by Fern Britton
‘Too bad.’ Christie broke off another square of chocolate and slipped it into her mouth to melt next to her left cheek. ‘I’m afraid it’s up to me what I do with it. You both deserve a holiday and I really want to give you this in return for everything you’ve done for me.’
‘Well, if you put it like that . . .’ Maureen sounded excited and relieved that Christie had made the right decision. ‘Ted will be thrilled.’
Mel was over the moon for her, as Christie had known she would be, while Richard thought through the implications and quickly came to the conclusion that Top of the Class was too good an offer to refuse. Decision made, he changed the subject to when they would next see each other and what they might do. He wasn’t one for doing a discussion to death – just one of the many things she liked about him. Listen, weigh up the pros and cons, and decide: that was his method.
*
The next morning, after getting the children off to school, Christie called Julia and agreed to take the new job, thanking her for having secured it (hoping this would put her back in her agent’s good books). With time to spare before she had to head for the studio, she decided to tackle the mountain of emails accumulating on her laptop. Deleting the junk, highlighting the messages she’d deal with when she had more time, she came across a reminder from her accountant that her end-of-year accounts were due in a few weeks. This in turn reminded her of the Drink-a-Vit problem. She knew she should leave matters in Julia’s hands but now she had a legitimate reason for needing to know when to expect the money. Angered by Julia’s casual attitude towards it but simultaneously not wanting to irritate her by asking again, she made a snap decision to take the matter into her own hands: she would ring the Drink-a-Vit people herself. Why not? She might not be observing normal protocol but maybe, just maybe, she would get a result.
She was put straight through to the finance department, to a young man who was as helpful as she could have wished. He didn’t seem to mind her calling direct and quickly pulled up her account. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons flooded her ear as she waited for him to check the figures. After a minute or two, he came back and said, ‘Good news. The full amount has gone through to White Management.’
‘Can you tell me when? I just need to know when the money might reach my account,’ she explained, relieved.
‘No problem. Hang on.’ More tinny Vivaldi. Christie held the phone away from her ear until she heard his voice in the distance. ‘There may have been a slight hold-up because we moved office just before Christmas, but, er . . . no. You were lucky. The full amount of thirty-five thousand was paid in your name to White Management on 12 November, last year.’
‘Thirty-five thousand pounds,’ Christie repeated slowly as the implication of his words sank in. ‘November? In one chunk? Not twenty-five thousand? Are you sure?’
‘Completely. I can send the paying-in slip, if that would help.’
‘I think it might,’ she replied, uncertain. What the hell was going on? Julia had definitely said she was due twenty-five thousand pounds. That she’d failed to negotiate the larger sum. In fact, Christie had made a note of it in her diary, as she always did when payments were mentioned. And why had Julia told her part of the payment hadn’t come through? She wouldn’t deliberately withhold money from her, would she? Obviously not. There must be a reason – or was she simply unaware of what was going on in her agency? Was Lenny up to something Julia didn’t know about? This and the half-term ‘misunderstanding’ over her pay didn’t add up.
She hung up, having dictated her address. She stared at her bookshelf, absent-mindedly thinking that a bit of straightening and dusting wouldn’t go amiss as she wondered what to do next. Her first instinct was to call Richard. Her second was that she had to deal with this on her own. Abandoning her independence as soon as a man came into her life was little short of pathetic. She picked up the phone again and dialled. She was put straight through to Lily, who agreed immediately to send her a copy of the Drink-a-Vit contract.
‘Don’t bother Julia with this, will you?’ asked Christie, as an afterthought. For the time being, the less Julia knew about what she had found out, the better.
Chapter 24
The next morning, from the kitchen, Christie heard the snap of the letterbox and the muffled thud of the post hitting the mat. She put down the cafetière and went into the hall. Among the usual bills and uninteresting junk mail, a large manila envelope was addressed to her in a childish round copperplate. She pounced on it, then picked up the rest of the mail and ditched it on the bottom stair to be taken up to her study later. Back in the kitchen, with her waiting mug of coffee, she slit open the envelope, tipping it up to let a photocopied document slide onto the table-top. At last, the copy of the contract she’d been waiting for. There was no accompanying note.
Sitting down, she began to read it. Impatient with the legalese that made all the terms unnecessarily difficult to grasp, she flicked to the second page. There, written numerically, so leaving no room for doubt, was the sum she was to be paid for her work: £35,000 in a single payment. She sipped her coffee, staring into the middle distance as she thought. Julia was not the sort of person who made mistakes, particularly not where money was concerned. But there was no doubting the figure on the contract. She turned back to the first page and took her time, reading every clause to make sure there wasn’t some hidden penalty that would deduct ten thousand pounds from the total sum agreed. By the time she reached the last page, she was certain that she was not the one making the mistake. But when she reached the end, there was another surprise in store. At the bottom of the contract was a date and a signature: hers.
She double-checked. Definitely her signature. But if she had never seen this contract before, how could she have signed it? According to their arrangement, Julia should be the signatory. But if neither of them had signed, someone else must have forged her signature. She remembered the batches of publicity photos she had signed and sent back to Julia’s office. The only explanation could be that someone had copied from those. But who?
*
She sat in the back of the car on the way to TV7, thoughts buzzing round her head. Unable to concentrate on the newspapers that, as usual, Tony had provided, she parked her Starbucks latte in the armrest and took out the contract from her bag to read again. She stared at her signature – admiring, despite herself, the accuracy with which it had been copied. Initially she had been uncertain how to investigate this new development but, by the time she arrived at the studio, she had come up with a plan.
Confronting Julia was not an idea she relished. Before subjecting herself to another barrage of self-justification and belittlement, she needed to be absolutely sure of her ground. She sat through the pre-show briefing almost on auto-pilot. As soon as it was over, having reassured Sam that, no, there was nothing the matter with her, she rushed back to the newsroom and started work on her evening’s script. Beside her, Gilly’s desk remained empty. In her absence no one had dared to usurp the comfort-giving super-ergonomic chair. The last of the helium Congratulations balloons sagged above it, the scented candle sat unlit, the phone-sanitising spray was unused. Christie refused to let herself be distracted by any of the banter tossed around between the other journos, the crack of empty coffee cups hitting the waste-bins or the constant comings and goings as the diehards went outside for a smoke. Above her desk a row of TV screens soundlessly displayed the terrestrial and satellite channels. She didn’t lift her head until she had finished. She checked her mobile – half an hour until she was due in Makeup. Perfect.
She left the open-plan office and followed the corridor to her dressing room, where she could use her phone without being overheard. Everything told her she was taking a colossal risk, but her memory of what Frank had told her about Gilly’s apparent cash-flow crisis and lack of Drink-a-Vit payment spurred her on. If Gilly was having similar problems with Julia, then perhaps she was the one to shed some light on their agent’s methods of working. Given that Gilly ha
d exchanged barely one friendly word with her, Christie was aware that she was embarking on a high-risk strategy but there was an outside chance she might be about to find an ally.
Gilly answered immediately. When she heard who was calling, her manner turned from politely distant to brusque. Her terse replies to interested questions about the triplets reinforced all Christie’s doubts about what she was doing. Nonetheless she nerved herself to continue and changed the subject to the real reason for her call, hoping the deference she put into her voice would persuade Gilly to talk.
‘Gilly, the thing is . . . I’ve got a bit of a problem and I’m wondering if you can help me.’
‘Yes?’ Abrupt, but there was definitely a smidgeon of interest.
Christie looked down at the lines she’d written for herself earlier. ‘It’s just that I’m preparing my end-of-year accounts and I wondered whether you were aware of any irregularities in White Management’s accounting methods that I might not have completely understood. In particular Drink-a-Vit. Julia hasn’t received my money yet. Have you got yours? I can’t ask Julia because she already thinks I’m such an idiot.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh. This was a really dumb idea. Whatever had made her think Gilly would help her?
Silence echoed along the phone line, then, ‘No, I haven’t noticed anything unusual.’ Gilly was short, dismissive. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a decent accountant?’
‘Actually, I’ve got one.’ Christie’s hackles rose at being spoken to so rudely. ‘But accountants don’t always understand the ins and outs of talent contracts so I wanted to be sure I did.’ For God’s sake, get off the line before you say something you’ll regret, she warned herself. ‘So you haven’t noticed any discrepancies in your invoicing, then?’ She could happily have bitten out her tongue.
‘None at all. As long as cash comes out of the wall, all must be well.’ Gilly’s voice was shrill with dislike and disapproval. ‘If there’s something you don’t understand, you should talk to Julia. Is that all?’
Why was it that whenever they spoke Christie ended up feeling furious and about two feet tall? ‘Yes, I’ll do that. Thanks for all your help,’ she snapped back, wishing she’d never picked the phone up in the first place.
As she walked along the corridor to Makeup, she told herself to calm down for the sake of the show she was about to present, if nothing else. She was about to enter the cramped room with its familiar bulb-framed mirrors, the counters spread with boxes spilling over with makeup, brushes and hair spray, when her phone rang. She smiled at Marie and Rose, gesturing that she’d be back in a minute. Stepping back into the corridor, she answered without checking who was calling.
‘How dare you?’ The voice was tight, controlled and venomous.
‘Julia? Hallo. How are you?’ Christie tried to make herself sound as breezy as possible. She concentrated on her foot as it traced the outline of a stain in the grubby grey carpet tile.
Julia ignored her. ‘I’ve just heard from Gilly . . .’
Christie’s foot stopped moving as she waited for the tirade that would follow.
‘Going behind my back to another client is something I will not tolerate. If you have doubts about the way I run my business, then I suggest you either ask me about them or find representation elsewhere.’
‘Julia, hang on. I don’t know what Gilly’s said to you but it wasn’t like that.’ Christie immediately took up the line of most resistance. ‘I thought she might be able to clear up a couple of queries I had, and I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘“Discrepancies in your invoicing” sounds like a pretty big doubt to me. Before you deny it, Gilly told me everything. This isn’t the first time you’ve come close to accusing me of malpractice,’ Julia continued, ‘and in my books you’re beginning to sound like a spiky paranoid fantasist.’ Each word was pronounced with crystal clarity. ‘If you try anything like this again, anything, you will be hearing from my solicitor. Understood?’
‘Completely.’ Christie was experiencing everything she remembered feeling when she left the headmistress’s office after being punished for some minor misdemeanour: a bitter-sweet mixture of shame, guilt, relief and fury at the injustice of the world.
‘This time, I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. I believe you and I have a lot more to achieve together. But if you question the way I run the business again, our relationship is over.’
‘I quite understand how it must seem to you – and forgive me for being naïve – but my accountant needed some figures clarifying and also asked who signed my contracts for me. By the way, who does sign them?’
Julia, taken by surprise, answered quickly. ‘I do. Who else?’
‘That’s fine, then. So they’re signed by you, Julia Keen?’
‘Of course they are. Really, Christie. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing. I needed to clear that up. Thank you. And forgive me for upsetting you.’
‘You have to trust me.’ Julia sounded slightly less aggrieved. ‘And I have to trust you. I don’t want to work with anyone who’s not happy with White Management.’
After she’d hung up, Christie leaned back against the wall. Well, well. If Julia was signing the contracts, who was forging Christie’s signature? Julia? Lenny? The watchdog journalist in her had emerged, hungry to unpick what was really going on at White Management, but to do that, she needed to remain on Julia’s books. She’d been party to the investigations of enough crooked businesses in her days on MarketForce to know that if you’re on the inside the chances of finding out the truth are significantly higher.
*
After the show, she stopped Sam on the way out of the studio. ‘Can we talk? I’ve got a bit of a problem and you’re the only person I can ask.’
A look of alarm flashed across his face, quickly replaced by concern. ‘Sure. Let’s go down to the bar.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather go somewhere private.’ She pointed down the corridor to her dressing room.
To Christie’s amusement, the look of alarm returned. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant or dying of unrequited love,’ she reassured him. ‘I just need your professional advice.’
‘Well, thank God for that. Oh . . .’ He groaned and thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m immune to your insults by now.’ Smiling, she led the way and held the door open for him. ‘Glass of wine?’ She took a bottle from the mini-fridge, unscrewed the top and poured them both a glass. Aware that Tony was outside, waiting to drive her home where Maureen would be waiting, impatient, she wanted to be as quick as she could. Pulling shut the vertical blind, she offered Sam the one comfortable chair while she perched on the edge of the chest of drawers and came straight to the point. ‘What do you know about talent contracts?’
His face said it all, but in case she was in any doubt, he added, ‘Not a lot. Why? Max looks after that side of things.’
‘Max Keen? Julia’s ex?’
He nodded.
‘Of course. I’d forgotten you were with him.’ This bit of information disturbed her, making her feel uncomfortably as if they were on opposing teams without her having realised it.
He checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to be quick. Melissa’s meeting me.’
‘OK. Look at this.’ She pulled the Drink-a-Vit contract out of her bag and showed it to him, explaining the discrepancy between the figure on the contract and the figure Julia claimed was due to her, plus the fact that the full amount had been paid more than two months earlier but she had yet to see it all. Then she showed him the signature. ‘Looks like my signature, but it isn’t. I’ve never seen the contract until now.’
‘And?’ He began to knead his shoulders with both hands, stretching his neck forward and twisting it to the side. ‘Melissa’s wearing me out,’ he explained, with a wink.
‘And is this what happens with Max?’ she asked, impatient. ‘Does he forge your signature on your
contracts?’ Christie wanted Sam’s full attention but he didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in the nuts and bolts of their employment contracts. His mind had obviously moved on to the evening ahead with his latest squeeze.
‘No, of course not.’ He gave his head a final shake and rolled his shoulders. ‘I sign my own. Look, Chris, I don’t like her but Julia’s a player. She’s not going to mess you around. Too much to lose. I’d leave it to her. That’s what agents are for.’ He stood up, tucking the side of his shirt back into his jeans, then leaned towards the mirror to check his hair.
‘Even though my signature’s been forged? Surely that’s fraud.’ Christie was amazed that he could be so dismissive of something so serious.
Content with his reflection, he turned back to her. ‘Yeah, but you got the gig, didn’t you? And she’s going to have to give you the money some time. You must have made a mistake over some extra commission she rakes off the top, that’s all.’ He drained his glass, stood up and took a step towards the door, signalling a halt to their conversation.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was making too much of a fuss. Or was it that he was just young, single and had other more pressing things – such as Melissa – on his mind? He clearly thought there was nothing to worry about. Perhaps this was just the way things were done in this business and she had to get used to it, however much it went against her sense of right and wrong.
As they headed out of the building, he took her arm and squeezed it. ‘Don’t worry so much. I’ll ask Max’s advice, if you like.’
‘No!’ She stopped dead. ‘Sam, you mustn’t mention this to anyone else. Promise me. You’re probably right and Julia will have her reasons for doing things the way she does. I just don’t get them yet.’
‘You will, my love, you will. And if you don’t, just enjoy the profits of all she does for you. That’s my advice. She might not endear herself to everyone but she sure knows how to advance her clients. Look at you and Gilly.’ With that, he kissed her cheek, stepped into the revolving door and disappeared in the direction of a Saab sports convertible where a woman’s hand waved from the driver’s window.