirt with a semi-circular frilled arrangement across the bust. ‘How about this? Right size. The best I can do.’

  While Christie tried the outfit on, she could hear the director shouting through her earpiece and over Lillybet’s walkie-talkie. She straightened up and looked in the mirror. As if making her look like a refugee from a seventies sit-com wasn’t crime enough – the blouse put a good ten years on her. At least. ‘I’m not sure about this. Isn’t there something else I could try?’

  ‘No time and you look fine. Really.’ Lillybet didn’t sound entirely convinced but another disembodied yell galvanised her. ‘Come on. We’ll be dead if we’re not back in the studio in a couple of minutes.’ She was already holding open the door.

  Not wanting to make things worse, Christie had no choice but to follow her. As she approached the set where Gilly was waiting, seated on the sofa opposite Sam, she thought she saw a satisfied smile hovering on her co-presenter’s lips. But, with only moments to go, there was no time to say anything. One of the makeup girls rushed up and neatened her hair, dabbing powder on her nose to deaden the perspiration. There was no point in worrying what she looked like now. She held her head high and went to sit beside Gilly, as instructed, listening to the familiar introductory music and waiting for the show to begin.

  Gilly opened as usual, and led straight into Christie’s introduction. With a saccharine smile, she addressed the nation, her fans. ‘As you all know, I’ll shortly be going on maternity leave to have my three little blessings so it gives me enormous pleasure to be able to introduce Caroline Lynch . . .’ Christie and Sam looked at each other ‘. . . who’ll be looking after things for me.’

  Enough, thought Christie. Before Gilly could say any more, she cut in: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Gilly, but those hormones must be getting to you. I’m Christie.’

  Sam laughed to cover the awkwardness of the moment while an infuriated Gilly tinkled through her teeth, ‘Of course. I’m so sorry.’

  The next fifty-four minutes went smoothly enough, and Christie was relieved that her interview with the heroic fireman ran without a hitch.

  When the show was over, the first person she saw coming towards her was Julia. Immaculate as ever in a sharp yellow swing coat, her face was thunderous. ‘What were yo
u thinking?’ she hissed, clearly not wanting to be overheard.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Christie was genuinely confused. ‘I thought it went well.’ So well, in fact, that as soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Sam had got up and kissed her cheek. ‘You were terrific,’ he’d said. ‘Especially the interview with Jack Brown – very emotional.’ They’d both ignored Gilly’s audible ‘tsk’. ‘We should give you a proper welcome,’ Sam went on. ‘Come down to the bar, when you’re ready.’

  ‘You went well – very well, in fact.’ Julia softened slightly. ‘But what on earth were you wearing?’

  As Christie began to explain, she could see Julia’s eyes glaze over. Her agent wasn’t interested in excuses or explanations. She wanted results. She came to at the mention of Gilly and her apparent approval of the fated blue dress.

  ‘You must have misunderstood her. She’s a pro and would never have told you to wear blue. Never.’

  ‘She didn’t exactly tell . . .’ But she had lost Julia’s interest again. It was true that Gilly hadn’t recommended she wear the dress, but she certainly hadn’t advised her against it when there might have been time to salvage the situation. Perhaps their relationship was already more complicated than she’d realised. In future, perhaps she would be less trusting, more cautious. Christie said goodbye to Julia, who was dashing off to a first night in the West End, then hosting an after-show dinner at Sheekey’s, so had no time to discuss anything more ‘till the morning’.

  With her heart in her high heels, Christie returned to her dressing room to change. Unable to face going home to listen to Maureen reiterate Julia’s and probably the entire nation’s view of her outfit, she tossed it into a corner and zipped herself into the offending blue dress, ready to face the music in the bar. Once she was on the outside of a glass of wine, surely her faux pas wouldn’t seem to matter as much?

  She pushed open the door to a crowd of staff, most of whom were completely unfamiliar to her. She spotted Sam near the bar and began to make her way to him. As soon as he felt her touch his arm, he turned and his face lit up. ‘So you’ve escaped the wicked witch’s clutches at last. Well done.’

  For a moment, Christie thought he meant Gilly, but then he said, ‘The Queen of Mean? Oops!’ He winked. ‘I mean Ms Julia Keen, of course.’

  ‘She’s not that bad.’

  ‘No, she’s a good agent, I’ll give you that. But I’d keep her at arm’s length, if I were you. She’s scary. I know Ben was – well, perhaps, a little unhappy about her? And look what happened to him.’

  ‘What are you saying? Whatever happened to Ben was an accident. Julia was completely vindicated and you know it.’ Christie automatically sprang to her agent’s defence.

  ‘OK, OK. I’m sorry. Just a joke.’ He looked apologetic. ‘Forget I said anything and let me get you a drink.’

  Out of his regulation work suit, Sam looked younger than his forty-something years. He had changed into jeans, open-necked white shirt and dark blue jacket. His hair was gelled into its signature spiky disorder and his eyes, generously cornered by crow’s feet, gave away a man with a good sense of humour. Within moments, Christie had a glass of white wine in her hand and was being introduced to the group that surrounded him. Caught up in the show gossip, she began to relax, watching Sam pull the crowd into his orbit. He was engaging, indiscreet without being scurrilous, and very funny indeed.

  He was in the middle of a bawdy impersonation of Gilly and her husband, Derek: ‘“Oooh, Derek! However could you have defiled me so? Three babies! You must have drugged me.”

  ‘“More like the other way round, dear.”’ Sam put his hand on his hip, camp as anything.

  ‘“Don’t do that, Derek!”’ he went on. ‘“My mother already thinks you’re gay.”

  ‘“Well, she should know, the old fag bangle.”’

  Christie wasn’t sure whether laughing was the right thing for her to do or not, so she tried to look pleasant but not too engaged.

  The man beside her nodded at her. ‘Hi, I’m Frank, the senior cameraman. I’m so sorry you had all that trouble with your dress tonight. Gilly’s a cow. She loved how uncomfortable you were made to feel. I’ve worked on this show for years, love,’ he patted the bar stool beside him, ‘and I can tell you that you should be careful where Gilly’s concerned. She won’t like someone else treading on her patch, even if there’s good reason. She’ll be back as soon as those doctors let her, babies or no babies.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine by me,’ Christie said, not wanting to give the impression that there were any difficulties between them. ‘It’s what I’m expecting. I’m covering two or three days a week until she’s on leave and then again as she eases herself back into things.’

  ‘Ease!’ Frank laughed. ‘Gilly doesn’t do “ease”. She’ll be back as fast as a rat up a drainpipe. Mark my words. Did she tell you to wear that blue dress?’

  Christie’s face reddened. Then she caught herself. ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘I thought so. You’re going to have to watch her like a hawk.’ He paused to take a sip of his lager. ‘Have you got a stylist?’

  ‘My sister, Mel.’

  ‘Do you have a gay best friend?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, you do now. Why don’t I come shopping with the two of you and help you with what looks good on camera?’

  She’d never clothes-shopped with a man before. Nick would have peeled ten pounds of onions rather than go with her. He had left what she wore up to her, and was always gratifyingly appreciative of her choice, whatever Mel said. Why would she break the habit of a lifetime and go shopping with anyone, let alone a gay man she had only just met? She thought of Mel, her unofficial stylist, who was at that moment jetting her way to a fashion shoot in Hawaii, lucky sod. But, on the other hand, why not? She had warmed to Frank immediately and – who knew? – it might be fun. Besides, she obviously needed all the people she could get on her side after her inauspicious start. His was a hand of friendship being held out in unfamiliar shark-infested waters. She smiled and accepted his offer.

  Chapter 9

  Two weeks later, Christie and Mel pushed behind Frank towards the corner table in the crowded wine bar. The place was swamped with Saturday shoppers, taking the weight off their credit cards while they had lunch. Insisting the two women took a seat, Frank dumped the couple of bags he was carrying for Christie, then fought his way back to the bar to order their drinks. They squeezed themselves behind the table, yanking the bags with them. Armed with her purchases, more than she had ever bought in one go, Christie felt like somebody out of Sex and the City. This must be what it was like to be a lady who lunched. She thanked the Lord for a brand new salary and a healthier bank balance.

  While they waited she peered into one of the yellow Selfridges bags and pulled apart the tissue paper. A glimpse of the cream wool jacket made her wince with pleasure as she remembered the hit her bank account was about to take.

  ‘Don’t even go there, love,’ Frank had said, when she questioned the expense. ‘If you’re going to start looking at the prices, I’m going straight home. Trust me. You need one or two designer pieces just to make the high street stuff sing. You’ve got to look good in this game. This is a necessary expense.’ Mel applauded him and quickly absorbed his TV dress rules – no black (too dense), no red (the colour bleeds), no white (too dazzling), no stripes or checks (they strobe).

  After that, Christie gave herself up to whatever would be, and shopping with Frank and Mel had turned out to be a joy: funny, inspired and inventive. He had a flair for seeing what teamed and toned, what mixed and matched, what would look good under studio lights in front of a camera and what would best hide the microphone and earpiece packs that got stuffed like two fag packets up her jumper. On top of that, he had oodles of patience that stood him in good stead while Christie made up her mind. Whenever she was losing the will to live, he’d appear at the cubicle door with exactly the right accessory to pull an outfit together
: the wide woven belt, the heavy beaded necklace, the understated bracelet. Mel was the voice of reason if things got too camp and he took over when she got too avant garde.

  Result? Two knock-’em-dead jackets, three dresses, a skirt and two pairs of trousers, plus various bits of cheap and cheerful jewellery.

  Three and a half hours after they had first set foot in Selfridges, they had called a halt and repaired to the wine bar for lunch.

  The sisters looked up to see him approaching, clutching three glasses of champagne. He squeezed in opposite them. ‘Cheers,’ he said, passing them round. ‘Here’s to Team Christie.’ They clinked glasses and sipped. ‘Why do we ever drink anything else?’ he wondered, obviously not expecting an answer. ‘Now. What I’m dying to know is, how did a nice girl like you get tied up with Julia? Tell all.’

  Christie was exasperated by people’s reaction to her agent. She was disappointed Frank thought the same as everyone else and gave her usual brisk answer. ‘We met on the Tart Talk set. She invited me to see her and I was impressed. She’s good. I don’t understand why you’ve all got it in for her.’

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for the others, love, but I’ve known her a long time. Since drama school, in fact.’

  ‘Drama school? Julia’s an actress?’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t know why she didn’t keep it up. She was very good at convincing everyone around her to give her the leading roles in the end-of-term productions. Several boys had their hearts broken because she persuaded them that they loved her. Funnily enough, she only ever made moves on the rich ones. Something to do with her upbringing, I guess. She ironed out her north-west accent very quickly, was always immaculately turned out and managed to get someone else to buy her supper. She must be struggling a bit at the moment, having lost a client in her swimming-pool last year. I know for a fact that one or two others have left her and, apart from you, she hasn’t taken on anyone since he died. Mud sticks.’