Читать книгу New Beginnings - Fern Britton, Fern Britton - Страница 10

Chapter 4

‘Julia’s ready for you. Follow me.’

Christie stood up, straightened her jacket and followed Julia’s PA, who had introduced herself as Lily Watson-Fellows – ‘Call me Lily’ – out of the plush reception area. They left behind the frenetic atmosphere created by two receptionists, who were buzzing about, answering phones and furiously typing, and entered the silence of a long corridor. The first door on the right was labelled ‘Lenny Chow’. Inside the small, no-frills office, lined with shelves crowded with bulging files, a shirt-sleeved Chinese man of about forty was tapping at a calculator and making notes on his screen.

‘That’s Lenny, our accountant,’ Lily said, in passing. ‘He’s indispensable and sorts out the money side of things for the agency.’

Lenny looked up and smiled at Christie through his wire-framed glasses. ‘Hallo.’

‘Hallo,’ she replied, taking in his open, happy expression and his slicked-back black hair. This was a face that said integrity and duty, she thought. However, she couldn’t but notice his nails were bitten to the quick.

‘Ciao, Mr Chow.’ Lily laughed.

Christie transferred her attention to the framed glossy photographs of White Management clients that hung on the walls. Most of them were household names, actors and presenters, often in the company of a perfectly groomed and always beaming Julia Keen – a hand on a shoulder, sharing a joke, deep in conversation – clearly a woman with a wardrobe, not to mention a roll-call of A-list talent. After passing Lily’s cupboard of an office, Christie was shown into an elegant white room with a plush air-force-blue carpet and two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a spectacular view across the glittering Thames to beyond the London Eye. On the other two there were more photos, framed front covers of Broadcast and Stage & TV Today and an in-depth profile of Julia from the Observer.

‘Sit down, darling.’ Julia gestured at the black leather sofa opposite a low, round, glass coffee-table where one white orchid arched in solitary splendour. ‘Coffee?’

When Lily had been dispatched to get caffè latte for Christie and water for Julia, the agent emerged from behind her preternaturally tidy desk. She was dressed as immaculately as the last time they had met, this time in a drop-waisted coffee-coloured jersey dress that spoke designer, though Christie had no idea which one. Her feet were encased in spike-heeled suede ankle boots and a short fur jacket was slung over her shoulders. Christie felt rather understated in her jeans with last year’s black jacket over a plain white shirt. Julia brought with her the distinctive scent of Prada Cuir Ambre – smoky leather and scary.

‘Now, what can we do with you, I wonder,’ Julia spoke almost to herself.

‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’ Christie refused to let herself feel intimidated. Whatever Julia had to say to her, she would hold her own.

Julia gave a brusque laugh to show she’d heard, but she was obviously more preoccupied by her own thought processes. ‘You know,’ she began tentatively, ‘I think you’ve got real potential as a live on-air presenter. Your appearance on Tart Talk was very well judged. As you gained confidence, the audience responded well to you. I liked that.’ She was focused on the nail of her left index finger, which she was slowly stroking with her right thumb. ‘You’re intelligent and express yourself well. That’s important.’

‘Thank you.’ High praise indeed.

Julia shifted her gaze to Christie. ‘And you look good too. The camera likes you and that’s crucial in this business. And you’re not the average female presenter. A young widow. Two children. Juggling the work-life balance.’

Christie felt herself melting under the other woman’s attention. Julia had the invaluable knack of making a person feel as if they were the only one in the world who mattered while they were with her.

‘In the first place, let me see if we can get you more appearances on Tart Talk to help you find your feet. Then I’ll put out some feelers. There’s a couple of people I think you should meet.’

‘That would be wonderful.’ Christie couldn’t believe this was happening. To be taken so seriously by such a big player in the entertainment industry was more than she had dared hope for. Several of Julia’s clients had been quoted publicly, crediting her with their success. Just a little of that would be enough. Despite the speed with which Julia had agreed to see her, she had still half expected a polite brush-off.

Within a few minutes the meeting was over, bar a rapid summary of the formal terms of any agreement between them. Julia rapped them out too quickly for Christie to take in the minutiae but she did catch her commission rates: ten per cent on all of Christie’s media work (‘Your bread and butter, darling’) and fifteen per cent on any commercial work, personal appearances, conferences, endorsements . . . that sort of thing (‘The very welcome jam’).

‘Is there some kind of formal written contract between us?’ Christie realised how naïve she must sound but wanted to be clear.

Julia gave a little laugh. ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Just a simple gentleman’s agreement based on trust. So much easier. My clients all have complete faith in me. The payment for any work I secure for you is sent to me and I take my percentage. The rest is paid directly into your bank and a remittance slip supplied for your accountant.’ She looked up at Christie. ‘Do you have any problems with that?’

Christie allowed a micro-second to elapse as she absorbed what had been said. ‘No, of course not. But I’d appreciate you sending me a note confirming it, just in case I’ve missed anything.’

Julia gave her a wintry smile.

The following morning Julia phoned to say again how thrilled she was to be representing Christie and promised to get to work on her behalf immediately. Christie was stunned that Julia had taken time out of her busy schedule to call. This was it. Now it was up to her to be worthy of her new agent. If only Maureen could be as supportive. Had Nick sent Julia to be her champion? To do what he no longer could?

Their arrangement paid dividends immediately. Tart Talk wanted more of her, and within a couple of months, Christie was beginning to feel like an old hand at the presenting game. Even more reassuring, she was rediscovering a side of herself that had withdrawn from public since Nick’s death. A Christie who was more confident, funny, unafraid to voice her opinions or even to shock her mother (which Mel found hysterical) was coming out of the shadows. She had begun to look forward to the mornings when she was picked up by a driver and whisked to the studio for eight thirty. In the production meeting, she swigged her Starbucks with the other presenters as they laughed and chatted their way towards an agenda for that day’s show. As her confidence grew, she had established her own character within the group: potential best-friend material, who talked an edgy sort of sense. Sometimes the others ribbed her for being a bit old-fashioned, and she still regretted the day she had risen to the bait, announcing, ‘I have been to Agent Provocateur, you know. There’s more to me than meets the eye.’ On air, too. The girls had never let her forget it.

The practical benefit was that her bank balance was healthier than it had been in months – well, years, if she was honest. Earning three hundred pounds an appearance meant she had been able to make small inroads into Nick’s bank loan and, with Julia’s assurances of more work to come, had found a local builder to give a price for the collapsing conservatory, the leaking roof and the wonky chimney. When they were fixed, she would move on to the long-awaited overhaul of the plumbing and central-heating – last winter, scraping ice off the inside of the windows had been no fun – and finally she’d be able to get down to redecorating the rooms.

Maureen, meanwhile, had come to accept that this was the career path her daughter had adopted for now. She had even been known to accept the odd compliment on Christie’s behalf in the village high street. Christie had once or twice noticed someone in the supermarket glance at her in recognition, and felt the satisfaction of doing a good job and knowing people liked her for it.

But at the beginning of July, Tart Talk was coming off air for eight weeks over the school holidays. Although not a proper regular on the show, Christie had come to look forward to her appearances, even to scything through Mel’s wardrobe – and, of course, to the much-needed income. She was unsure what she was going to do, bereft of all three.

*

One morning, Christie was in the kitchen with her second cup of coffee. She had left the kids at school an hour earlier, Libby complaining that she needed a new pair of Ugg boots (‘In the summer?’ asked Christie) and arguing that she didn’t want a haircut on Friday and, no, her skirt was not too short. Fred, in contrast, was itching to get stuck into the kick-about going on in the playground with his mates. How much less complicated a boy’s childhood was, Christie reflected as she cleared the draining-board.

Of course, she ought to have been writing the piece she was compiling on celebrities who suffered from bipolar disorder – she’d put it off for so long that the deadline was in danger of whizzing by her – but every time she got a new commission from the Daily News these days, she found it harder to galvanise herself. Christie wasn’t interested in bitching about the latest breed of female celebrities and the editor knew that. Her days at the News were definitely numbered. The only question was whether she or they would cut ties first. Her only regular income came from her new ‘Straight from the Heart’ column for Woman & Family magazine: a nice little earner, courtesy of Julia. But with Tart Talk off the air and no certainty that she’d be asked back, she prayed that Julia would get her something else. She needed the security of knowing she had more guaranteed TV work.

Still putting off going to her laptop, finding any displacement activity more appealing than writing the bipolar piece, she idly turned the pages of the News. Her attention was caught by the TV7 logo. The headline screamed ‘NOT ONE, NOT TWO, BUT THREE FOR G’. Gilly Lancaster, the glamorous co-presenter of Good Evening Britain, the nightly news programme, was having triplets.

Her absence will be another blow for the popular programme, which was hit almost a year ago by the death of handsome anchorman Ben Chapman (34). He was found in the indoor swimming-pool of über-agent Julia Keen’s (49) luxury weekend hideaway. After the verdict of accidental death, Gilly was supported by TV bosses and viewers and has taken the show to the top of the ratings. When she’ll start her maternity leave is to be announced, but TV7 will be looking for a replacement. Who will take over? Gilly says she will be back on the show as soon as possible and in the meantime is delighted and looking forward to giving her husband the family they have longed for. She is 35. (How dangerous is a multiple birth in elderly women? Pages 23 and 24.)

Christie remembered again the swimming-pool incident, which had been all over the papers. A tragedy for Ben’s family, but it must have been very difficult for Julia, too. Not only the accident itself but the inevitable press speculation surrounding it must have damaged her reputation in some quarters. Despite her weepy denials, there had been definite suggestions that the client-agent relationship had developed into something less than professional. Having met Julia now, she had only admiration for the way her agent seemed to have weathered the storm and apparently not let the tragedy affect her, personally or professionally. What strength of character she must have. Christie shut the paper and went upstairs.

She opened the door to her study and, as always, felt a special calm overtake her. This was her sanctuary, her private room. The faded floral wallpaper was peeling from the cornices, one of the walls smudged brown by a large patch of damp. Nick’s colleagues had given her the Edwardian mahogany desk at which he had worked. On either side of the knee-hole there were four pedestal drawers with brass handles, and on the rectangular moulded top there was a worn red-leather writing insert. She liked the idea of her elbows resting where his had, her knees filling his space. Above her lap there was a longer drawer that she filled with postcards and cards she thought might one day be useful. Behind her stood an old leather chair and a filing cabinet, its surface ringed with coffee-mug marks.

The July sun warmed her face as she sat down and looked across the garden to the fields beyond. She glanced up at the curtain-free metal rings on the brass rail above the window, then at the bookshelves to her left, which were filled with favourite novels, mostly by the crime-writers to whom she’d become addicted after Nick’s death. She found that losing herself as she unravelled one plot-twisting mystery after another removed her from her grief. A couple of years on, she took as much if not more pleasure from them. In front of the books she had placed her treasures: the cribs from the tops of the children’s christening cakes, a tiny toy cat in a basket given to her by Libby, a plastic Superman from Fred, and several Fimo figures they’d made together.

On the wall to her right hung a large picture that she and Nick had found when they were on holiday in the Limousin. Sunshine cut through two rows of sentinel-straight trees that flanked a country road, similar to so many they’d driven along. Beside it, there was a wedding photograph with a scribbled note from Nick stuck to the frame: The happiest day of my life. Love you. N.

She pulled out a tartan biscuit tin from the top left drawer of the desk. Inside were all the other love notes that Nick had written to her. When he was alive, she’d find them pinned to the back of a cushion, under her pillow, in her purse, among the cutlery in the kitchen drawer, fluttering from the pages of a book. Just a few words that often meant so much. She touched them, imagining his fingers on them once, as hers were now. She shut the lid, returned the box to the drawer and switched on her laptop.

Two hours later, having delved into the bipolar psyches of five lesser celebs, she was feeling rather manic-depressive herself. She’d made a passable stab at the feature but would polish it up the following morning – right now she wanted to get to school in time to talk to Fred’s teacher about his total lack of interest in reading. Libby had rarely been seen without a book on the go when she was Fred’s age but he was only happy with a football. Was that boys? Or did he have a problem she hadn’t recognised?

Just as she was switching off her laptop, the phone rang. She didn’t have a chance to say more than ‘Hallo,’ before she heard, ‘Christie Lynch? Janey Smythe here. I’m Jack Bradbury’s PA from TV7. He’s asked me to arrange lunch with you at the Ivy on Thursday. I know it’s short notice but could you manage that?’

Christie was astonished by the unlooked-for invitation. Why would TV7’s director of programmes want to see her? She had only met Jack Bradbury once at Tart Talk’s wrap party, and was sure she hadn’t made much of an impression. Presumably he wanted to talk about the show, but why? Julia hadn’t mentioned anything and the producer, Helen, had always been the person who’d liaised directly with her. She thought quickly and decided it was politic to accept. ‘Of course. That would be lovely. Thank you.’

Was she doing anything on Thursday? She couldn’t remember. But, whatever, she’d cancel it. She didn’t want to jeopardise any chance she had of returning to the new season of the show.

‘One o’clock, then.’ And Janey Smythe had gone.

Christie sat down at her desk again and stared out of the window, past the trampoline and the horse-chestnut trees to the field beyond, where sheep grazed contentedly in the sunshine. Why would Jack Bradbury want to see her? She was hardly more than an ant in his world. She picked up the phone again and dialled White Management. She was put straight through to Julia.

‘Jack Bradbury’s invited me to lunch at the Ivy.’

‘Ah.’ Christie detected a note of surprise that almost immediately vanished, as Julia continued, ‘I’ve been telling him to call you for ages and at last my hard work’s paying off. They all listen to their auntie Julia in the end. Would you like me to come for support? I can always get the best table.’

‘His PA said she was making the booking.’ Was that a snort of annoyance she heard? ‘But I’ll be fine on my own. I just wondered if you knew what was behind it.’

‘I’ve got an inkling . . .’ She clearly had no such thing and was as taken aback as Christie by the invitation. But she recovered herself quickly. ‘If my plans come off this could be very good for you. Just make sure you look your best.’ Christie didn’t rise to the veiled insult about her dress sense. ‘And don’t talk too much about your dead husband. Jack likes people to be upbeat. Tell him how much you love Tart Talk and want to build your TV career, where you see yourself going. Be confident and positive and flirt with him – he’ll respond to that. Of course, him being aware that you’ve already got me on side will help. He’ll tell me how you did.’

Christie was beginning to feel like a five-year-old being prepped for an interview at a new school. However, she respected what Julia had to say, so heard her out without objecting. Eventually she hung up, none the wiser about the reason behind the invitation. She would have to wait until Thursday. But waiting didn’t come easy to her. She had never managed to conquer that sense of nervous anticipation – especially before the more momentous events in her life. It was as if she had a sixth sense that something important was about to happen.

Waiting for the doorbell to ring, Christie’s stomach was churning. She remembered how, after dropping the entire contents of her handbag at Nick’s feet, he had produced his business card and handed it to her with a smile.

‘I owe your sister a chance to chat you up so if you feel like it give me a ring.’

They shook hands and laughed again before getting into their respective cars and driving off.

Mel was thrilled when Christie told her. ‘God knows what he’s like, Chris, but he’s a lawyer so Mum will love him. Serial killer or not, go for it.’

Her sister stood over her while Christie dialled his number. Expecting the voice of a secretary, she was surprised when Nick answered. ‘Christie, how good to hear from you. I was worried you might think I was a serial killer or something.’

Mel, who was sharing the receiver, gave a thumbs-up. ‘Sense of humour! Good sign,’ she whispered.

Nick continued, ‘I don’t want you to think I give my card to every beautiful woman I meet.’

Mel pretended to swoon.

‘In fact, you’re the first. Was that very presumptuous of me?’

Christie wrenched the phone from Mel’s grip, and sat on the sofa. ‘Of course not. Do you think I’m too forward ringing you well before the designated “Thou shalt not ring back for seventy-two hours” rule?’

‘Of course not! OK – so what are you doing tonight?’

‘Play it cool. Play it cool,’ mouthed Mel, who had picked up the cordless extension from her bedroom and was sitting next to Christie.

‘Nothing. Free as a bird.’

Mel thumped her forehead with a palm, and Christie stuck out her tongue at her.

‘Great. Where are you and what time shall I pick you up?’ After he had written down her address and phone number they hung up.

Mel was bouncing up and down with excitement. ‘You’re going to have to tell me everything the minute you get home. I won’t go to bed till you phone. Otherwise . . . I’ll tell Mum.’ The worst threat she could muster.

Christie laughed and swiped her sister with a cushion.

The rest of the day dragged. Christie should have written up an article about surfing the net, a fast-growing phenomenon that even Maureen was interested in. Instead she went shopping. There was a small second-hand dress exchange at the end of the road where she found the perfect Armani LBD. At a fraction of its original cost, it was still way over her budget but, how did you dress for a lawyer?

At last it was five to seven and the window of her top-floor flat was open so she could keep leaning out to see if he’d arrived. She’d shaved her legs, washed her hair and was just putting on the last coat of mascara when the doorbell rang. She jumped – and got mascara on her nose. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ With a tissue covering the blot she hung out of the window and saw him standing on the steps. ‘Coming,’ she yelled, then leaped into the bathroom, cleaned herself up and ran downstairs.

They went to a small Greek restaurant off Charlotte Street. All rather clichéd – red and white check tablecloths, candles in retsina bottles and scarlet geraniums on the tables – but special all the same. He told her about his upbringing: only son of a now-retired lawyer and his wife, educated at a state grammar school with an ambition to follow in his father’s footsteps. She told him about her darling father, a printer in Fleet Street for thirty-five years who had succumbed to a brain tumour four years earlier. As a little girl she would sometimes go with him to watch the Sunday edition go to press on Saturday night. Maybe those times with him had hooked her to journalism.

It was almost midnight when they got back to her flat. She invited him in for coffee but he declined. As he left he gave her the tenderest of kisses and promised to call in the morning. When she opened her flat door, the phone was ringing. She picked up, knowing exactly who it was.

‘Well? Shall I buy a hat?’ It was Mel.