by Fern Britton
Chapter 13
‘So, what do you want to tell me?’ Frank could hardly contain his excitement. He was almost bouncing on the edge of his seat with glee. There was nothing he liked more than to be first with a piece of decent gossip. He had eagerly responded to Christie’s call, asking him to join her for coffee in TV7’s canteen.
‘I’ll tell you when you take your eyes off Jeremy.’
Frank’s eyes were fixed on one of the young sparks who was chatting by the coffee machine. Butch, like something out of the old Levi’s ad, but with short, streaked hair, he wore low-slung jeans, a large-buckled belt and a T-shirt so tight that every honed muscle was visible. Christie blinked. Was that the hint of a nipple ring?
‘Mmm. Sorry, love. An old gayer like me can look, can’t he? Oh, to be young again.’ He sighed.
‘Come off it. You don’t look bad.’
‘Not like the old days, though,’ Frank patted his stomach, which was just inching over his belt, before turning to his bacon and eggs. ‘Now! Could this little chat have anything to do with Gilly’s enforced bed rest?’
‘You know?’
‘Darling, the entire studio’s been rejoicing since the news hit the wires last night. How did you hear?’
‘A phone call first thing this morning telling me to meet a film crew at her home this afternoon.’
His expression said this was news. So she still had the ace up her sleeve.
‘And I’m to be the sympathetic female interviewer!’
For a moment she thought Frank might choke. A disbelieving snort developed into a crumb-spraying belly laugh that ensured he had the attention of the entire canteen. And not in a good way. He stared at her. ‘Darling! You? A minnow to interrogate a Great White? She’ll eat you for breakfast.’
‘Thanks so much for the vote of confidence! But this time I’ll be ready for her, I promise.’
Frank rearranged his face. ‘Of course you will. You’ll do brilliantly. Just make sure you tell me every single detail! What colour carpet, how many photos of her are on display – and check out the downstairs loo. What’s her bedroom like and is there any sign of Derek sharing it with her? Derek’s definitely on the lavender bus, dear. If he hasn’t got on it yet, he’s definitely got a ticket.’
*
The car drew up outside Gilly’s Twickenham address. A small crowd of paparazzi was gathered in front of the high wooden gates. A single policeman moved them to one side as the driver leaned out to press the button on the entry-phone. The car moved forward as the gates pulled back to reveal a brand new Georgian-style mansion backing onto the Thames. To one side of it, in front of the garage, was parked the family fleet of cars: a top of the range Range Rover, registration DL1 and a custom-painted gold Aston Martin DB9, registration G1 LLY. As they parked outside the building, the gates closed behind them and the front door opened. Welcome to Gilly Central, Christie said to herself, as she climbed out of the car.
A tall, perma-tanned man dressed in black jeans and a crease-free black and white striped shirt with a pink cashmere jumper hung about his shoulders stood waiting to greet them. A weak mouth widened into an insincere smile that was reflected in his pale blue eyes. ‘Hello, I’m Derek. Gilly’s husband.’ He offered his hand to be shaken. Christie grasped it, surprised at its almost feminine softness. Could Frank’s jokes about Derek’s sexuality be nearer the mark than she’d given him credit for?
‘Hi. I’m Christie and you probably know the others.’ She turned so that he could see the cameraman, sound recordist, lighting man, makeup girl and Jeremy, the muscly sparks who’d come along as the cable basher, all standing behind her.
Derek’s eyes locked on Jeremy’s for the briefest of seconds. Jeremy smirked at him. Derek looked away and gave a cursory nod before gesturing them inside. Only Christie registered their silent exchange. She knew how interested Frank would be. As soon as they were through the door into a large, enclosed porch, they were quietly requested to take off their shoes before going any further. Another door opened and they were toe-deep in ivory Axminster that stretched across the vast, double-height hallway to the twin staircases that curved in almost a heart shape to join the first floor. On the back wall between them a life-size portrait of Gilly, dressed in a long, white, Grecian-style gown, gazed benignly at all comers. On a table at its foot, a single candle burned beside a large bunch of white lilies that filled the air with their heavy scent. That and the huge domed atrium way above their heads contributed to the inappropriate religious atmosphere. As the crew stood staring, Christie drank in every detail to repeat to Frank later.
The silence was shattered by a loud and recognisable voice that reverberated down the stairs. ‘Derek!’
‘Coming, my love,’ he shouted back, then wearily turned to the crew, catching Jeremy’s eye again as he did so. ‘Gilly’s expecting you.’
At the top of the stairs, he knocked on and pushed open a polished wooden door, then stood to one side. As she stepped through, Christie had to check that her jaw was still in place. They had been shown into the largest bedroom she could remember being in. More extraordinary still was that there was not a splash of colour to be seen – just acres of whiteness, accessorised with gold, nothing else. To her left, there was a white velvet three-piece suite, the sofa occupied by a white Persian cat that lay stretched on its back in front of a faux coal fire. By the arm of one of the chairs, a glass occasional table held an arrangement of ten gleaming gold-dipped white roses, a gift tag propped against the vase. The walls were hung with an impressive collection of Venetian mirrors, the light from the recessed ceiling bulbs and artfully placed floor lamps playing off the intricacies of the cut glass. Above the white marble mantelpiece was a vast canvas that was – well, white. Christie had to suppress an urgent desire to laugh.
A cough took her attention to the other end of the room where Gilly sat, like a glorious ad for the White Company, propped with pillows on an enormous bed, its height exaggerated by being raised on a platform with three shallow steps that ran all the way round. Behind her, from a gold tiara fixed high on the wall, two sheer cotton voile drapes swept down to either side of the bed where they were held in place by gold tie-backs. Beside them were two enormous arrangements of white roses. Near the right-hand foot of the bed, a large cheval mirror was angled so that Gilly could catch her own reflection. She checked herself as she greeted them weakly, forgetting that they must have heard how loudly she could still shout.
‘Gilly! How are you feeling?’ Christie took a step forward, determined to meet her on the common ground of motherhood. One mum to a mum-to-be.
‘Furious at having to let everyone down. Nothing could be more inconvenient.’ So bed-rest had yet to bring out the hidden mother in her – if there was one. ‘Shall we get on? The doctor’s called to say he’ll be here shortly. Bloody nuisance. How I hate being a burden.’ She adopted a theatrical wan face again, checking it in the cheval mirror.
‘Sure.’ Christie dropped back into professional mode. ‘Shall we go through some questions while the boys set up?’
‘I don’t think we need to do that, do you? I know exactly what I want to say. I don’t know why they bothered sending you, really. I could just do a straightforward personal piece to camera.’ She smoothed the highly threaded, satinised duvet cover in front of her. ‘Is Marie there?’
The makeup girl stepped forward, clutching her box of tricks.
‘Thank God it’s you, Marie. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. No rouge today. I’m a little pale, I know, but I want the viewers to see the real me.’ She pulled her white marabou-feather-edged bed-jacket closer round her shoulders and flopped back, as if exhausted by the effort.
While Gilly lay beached on her bed, Christie walked around the bedroom (note to Frank: no obvious sign of Derek’s sharing it), and managed to sneak a look at the card with the vase of gold roses. ‘To darling Gilly,’ she read. ‘My number one golden girl. Hurry back. The nation and I are waiting for you. Your devoted
agent, Julia.’ She fought down what she was appalled to admit to herself was resentment – quite unjustified resentment at that.
‘Christie. We’re ready for you.’
She turned and caught a vicious glint of satisfaction in Gilly’s eyes as she went over to sit on the edge of the bed.
‘Camera running, speed and action,’ called the director.
She began gently, asking nothing controversial, letting Gilly relax. ‘Tell me, Gilly, how excited are you and Derek now your instant family is imminent?’ As the interview progressed, they touched on the design of the nursery that was being finished off down the corridor, the thrill of buying three sets of baby clothes and the difficulties of choosing names for the little darlings. Then they alighted on Gilly, the mother herself, and that was where they stayed as Gilly talked enthusiastically about her favourite subject until Christie, tired of hearing about exercise (body and facial) and beauty products, decided it was time to up the pace.
‘Now, Gilly, so many women see you as their friend.’ Gilly looked her most demure as Christie continued, ‘Having triplets at your age is quite something. What advice have you for any woman pregnant for the first time so late in life?’
There was a shocked silence. All that could be heard was the faint hiss of the fake fire and the clatter of Marie dropping a hairbrush onto her makeup box. Gilly pulled back a little, her eyes blazing. ‘Well, I . . .’ She hesitated.
‘There must be something.’ Christie smiled her most encouraging smile.
‘Well, women may have weak and feeble bodies but I have the heart and mind of a man.’
Christie was slightly taken aback by this unexpected non-sequitur. Was Gilly channelling Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen? That seemed unlikely, not to say inapt. She pressed on regardless: ‘What about practical advice? You’re a role model for so many older women, they’ll want to hear from you.’ She ignored the basilisk glare.
‘I’m not sure I . . .’
The shrill jangle of her mobile prevented Gilly going on. She seemed relieved. ‘Can we break for a moment? I’m so sorry. Julia! Hi. Yes, utterly beautiful. I’m looking at them now. Christie’s just been admiring them.’ This time there was no mistaking the little look of malicious pleasure directed at Christie. As Gilly turned away to continue her conversation, Christie exchanged glances with the crew who were regarding her with new-found admiration. Everyone in the studio knew that Gilly’s age was off-limits. Once the interview resumed, Gilly switched the conversation to life as a working mother and avoided any further discussion of her age.
After the interview was over, Christie had raced back to the studio where she edited the tape for that night’s programme, making sure her question and Gilly’s bizarre answer remained intact. When it was done, and before she went into the studio, she called Julia.
‘Christie, darling. How did the interview with Gilly go?’ she purred.
‘Very good, I think. Viewers will definitely see another side to her.’
‘Oh?’ A note of alarm sounded. ‘I’d better ring her.’
‘Before you do, I need to remind you about next week. It’s half-term, remember?’ Christie tried to sound as reasonable as possible.
‘I think you may have mentioned it.’ She sounded as if it was the last thing on earth to be of interest to her. ‘Why?’
Christie cursed the stagey other-worldliness of the woman. ‘If you remember, you said you’d squared it with Jack that Gilly would cover four days next week, so that I could be at home and spend some proper time with the children. So, if Gilly isn’t able to work, who’ll cover for me?’
‘Oh, yes, Jack’s already been on the phone. I’ve said you’ll stand in, of course.’
‘You’ve done what?’
‘You heard. Don’t tell me you’re going to be difficult.’ A steeliness had entered her voice that warned Christie not to be.
‘But who’s going to look after Libby and Fred? I’ve promised them I’ll be at home. You can’t agree something like that without discussing it with me.’
‘Of course I can, darling. That’s my job. As far as I’m concerned, I have a star performer whose life may be at risk, not to mention the lives of her three babies. None of us can afford to be selfish. This is a great opportunity for you. I’m sure you can find someone to help out.’
‘It won’t be that easy at such short notice, Julia.’ A flame of anger licked through her. ‘Look, I’ve got ten minutes before I go on air so we’ll have to discuss this later. I’ll speak to you after the show.’
Julia had made it quite clear with which of her clients her loyalties lay. Christie hung up, furious but with no time to think about what she should do. She had only ten minutes in which to run to the green room to meet the guests on that night’s show before they went on air. Her childcare problems would have to wait.
*
Going home that evening was like walking back into normality. The hallway was strewn with Fred’s football kit. Children’s fingerprints had marked a grimy line at hip height down the stairs and along the corridor. Coats were hanging off the end of the banister. The sound of the TV blared from the living room where she found Maureen lying on the sofa, eyes half shut, and Fred engrossed in some gory science-fiction serial. She tiptoed out and went upstairs to Libby, who was curled up on her bed texting. The carpet was invisible under the clothes, clean and dirty, that were dumped there. Grungy boy bands stared down from the posters that now almost completely covered the horse pictures that had once held pride of place. Just the head of one grey stallion emerged from behind the latest, which featured Cheryl Cole. Among the magazines on the desk, Libby’s laptop was open and switched on. Along the window-sill stood a row of discarded My Little Ponies, collected when Libby was much younger. The small selection of soft toys that were still her friends lay on her bed between the pillow and the wall.
She looked up as Christie tapped on the door.
‘Mum! At last! I saw the show where you interviewed Gilly. That house was so gross.’ She flipped shut her phone and sat up.
‘It wasn’t that bad. Not everyone wants to live in a pigsty like us, you know.’
‘Maybe.’ Libby fished out a copy of Time Out from under the magazines on her bed. ‘I’ve been looking at what’s on next week. Which day are we going to town together?’
Christie’s heart sank. She had promised Libby they would have a girly day’s shopping with a film thrown in while Fred was at Olly’s and now she would have to disappoint her. ‘Well, Libs, the thing is . . .’
‘What?’ Her daughter’s excitement turned immediately to accusation.
‘I’m going to have to work next week after all.’
‘I thought you said you were going to spend it with us? You promised.’
‘I was. I want to. But the doctors have told Gilly to stop work so I’ve got to step in. I’m sorry. You could come to work with me, though. Might be fun.’ She didn’t sound convinced, even to herself.
‘Whatever.’ Libby flipped open her phone again and returned to texting.
‘Libby, please – I’ve got a blinding headache and I’ve got to talk to Julia again in a minute. I know I can’t get out of this one. Sometimes in life we have to do things we don’t want to. This is one of them.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Libby didn’t look up.
‘Don’t be like that.’ Christie was torn between wanting to strangle her or to scoop her up and cuddle her but, anticipating Libby’s reaction, she did neither. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise. What about this weekend?’
‘You always say that. Forget it. Sophie’s asked me for a sleep-over tomorrow. Remember? Jess is going too.’
Of course Christie didn’t remember. Libby must have thrown the information into another conversation when her mind was elsewhere. That was her tried-and-tested method for getting what she wanted. Get a yes when her mother was preoccupied with something else. Then wait until the maternal guilt factor was sky high to bring the request up again as a fait a
ccompli so Christie couldn’t refuse. Always worked. Crushed by her daughter’s rejection, racked by her failings as a mother, frustrated by the demands made on her by Julia and TV7, ashamed of her pointless feelings of rivalry with Gilly, Christie retreated downstairs. She opened the fridge, poured herself a large glass of Sauvignon, sat down and sent up an accusatory message to Nick (‘This is all your fault!’), made a mental note to stop drinking and picked up the phone.
‘Julia? Sorry to call so late, but I wanted to wait until I was at home.’ She ignored her agent’s attempt to cut in. ‘I will work next week, but please don’t agree to anything like this again without asking me first. My family’s going to suffer and I don’t know how I’m going to persuade my mother to pitch in. She’s bound to have her own plans.’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’
Christie double-took. Was that contrition she heard in Julia’s voice? Surely not.
‘I should have asked you, I know. But I was forced to make a quick decision on your behalf. I thought I was acting in your best interest.’
‘Next time, you must remember that there’s my family to think about too,’ said Christie, taken aback by Julia’s apparent change in attitude.
‘I will. I promise. Now, I must fly, darling. Dinner with the director of programmes at Space TV.’
There was nothing left to be said, except goodbye. Christie hung up, feeling much better about the balance of their relationship. Julia couldn’t walk all over her whenever she wanted. She wouldn’t let her. After all, who was working for whom here? She knew what her agent’s answer would be.
She looked ahead to the following week with foreboding. Julia was driving her up the wall, exactly where Maureen would go when she heard the news, while Libby was already up there. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes. How would Nick have advised her to deal with their prickly young daughter? He would be so surprised if he knew how much their adorable baby had changed.