Читать книгу New Beginnings - Fern Britton, Fern Britton - Страница 11

Chapter 5

‘Perhaps he’s going to offer you a permanent job on Tart Talk. Breathe in, for God’s sake!’ Mel pulled the zip of the dress between Christie’s shoulder-blades and up to the top.

Christie had called in at her sister’s tiny Chiswick flat on her way to the Ivy, only to be told that the black trouser suit she’d chosen for the occasion was all wrong, too severe.

‘I wish. But none of the others have ever talked about leaving.’ Christie turned to her, each breath a dangerous test of the seams. ‘Is it meant to be this tight?’

‘No, it’s not. Get it off quick, before it rips. Here.’

As the zip was undone, oxygen flooded back into Christie’s lungs and the dress fell to the floor among all the others Mel had suggested and Christie had discarded. Somewhere in the creative chaos of her bedroom Mel was sure she had the perfect outfit. It was just a question of laying her hands on it. Once again, the younger sister had taken charge and picked her way to the wardrobe, saying, ‘You may be a brilliant wordsmith, but you have no style at all. You’re so lucky I’m here. I finished the Vogue shoot yesterday and I’m off to Mauritius on Saturday.’ Bags hung off the end of her bed; jewellery was scattered entangled across two bookshelves and the mantelpiece; scarves and belts were draped over the chair back and the open wardrobe door. Wherever a hanger could hang, it did, both inside and outside the wardrobe, off the back of the door and the window frames, all carrying the trophies that came with being a fashion stylist and victim. But Christie’s mind wasn’t on the mess.

‘I only talked to the man for a couple of minutes at the end-of-term party and he didn’t seem fabulously impressed by me. Why would he want to meet me again so soon?’

‘Maybe so he can get to know you better. What about this glorious Vivienne Westwood? I got it for a shoot the other day and don’t have to get it back to her till next week.’

‘He’s not that type. And that dress definitely isn’t mine.’ It was a blue and white floral shawl-sleeved wrap with a slightly asymmetrical bodice that would make her stand out far too far in a crowd. Perhaps she should have gone with Maureen’s equally ridiculous suggestion of something from Country Casuals.

‘Bollocks! Just get it on.’

Christie had always envied the way Mel was so sure of her opinions and never took no for an answer. She supposed that if anyone knew what she should wear to lunch with a head honcho at the Ivy, it ought to be her. She reached reluctantly for the dress.

‘You’ve got to look the bloody part, woman. No one’s going to laugh at you. There! It’s absolutely perfect.’

‘I don’t know.’ Christie turned in front of the mirror, uncertain. Mel stood behind her, dressed in tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt, assessing her.

‘You look like a woman for once! Really great – honestly. I know what.’ Mel picked up a large Stella McCartney handbag, dug out from its depths a lipstick and painted her sister’s mouth a glossy pale orange. ‘The perfect finishing touch. What do you think?’

‘No. It is so not me.’

‘Shut up. Yes, it is.’

Just at that moment the doorbell rang. It was the minicab.

‘Get out of here, Cinders.’ Mel kissed her cheek. ‘And don’t worry about the kids – I’ll be there when they get home from school. See you later. Love you.’

Christie grabbed a white Joseph jacket that she’d tried on earlier, slipped on her new L. K. Bennett peep-toe wedge sandals and hobbled downstairs.

*

Sitting in the taxi, feeling sick at the driver’s inability to brake gently and the prospect of her impending lunch, Christie remembered her first meeting with Jack Bradbury. The room had been packed with people – not because the wrap party was so enormous but because the green room they’d been allotted was so small. At least, it was compared to the one next door where there were huge celebratory shenanigans going on following the recording of an Elton John retrospective. After a couple of drinks, Grace and Sharon had persuaded her that, instead of the warm white wine and cold sausages provided for their party, they deserved something a little more A-list. Together, the three of them had sneaked to the kitchen of Studio One where, unnoticed in the hubbub, they liberated a couple of bottles of Krug and two glass plates of exquisite canapés – sage crostini with duck pâté, crab and asparagus tartlets, summer-vegetable roulades – destined for the dinner-jacketed liggers at Elton’s bash. How much more appreciated they’d be by the people of Tart Talk.

Returning triumphant, half expecting to be cheered on for their efforts, they discovered the atmosphere in the room had changed during their brief absence. Raucous conversations had dropped to whispers, heads were turned towards the door. There was a definite sense of expectation in the air.

‘Jack Bradbury’s on his way down.’

Christie wasn’t sure what the director of programmes for TV7 did exactly but, judging from everyone’s consternation about his arrival, it was obviously not to be underestimated. Before she had time to find out, she caught sight of a newcomer in the room. Not tall, but slender, tanned, with the physique of a good amateur sportsman, Jack Bradbury cut an impressive dash in a superbly tailored Ozwald Boateng suit and, if Grace’s whispered aside was right, a Paul Smith tie and shirt. He stood in the centre of the room and spoke: ‘I would just like to thank the Tart Talk team for a really great run of shows this year. It’s not easy to keep coming up with fresh ideas on a daily basis but, somehow, you keep doing it – and not too much over budget.’ Light laughter permeated the party. ‘So, congratulations, and see you all in the autumn.’

After the applause, he began to work the room, dispensing charisma to the assembled crowd. As they got used to him being among them, the noise level gradually rose again until, by the time he’d reached Christie, the decibel level was humming.

‘I don’t think we’ve met? I’m Jack.’ As he leaned forward to shake Christie’s hand, he gave her an appraising glance. She caught a whiff of his perfect aftershave, neither too sweet nor overwhelming and certainly rather seductive. She noticed his perfectly squared-off nails and soft hands. His smile was an orthodontist’s dream and his eyes were a sharp periwinkle blue. But, curiously, when she looked into them they lacked sex appeal. He might have no idea who she was, but she knew immediately who he was: a man who looked after himself, and a vain one.

‘I’m Christie Lynch. I’ve been allowed to join the Tart Talk girls several times over the last couple of months as one of the guest presenters.’

‘Of course you are. How are you liking it?’ As she told him, he had taken a step forward with a gentle leer and placed his hand on the wall behind her, trapping her. She could see Grace and Sharon over his shoulder, laughing loudly, and wished she could be with them. She took a half-step forward in the hope that it would be enough to detach him from the wall, and offered him one of Sir Elton’s canapés. The temperature between them dropped.

‘No, thanks. Well, delighted to have met you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’

Her two minutes were up – but not before he had tried the Bradbury charm just once more: he held her free hand for a moment longer than necessary and looked her straight in the eye. Then he was off, working the rest of the room with equally meticulous timing.

‘Look at him go.’ Grace had stepped up beside her. ‘There’s a man who loves what God and TV7’s given him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He makes George Clooney look like someone in need of a Gok Wan make-over, girl. Haven’t you heard that he’s got an ensuite bathroom in his office? They say it’s so he can wash any part of himself if he happens to touch anyone lower than board level. All part of the deal. Just like the cream Daimler with the powder blue interior and Wilton carpet to match his eyes. And I saw you notice them!’

‘Yes, in the way a mongoose notices a cobra. He’s definitely not my type.’

‘He’s not anyone’s type, darlin’. Nothin’ and no one comes between Jack Bradbury and the business.’

‘Well, I’m sure he won’t notice if we have another drink, then. Let’s see if we can persuade another bottle of Krug to find its way in here. Coming?’ Putting Jack Bradbury firmly to the back of her memory bank, Christie had rejoined the party. And now, only days later, she was on her way to meet him again.

*

A baking July day and someone had sucked the air out of London. The traffic was crawling through the West End and she was going to be a few minutes late. The uniformed doorman at the Ivy greeted her, apparently oblivious to how hot and bothered she’d become on the way there. Her nerves about the impending lunch meant that she’d chewed off practically all Mel’s lipstick. She surreptitiously applied some more in the cool of the lobby without the aid of a mirror and strode through the double doors into the restaurant, hoping she’d got it on straight.

Right, Christie Lynch. This is it, she told herself.

The charming maître d’ asked her name. She replied, adding, ‘I’m meeting Jack Bradbury. TV7?’

‘Yes, of course. He’s not here yet but let me show you to the table and perhaps you’d like a drink?’

What? Not here yet? She attempted to look her most casual as she walked between the tables, praying not to be shown to one in the middle of the room where everyone could see her. Joan Collins, Christopher Biggins and Peaches Geldof watched idly as she sat at the empty table laid for two just off-centre. They smiled then looked away. She had never felt more conspicuous.

She sat down, thanking God for Mel. The trouser suit would have been entirely inappropriate and far too hot. Toying with a breadstick, she ordered a Bloody Mary to steady her nerves, the perfect drink to disguise the fact that she needed Dutch courage.

As she took her first sip, she looked up at the sound of a familiar voice. Julia! Her agent was being seated – horror of horrors – only two tables away in pole position at the ‘best’ table in the room. From the back, her male lunch companion could have been any of those TV types – expensive, casual get-up, carefully gelled hair. From the sound of his frequent, eager-to-please laugh, he was young and anxious to impress. Over his shoulder, Julia caught Christie’s eye, and inclined her head, giving a conspiratorial wink. Christie couldn’t help but be impressed. Julia was clearly one smart woman who had organised her schedule to keep an eye on her new client. Christie welcomed the sense of security it gave her but felt even more on edge. Did Julia think she was incapable of managing this meeting on her own? If so, she was right to be insulted.

After twenty minutes, Christie knew the menu off by heart and was growing increasingly irritated and uncomfortable. Whenever she moved, she imagined Julia’s eyes boring into her. When she’d tried to check if Jack had left a voice-mail to explain his no-show, a waiter had rushed to her side, explaining no phones were allowed. She could have gone outside, of course, but she couldn’t face running the gauntlet of stares again, least of all Julia’s. Just as she was debating whether or not to leave, there was a flurry at the door and in stepped her host. He crossed the restaurant, stopping briefly to greet people at various tables, nodding, smiling and exchanging the odd word, then chatting to Julia for what seemed an age. He gave Christie time to assess him again, taking in his charcoal grey couture suit, the neat salt-and-pepper hair, the smugness of his flawless expression, the suspicion of an eyebrow wax. Finally he joined her, apologising for his lateness. Feeling more insignificant than she had thought possible, she tried to brush off his apology as if she hadn’t even noticed the time.

He sat down and cut straight to the chase. ‘Now, how long have you been with us?’ He smiled, as if to encourage her.

‘Only a couple of months or so.’

‘Of course. I’ve been following your work for a while, you know, as well as watching you develop as a presenter.’

She had to hand it to him, he was as smooth as a snake. Did he really think she’d believe he’d ever watched MarketForce, let alone read her pieces in the Daily News? However, she couldn’t help feeling intrigued and flattered by his attention. The waiter had materialised beside them, order pad in hand. Christie had decided to plump for the crispy duck and watercress salad then the halibut, but Jack surprised her by ordering for them both.

‘I’ll have my usual and my guest will have the same.’

She wasn’t entirely sure that she was as impressed as he might have wanted her to be by this masterly approach that denied her what she wanted.

Within the snap of a finger, two flutes of perfectly chilled champagne were placed on the table. Another snap and there in front of them was a bowl of crushed ice with a tiny bowl of caviar on top, surrounded by blinis, sour cream, finely diced boiled egg, parsley and chopped shallots. Tiny mother-of-pearl spoons were placed on the table beside them. Christie tried to hide her surprise, having registered the price on the menu.

As they ate, Jack asked the questions, making her feel like the only woman in the restaurant as he focused entirely on her. His first was one Julia had warned he might ask: ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’ He leaned forward, inviting her confidence.

Better bold than not, she decided. ‘Oh, I’ve got my sights on the director-generalship.’

He smiled, and this time it did reach his eyes. He changed tack. ‘Do you believe in heaven or hell?’

This is surreal, she thought, trying to find an answer that might appeal to him but only landing on, ‘No.’

She didn’t want to share with him the doubts she’d experienced after Nick’s death that had forced her to question so many things in her life. As they continued, she remembered Julia’s advice and remained positive and confident, aware that her agent’s no doubt eagle ear might be trained on her. Jack went on to mention the features she’d presented on the show and how much he’d liked her contribution. ‘You look the part and you’ve got an assurance that makes the viewers feel comfortable and included.’ So he must have watched after all, even if it was only on DVD in preparation for this lunch. Either that, or Julia had done her job supremely well. Christie certainly wasn’t going to admit to being anything other than the person he had seen or been told about.

As she began to relax, feeling she had got his measure at last, he said, ‘Tell me, what do you think of TV7?’

That was fine: she’d rehearsed her answer the previous night in the bath. She was about to reply when he continued: ‘Do you see the channel as a man or a woman? I mean . . . which characteristics do you think they share?’

My God! What was the man on? Julia was giving no sign of having heard a word of the conversation. Christie was on her own, all too aware she mustn’t say the wrong thing. She thought for a split second, then looked deep into those blue eyes and said, ‘Oh, a man, I think. It’s smart, has achieved a lot in a short time and charms both men and women. A sort of male Marilyn Monroe, if you like.’

Jack beamed and nodded, clearly identifying himself with the channel. She refused the last blini and, while he ate it, indulged in guessing what the mystery second course would be. But instead, a moment after they’d emptied their plates, he called over the waiter and asked for the bill. So that was how he kept so trim. Bloody hell, she was starving! Hoping she still had the KitKat in the glove compartment of her car, she heard him say, ‘I’d like you to come to the studio next week to see how Good Evening Britain is put together. I want to try a completely new face as a foil to Sam Abbott, who’s taking over as main anchor while Gilly Lancaster’s on maternity leave. I take it you’ve watched the show?’

Stunned into near silence, she hurriedly assured him she had. Who hadn’t? Good Evening Britain was fast becoming a TV legend: a programme filled with warmth and humour while unafraid to tackle the big news agenda.

‘Good, good. Gilly’s leaving in a few weeks, so we need to see how you look on camera in the studio and whether you can read the autocue and manage the talkback. Quite simple. I’m sure you’ll manage superbly. I’ll ask Janey to call your agent with the details.’

She nodded her agreement. Just wait until Mel and Maureen heard about this. Julia too.

Jack leaned over the table and touched her hand with the extreme tip of one finger. In a low, conspiratorial voice, he said, ‘I’ve got to go, Christie. My car’s waiting. We’ll be in touch.’ With that, he left.

Christie sat still in the centre of the room, feeling very alone and wondering what to do next. She reached for her handbag and was about to rise from her seat, when she froze at the sight of Julia steaming towards her. Julia’s guest had dematerialised – they must have finished their meal already – and she was nodding right and left, ensuring that most eyes were on her. Her blouse was crisp and her figure-hugging Prada skirt had not one wrinkle. She settled herself at Christie’s table, signalled to the waiter to clear away the remains of the lunch and ordered two double espressos. Then she smiled professionally at the speechless Christie.

‘Now, Christie,’ she asked, ‘how did that go?’