Читать книгу Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend - Fern Britton, Fern Britton - Страница 26

The night sky was clear and the temperature had dropped well into single figures, bringing the first real intimation of winter. Sam, Christie and the crew had spent the day in Rillingham, filming and broadcasting a Good Evening Britain special almost entirely devoted to the key by-election that was so significant to the Lib Dems. It seemed certain that Labour weren’t going to retain the seat but there was a chance that the overweening confidence of the Conservatives was not going to pay dividends. The Lib Dems had run a very efficient and effective campaign but opinion was divided as to who would win.

Christie was wrapped up in her red winter coat with the fur (faux, of course) collar, complete with gloves and hat. She had been standing outside the polling station for what felt like hours, warm when the OB lights were on but freezing when they were turned off. Her feet were blocks of ice. She and Sam had been interviewing all day, trying to get a fix on whether or not the Lib Dems were going to clean up on this highly contested seat. They’d been to the constituency offices of the main parties before catching up with some of the more extreme candidates. The weather had meant that there had been a decent voter turn-out so they’d got some good varied vox-pops. She thanked God the live broadcast was over at last so they could all retreat to the warmth of their hotels. Once the results were announced in the morning, they’d be on the spot to re-interview the candidates and canvass public opinion for that evening’s show.

Never had Christie been so happy to see a hotel. An old timbered coaching inn, it radiated history and charm. Through the mullioned windows, she could see the lights of the crowded restaurant, and heavy oak beams. She imagined the buzz of conversation, the warmth of a blazing log fire, and shivered in the night cold. They were crossing the road towards it when a youngish man, protected against the cold by a tartan scarf and grubby dark overcoat, stepped out from the shadows in front of Christie, making her stop dead. Behind him stood another man with a professional-looking camera. ‘Could we have just one photo with you?’ he said. ‘Just one. Please.’

‘Sorry, mate,’ Sam intervened. ‘We’ve all had a long day. We’re dying to get inside. No photos.’ He took Christie’s arm and tried to guide her past him, Frank closing ranks on her other side.

The man took no notice, trying to insert himself beside Christie while his friend ran in front, camera at the ready. ‘Please,’ he begged, reaching towards her sleeve. She recoiled, bumping into Frank.

As Frank drew Christie closer to him, the man darted behind them. By now she was really alarmed, quickening her pace to keep up with Sam and Frank, who were trying to hurry her into the hotel. The man gave Frank a shove that almost sent him flying. At that moment, Sam dodged in front of him.

‘That’s enough. OK? We don’t want any trouble but you’re frightening the lady. Go home, or I’ll call the police. Now.’ He stretched out his arm, allowing Christie to make a dash for the door.

Her heart was pounding as she collected her key from the small reception desk and excused herself to go upstairs to change. Her room was on the first floor down a crooked corridor lined with hunting prints. She let herself in and collapsed onto the heavily draped four-poster bed. She was unsure which she was most surprised by – her unwanted fan or Sam’s transformation into her saviour. She shivered as she thought of the guy – sad, really. He hadn’t seemed dangerous but his assault was an eye-opener. She’d discovered a big downside to becoming public property. There was little she could do except try to put the encounter out of her mind and be more watchful in future.

As the feeling gradually returned to her fingers and toes, she sat up and removed her coat and jacket. That only left the overwashed M&S thermals hidden beneath the thin terracotta-coloured cashmere jumper and dark-green skirt. She swore that never again in the middle of winter would she wear a skirt and high heels when reporting on the road. Big mistake! She went into the bathroom where she brushed her hair and repaired her lipstick. Then she rang home to make sure all was well. Since Hallowe’en, things had been on a better footing with her family. Libby seemed happier and had agreed to see Angela Taylor, the family therapist that Dr Collier recommended. Julia had worked whatever magic she needed with Sarah and nothing had appeared in print. Nonetheless, she was still running close to her credit limit with Maureen so it was important to try to do everything right and not upset her. Finally ready, she went downstairs to meet Frank and Sam.

Frank had booked a table in the bar for a late supper. The dark panelled room was busy for a weekday, full of news hounds gathered there for the by-election. Christie caught sight of the two men deep in conversation at the back of the room. She made her way through the tables to join them and caught the last of what Frank was saying: ‘She’s out for number one.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

Frank pulled out the chair beside him. ‘There you are. Are you OK?’

She sat down. ‘Yes, thanks to you two. Thank God you were there.’

Sam reached for the bottle of white Rioja and filled their glasses. ‘What a creep. Forget about him.’

‘Nothing else I can do, is there? So who were you talking about?’

‘You weren’t meant to hear, but …’ Frank’s embarrassment didn’t last for long. ‘We’re just talking about Julia.’

Sam glared at him as if to say, ‘Why can’t you keep your mouth shut?’

‘It’s OK.’ Christie picked up the menu and began to read. ‘What were you criticising her for this time?’ She decided on the salmon fishcakes and sorrel sauce, with spinach.

The two men looked sheepish, neither volunteering anything, both concentrating hard on the menu.

‘Oh, come on. You can say. Frank, I know you can’t keep a secret.’

‘All right,’ he said, tugged between the pleasures of indiscretion and the near impossibility of tact. ‘But I know you won’t like it.’

‘Try me,’ said Christie, intrigued.

Sam beckoned the black-uniformed waitress over to give their orders. Once she’d taken and double-checked them, they were left to their conversation.

‘There’s been more about Julia in the papers,’ Sam explained.

‘Why? Why can’t they leave her alone?’

‘Laura, Ben’s partner, has been papped out in public for the first time with her new fella so the journalists have dug up the case again and added some new stories that put your agent in a worse light than ever.’

‘What are they saying now?’ Christie felt weariness descend on her. She could see Frank was enjoying himself.

‘You’ve heard the rumours that the director of programmes at Space TV won’t deal with her?’

She shook her head.

‘Great story,’ Frank sat back. ‘An ex-client of hers claims he took the idea for Dead Cert to her, she pooh-poohed it and then, according to him, went straight to Space and sold the format for a fortune.’

Christie knew the hit programme: it was an unlikely cross between I’m a Celebrity and Midsomer Murders. She listened, disliking what she was hearing. At the same time she reminded herself of how positive Marina had been about Julia when introducing her on the Tart Talk set. Clearly, not everyone had their knives out for her.

But Frank hadn’t finished. ‘Anyway, when her ex-client produced evidence that the idea was originally his, Space had no choice but to pay him off. They said they’d never work with Herself again.’

‘What’s her side of the story?’ Christie asked, curious.

‘Usual face-saving guff. Dismisses it as a misunderstanding and that her heart’s broken not to be able to do business with such decent people. And there’s more.’ He rubbed his hands together. When they didn’t stop him, he went on, ‘And Franny Gallagher has come out saying she moved back to Max from Julia – silly girl should never have left him in the first place – because Julia promised her a big contract with Morning TV and big bucks to move to her, and then Jackie Love, a higher-profile client of Julia’s no less, got the job instead. That woman’s not good news.’ He gave Christie a meaningful look. ‘Have you double-checked your contracts to make sure everything’s above board?’

‘I don’t need to. I’ve got complete faith in her. No, honestly,’ she added, when she saw the way they were looking at her. ‘We’ve got a watertight arrangement.’

‘Well, don’t say you weren’t warned.’

‘You say that, and of course I’ve heard all the stories. But, if she’s on your side … We’ve had one or two little misunderstandings, true, but nothing that outweighs all the good work she’s done for me. I wouldn’t be sitting here now if it weren’t for her.’

‘That may be true, but I still think there’s something fishy. I was just telling Sam that I can’t help feeling it was odd, Ben dying at her house.’

‘Not this again.’ Christie sighed, but Frank continued, undeterred.

‘Ben told me the week before he died that he had money worries, and he was planning to discuss them with Julia. Thought she might have been dipping her fingers into the till to fund that lavish lifestyle. Then he dies in her house. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?’

‘What are you saying exactly? Are you accusing her of murder, Frank? Is that what you’re getting at?’

‘No, not exactly.’ He screwed up his face as he thought.

‘Then what? What are you trying to say?’

‘I’m not sure but it never felt quite right.’

‘Frank, stop it!’ She looked at him over her glass. ‘I know you and Julia go way back and that you don’t like her, but Ben’s death was an accident. He somehow slipped, banged his head and drowned. Julia was in bed, asleep. What you’re saying is slander. She may be a shrewd operator but there’s no way she’s a murderer.’ Christie glared at him, daring him to say more. He didn’t. ‘Now, you silly old poof, have another glass of wine.’

Frank smiled. ‘Fair enough, you frustrated old fag hag. Just don’t go anywhere near her pool.’

He saw from Christie’s expression that he’d gone too far so confined himself to a grimace, then shook his head. ‘It’s Ben and his family I feel sorry for. They haven’t had a chance to stand up for him. Remember that awful third-rate soap star who kissed and told in the News after his death? She totally assassinated Ben, making out he was a party-loving, drug-crazed sex fiend but I’m certain drugs weren’t his scene.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘And he hadn’t looked at another woman since he met Laura. None of it rang true.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t know him quite as well as you thought,’ Christie conjectured. ‘Who knows what goes on in anybody else’s private life?’ But although she dismissed the subject, she had to admit that a little bit of her was as intrigued as the others were about what had happened that night. She didn’t want to disbelieve Julia’s account, but she couldn’t help wondering if it was the whole truth.

‘But the press have their own agenda,’ said Sam, indignantly. ‘Or someone does. Come on. We know how much of that stuff is ill-informed guesswork or pure fiction – but they’ve got to fill the space somehow. Just because the Wednesday witches haven’t sharpened their pencils for you yet.’ He leaned back so the waitress could put his rack of lamb in front of him. ‘Mmm. Smells good.’

‘Oh, I’m very dull,’ said Christie, dismissing the female columnists who gave nothing for anyone’s reputation.

‘You must have some secrets.’ Frank leaned across the table, his eyes wide with interest. ‘Aren’t you going to share them with your two favourite boys?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I wish I had one to share.’ She thought of Richard. Since the kiss, they had maintained the same polite distance, made easier by the fact she was at work every weekday evening. Their arrangements for the kids were made between him and Maureen, who wouldn’t hear a bad word against him.

‘He’s perfect for you, Christine,’ she’d said one night, unaware of the uncharted waters she was entering. ‘But I expect he’s already spoken for.’

Christie had ignored her. She still didn’t get it, though. She was a reasonably attractive woman, wasn’t she? Why would he react so strongly against her? He’d told her that he’d been divorced for a couple of years from Caro, who was spending more and more time in Brussels with her work and her lover. There was nothing standing in his way of a relationship as far as she knew. Unless he was gay, of course. The idea slipped into her mind from left-field. She caught her breath then concentrated on her meal, annoyed that she might have given too much away.

‘Don’t believe you.’ Frank was obviously delighted to have caught a whiff of a secret. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. Sam smiled at the cameraman’s lack of subtlety and winked at Christie.

‘Oh, all right, then.’ She gave in. Why shouldn’t she confide in them? They had become such a tight threesome over the months they’d been working together that she wanted to share with them. Frank had opened up to her after their shopping expedition and she knew that all he wanted was a good man to love and be loved by in return. He so often disguised the loneliness he felt with lusty innuendoes about the muscle-bound studio scene-hands: men who laughed with him and teased that maybe he could ‘turn’ them before they went home to their wives and girlfriends. He never put his gaydar to the test, too fearful of middle-aged rejection. Sam was less of an open book but she got the impression that he had had his fair share of success with the ladies without committing himself to anyone in particular. She’d heard him out when one woman had taken him too seriously and he was running scared, seeking sane advice. Both men had trusted her with their confidences so perhaps it was about time she let herself go and trusted them. They might even be able to help her. A different point of view from Mel’s – her sister was her only confidante – might give her a new take on things. Besides, she wanted to steer the conversation away from Julia.

When he heard her story about Richard, Frank’s reaction was instant. ‘Turning you down? Obviously mad or gay, darling.’

Sam was more considered. His brow furrowed as he thought, his eyes serious. ‘Perhaps he’s more damaged by his divorce than you realise. He might not be ready. Maybe your vibe says you’re not ready either.’

‘But it’s been two years since the divorce,’ she protested.

‘Yes. And it’s over two since Nick died and look where you’ve got to.’ He was cutting his lamb slowly then arranging it on his fork with a piece of potato dauphinois and some broccoli. Before he put it into his mouth, he said, ‘You’re an attractive woman, Chris.’

Christie was suddenly aware of the pressure of his knee under the table. She looked up sharply. The expression on Sam’s face hadn’t changed one iota, but his eyes met hers before he glanced away.

His attention on his plate, he said, ‘You’re out of practice, that’s all. You know what they say. Use it or lose it. You’ve just got find it again.’

‘Easier said than done. And I should know,’ said Frank, ruefully, placing his napkin on the table. Anyone for a nightcap?’

They moved through into the snug where they continued their conversation, sitting in comfortable green and rose chintz-covered armchairs in front of the inglenook fireplace. At one side of the blazing fire there was a large reed basket of logs and at the other a set of shining brass fire-dogs. The low ceiling gave the room a cosy intimacy that encouraged the three of them to talk until they agreed they wouldn’t be fit to work in the morning if they didn’t go up. They kissed each other good night and went to their separate rooms.

As Christie changed for bed, she thought about what the boys had said. They had laughed together about finding ways to get her mojo back in working order but in the end had agreed that practice was the only way.

She was startled by a quiet rap at the door. Grabbing her coat as a dressing-gown, she went to open it. Sam was standing in the corridor, holding two glasses of brandy and smiling in a boyish way that lit up his whole face.

‘I’ve been thinking.’ He offered her a glass. ‘Seems to me that I might be the ideal person for you to practise your romantic techniques on. No strings attached. Just a bit of fun to get you started.’

‘Are you kidding?’ That last glass of wine had definitely gone to her head, making her feel pleasantly tipsy. She pulled her coat tighter round her, wishing that she had packed something other than Nick’s old pyjamas.

‘No, I’m serious. But if you don’t fancy it, well, have the brandy anyway.’ He held out one of the glasses.

‘Er … thank you. But …’

Go on, she imagined Mel’s voice in her ear. Who needs to know? He’s good-looking, you trust him, and he’s saying he won’t come back for more. Look at it as the first hurdle. Once you’re over it, the next one will be much easier. And, you never know, it might even be quite nice.

She laughed as her inhibitions took flight. What the hell? ‘Why are you standing out there?’ She stepped back, pulling the door open.

‘Really? Are you sure?’ His confidence deserted him. She liked him for that.

‘Let’s have the brandy and see. But if we do, no strings. And no telling Frank. We’d never hear the end of it.’

‘None and absolutely not.’ He came into the room and raised his glass in a toast. ‘Dutch courage.’

*

The next morning Christie woke up alone. Sam had left after they’d had a really very enjoyable time together, giving her a chance to catch some sleep and to get ready for the day ahead. He had been right, she thought, as she took her shower. Some skills don’t go away. They just need a bit of a polish. She had always imagined that she would feel guilty and terribly disloyal to Nick if she slept with someone else. At last she had realised that enjoying herself with another man didn’t mean she would forget him. No one was going to replace him in her heart, but that didn’t mean she had to sign up to the nearest convent. Mel was right. Of course. One slightly drunken night had shown her that she could enjoy herself without being racked with remorse. Before he left her room, Sam had emphasised once again that he didn’t want any ties and she was more than happy with that.

She was second down to breakfast. Frank was already in the dining room, with a cup of coffee and a half-eaten plate of scrambled egg. On her way to the table, she stopped to pour herself some orange juice.

‘Well, look at you!’ The light reflected off the top of his head as he gazed at her over his reading glasses, assessing what he saw.

‘What d’you mean?’ All innocent.

‘Doesn’t take Einstein to work out what happened to you last night. You look as if you’ve had your flue well and truly swept!’

Christie blushed. ‘Frank! For God’s sake, shut up!’

‘You’re glowing, darling. Well, it couldn’t happen to a nicer couple is all I can say.’

‘Get one thing straight, Frank Bolton. We’re not a couple. It was a one-off no-strings number.’

‘No need to bite my head off.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

Christie hoped so.

Sam was looking at his watch as he came over. He was slim in a pale grey suit that gave a pleasant hint of what was underneath. He gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. She blushed, remembering the pleasure she’d experienced the night before when those lips had been so very intimate, and earned herself another sly squeeze from Frank.

Without bothering to sit down, Sam poured and slugged back a half-cup of black coffee, then grabbed a piece of toast before turning to go. ‘Come on, guys. We’ve got to get down to the town hall for the results. They’re posting them at eight thirty.’

‘I’m ready. Just let me get my things and check out.’ She drank the last of her coffee and stood up. She felt better than she had for ages. Sam had done her a favour and she understood the deal between them. Her radar was being cranked back into working order. She hurried upstairs, feeling quite ready for whatever the day would throw at her.