by Fern Britton
The credits had begun to roll but the entire gallery, like everyone else, was fixated on what would happen next and, rather than cutting away to anything else, the camera remained on the tableau in front of it. Gilly gave a little scream, then drew herself up to her full five foot two and a half, looking like a cobra about to strike (helped by the curious ruff collar on the dress she had chosen for her return). She moved her arm, then two sharp cracks rang out, like pistol shots, as she slapped first Derek, then Jeremy. A second later there was a third, as Jeremy slapped her. And a second after that, the three of them were rolling about on the floor, scrapping. Around them stood the crew, either with their mouths open in horror or roaring with laughter. Laughing loudest of all was Jack Bradbury who, for the first time Christie could remember, had deigned to grace the studio with his presence to welcome back his ‘golden star’.
*
No one would ever know what Julia might have made of this shaming scene, but thousands of miles away, a lone woman sitting on a golden beach under a huge orange and green parasol, reading a British newspaper, raised her cocktail glass to her glossy lips and toasted the mortified Gilly. But it was the headline on page two that made her smile: ‘WHERE IS JULIA KEEN?’
*
A couple of months later Christie and Richard were on their way to the Ivy where they were meeting Maureen and Ted. Christie wanted to treat them both to a special lunch, at the same time celebrating the start of her and Richard’s new life together. Maureen had been in a fever of excitement ever since she had known she was to be allowed to set foot in ‘Christine’s world’, as she insisted on calling it. Christie suspected that she was hoping to catch a glimpse of Jack or, even better, Gilly so that she could give them a small piece of her mind. She was hardly short of opinions on everything that had gone on, particularly Gilly’s spectacular return to the show.
Since Derek and Gilly’s public showdown, Gilly’s star had risen in the TV firmament. The viewers had shown their sympathy by providing sky-rocketing viewing figures. They had no need to know of the bank of nannies who were employed to look after Gilly’s luckless triplets and kept hidden behind Gilly’s front door. As far as the world knew, or at least those who were interested, Gilly did her level best, struggling to cope on her own. The tears she could switch on so readily came in very handy when anyone doubted her fiction – they were designed to convince, and most often did. She had recovered with almost indecent speed from her public humiliation and had hungrily adopted the role of wronged wife that, in PR terms, had proved a blessing. Julia would have been so proud.
Christie looked around the restaurant, praying that Gilly wouldn’t be there. Her prayers were answered.
The maître d’ showed her and Richard to their table, discreetly positioned at the side of the room, out of the gaze of the other diners. ‘Do you remember the day you first came round, just after I’d got back from lunch here with Jack Bradbury?’ asked Christie, her attention half on the menu. ‘You’ll be having the caviar, I take it?’
They laughed.
‘Well, the Champagne anyway,’ said Richard, as the sommelier hovered. As he moved away with the order, Christie looked thoughtful.
‘I’ll always remember Julia sitting at that table over there, and the way she came over to check how we’d got on the moment Jack left. What an operator. I can’t help wishing I knew where she’s got to. That was quite a disappearing act.’
‘Forget her, Chris – please,’ Richard begged. ‘Haven’t we had enough of her to last a lifetime?’
‘I know, but think what it would be like to track her down.’
‘Don’t even go there, Sherlock!’ He smiled. ‘Her or me? That’s your choice.’
‘Spoilsport! You know there’s no contest. I’d take you every time.’ She leaned across the table to kiss him.
Just then, Maureen and Ted hove into view. She was dressed for the occasion in a neat black knitted suit and a purple silk blouse with a neck-tie, plus shiny patent shoes. Her eyes darted round the room, taking in her surroundings, imperceptibly slowing her step when she caught sight of someone famous, no doubt making mental notes with which to regale the bridge circle, her reading and Pilates groups. Behind her, Ted was immaculately turned out, trousers creased, shoes shining, blazer buttons gleaming, his round face perspiring slightly as he followed Maureen to the table.
Within minutes, they were seated and all four were raising their glasses in a toast. ‘To the future!’
Christie pulled a white envelope out of her bag and passed it across the table to her mother. ‘A thank-you for everything you’ve both done for me.’
As she pulled out a ticket folder, Maureen was rendered as near to speechless as she had ever been. She uttered just one word: ‘India!’ Ted beamed at her, his glass stilled between the table and his lips.
‘Thank you.’ They spoke together as Ted reached out to grip Maureen’s hand. Embarrassed at this far too public display of affection, she snatched it away.
‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Christie, amused. ‘This is the very least you deserve for everything you’ve put up with. And, by the way, we’ve got one more thing to celebrate.’
All eyes were on her, her audience wondering what she was about to say.
‘Max, my new agent, has been amazing. He’s secured the next series of Top of the Class for me but, best of all . . . drum roll, please . . .’ she paused for effect ‘. . . he’s only gone and got me the Woman’s Way job.’
‘No!’ gasped Maureen, an avid radio listener for whom, like so many women, Woman’s Way was an essential part of her day. ‘But you said the interview went badly.’
‘Well, what do I know? Apparently they liked me, so now I’m the new voice of midday radio. I won’t have to worry about what I wear or what I look like any more – no one can see me.’
Maureen shook her head in despair.
Christie laughed. What they didn’t need to know was that the deal Max had secured for her meant that at last she and the kids had some real financial security and that the debt Nick had incurred to help his parents would eventually be paid off without them ever having to know it existed. How pleased he would have been.
‘And guess what?’ Christie hadn’t quite finished.
Richard smiled. ‘You know we’ve no idea. Just tell us.’
‘The PM has agreed to be my first interview. An exclusive on the health of the nation, to be followed by an in-depth on being a woman in Downing Street.’
‘You don’t regret leaving Good Evening Britain, then?’ asked Richard, aware that the life they were planning to lead together wasn’t an easy fit with the glamour and glitz of full-time TV work.
‘Not one bit,’ Christie reassured him. ‘Gilly and Sam are welcome to it. I love Top of the Class but that’s enough TV for me – for the time being, anyway. You know, perhaps we should raise a glass to Julia.’ She registered their surprised expressions. ‘She’s gone, true, but without her, I wouldn’t have learned half as much as I have and none of this would have happened. To Julia, wherever she is.’
Then, turning to Richard, she raised her glass. ‘But, most importantly, to us.’
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank my agents John Rush and Luigi Bonomi for all their support and encouragement, my publisher Lynne Drew, my editor Kate Burke and all the rest of the fantastic team at HarperCollins. I also thank Fanny Blake whose guidance and expertise mean this book exists at all. Her excellent advice ‘once you have started, don’t stop till you get to the end’ should be the writers’ motto. Not forgetting my many colleagues over the years who have given me a fund of scurrilous stories – none of which I could possibly use!
By the same author:
Fern: My Story
Copyright
Copyright © Fern Britton 2011
Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
> ISBN: 9780007362691
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007383801
Version 2013-07-29
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