FERN BRITTON

New Beginnings

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

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: 2018-02-16

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

To you, the reader – thank you! Xx

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

THEN . . .

NOW . . . Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowledgements

By the same author

About the Publisher

THEN . . .

‘I want Marmite on my toast. Not Dairylea,’ Libby yelled downstairs at the top of her voice.

The day Christie’s life changed for ever, began just like any other. Her nine-year-old daughter was sulking on her bed.

Nick called up to her: ‘Darling, we don’t have Marmite. Mummy’s told you she’ll get some later. How about honey? Now, come and give your old dad a kiss goodbye, gorgeous girl.’

‘No.’ Libby already had a very definite mind of her own.

‘Well, you’ll have to go hungry, get weak and feeble, and you won’t be able to go out on your bike with me at the weekend.’

‘Don’t care.’

Christie came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea-towel. ‘Libby! Come down here right now and eat your breakfast or you’ll be late for school.’

‘I hate you.’

‘Don’t speak to Mummy like that, madam.’

‘And I hate you too.’

‘She’s definitely from your mother’s side.’ Nick slid an arm around Christie’s waist. ‘See you later, my beautiful, clever wife. Love you. ’Bye, Freddie.’ He kissed them both, and Christie watched the back of his familiar head as he walked away down the mews.

Her morning happened as every morning happened. Wrestling with Libby’s stubbornness, coaxing both kids into the car and getting them off to their schools. By nine forty-five she was back indoors and ready to clear the breakfast debris. It was then that the phone rang.

The rest of the day was filled with such pain that much of it she couldn’t recall. She had been told that Nick had died, suddenly, on the pavement two hundred yards from his office and that bystanders had attempted to revive him while calling for an ambulance. She remembered the hospital doctor: young, inexperienced at breaking this kind of bad news to a wife who needed to know exactly what had happened to her husband. ‘It was a pulmonary embolism,’ he explained. ‘It could have happened to anyone.’

How? Why? Why? Why?

At last she was taken to the mortuary, where Nick lay in a silent, nondescript room that she supposed had housed many corpses and heard many tears and farewells.

He was cold and gone from her, with a bruise on his cheek where he’d apparently hit the pavement. Had he been dead before he hit the ground? Had he had any warning?

She climbed up next to him and put her arms round him. He was cold. If only she could have closed her eyes and let go of her own life, right there and then, she would have. She stayed there, feeling utterly empty, hopeless. Her sane self stayed outside her body, looking down at the sad sight she made, lying next to him. Someone opened the door, asked if she was all right. Of course, she wasn’t bloody all right. She kissed Nick goodbye for the last time, then sat outside waiting to be told what to do next as she let the silent tears spill onto her coat.

Later, Fred stared at her, silent, his eyes big with incomprehension. Libby wailed, clinging to her as if she was the only life-raft in a stormy sea. ‘Mummy! I didn’t kiss him – I didn’t kiss him. I told him I hated him. It’s my fault. I love Daddy. I want him to come home.’

Libby’s grief was so huge and suffocating that Christie wanted to slap her, to shout at her. In more pain than she had ever experienced, what she wanted to say was right on the tip of her tongue: ‘Don’t you think I want him home too? He’s my husband. The love of my life. I’m his wife. I need you to comfort me.’

But what she actually did was cuddle and kiss and console.

NOW . . .

Chapter 1

‘Why do we have to stay with her?’ Libby slammed the door of the battered Peugeot estate. ‘I don’t want to.’

Christie, lugging overnight bags into the car boot, bit back her reprimand about the door, not wanting to provoke her daughter’s temper any further. Instead she forced herself into her best unruffled-mother mode. ‘You know that I’m staying the night with Auntie Mel so she can help me sort out what I’m going to wear tomorrow. You’re going to stay with Granny, who can’t come here because she’s got an early-morning Pilates class tomorrow.’ She tried to keep the amusement out of her voice. The idea of her mother and her friends as Pilates devotees always made her smile.

In the rear-view mirror she could see Libby looking thunderous, her straight hair cut into a neat bob with a fringe that almost hid her frown. Across the bridge of her nose was a smattering of freckles that ran into her flushed cheeks while her rosebud mouth was drawn into a tight line.

‘Can’t we come too?’ nine-year-old Fred begged, as they began to reverse down the drive towards the lane.

‘Freddie, I’ve already explained.’ Christie spelled out what was happening for the umpteenth time. ‘You’ve got to go to school tomorrow and I’ve got a TV show to do. It’s really important that I look good, so I need to see Auntie Mel. If it goes well, there might be more work for me. Then there’ll be more money. And we can do all sorts of things.’

‘Can I have an iPod Touch, then? Ouch!’ he yelped. ‘What did you pinch me for?’

‘Because you’re stupid. You’re far too young for one.’ Libby mustered all the scorn of a twelve-going-on-twenty-five-year-old. ‘Don’t!’ she yelled, as Fred lashed out. She dodged the blow, jabbing him in the leg at the same time so that he squealed.

‘For God’s sake! Can’t the two of you behave like human beings just for once? Is it too much to ask?’ Christie yelled at the top of her voice, shocking the children into quiet.

The two of them kept a sullen silence, punctuated by the odd ‘Stop it,’ or ‘Owww,’ as one poked at the other.

Christie tried to ignore them. What was it with kids? You love them, care for them, anticipate their every whim – but did they consider her? Never. Was it all right occasionally to feel such ambivalence to the two people she loved more than anyone else in the entire world? Yes, she decided, if they were so selfish as not to understand how important the next two days could be for her. For them. The last two and a bit years since Nick had died had been a dark chaos. She had managed to exist and bring up the children as best she could. They were at least fed, clothed and relatively balanced. But she was still a jelly, slopped out of its mould and left spreading on a slippery, edgeless plate.

However, she had made some big decisions. She had given up her appearances on MarketForce, the afternoon TV consumer programme where she was beginning to make something of a name for herself as a good, solid watchdog journalist. After Nick’s sudden death, she couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the children’s day-to-day needs. She had sold up the little mews house full of so many memories and moved back to her mother’s village in Buckinghamshire, where she had found an old, dilapidated money-pit of a Georgian farmhouse. Her mother had told her she’d be mad to buy it so, to prove her right, Christie had blown Nick’s life insurance on it.

‘It’ll be lovely when it’s done,’ said those friends who had left London to brave the countryside.

Only it hadn’t been done. The chimney was cracked, the conservatory was leaking, and the wind whistled through every rattling sash window and door. She was skint. Even though she had Nick’s modest pension and a little from the weekly column she now wrote for the Daily News, plus occasional features for the paper and the odd women’s mag, that didn’t do much more than keep the family in new school shoes and petrol.

Now, though, something exciting and scary had happened. Tart Talk, the irreverent daytime TV7 show, had asked her to be a guest. Her stomach flipped with fresh nervousness. She wasn’t any longer just a widow, with all its connotations of death and sadness, but a woman who had a life of her own to lead. Nick would have wanted that. Wouldn’t he?

‘Come on, Christie. You can do it,’ she heard his voice tell her.

At last, she turned down the road that led to her mother’s neat little brick bungalow. She pulled up outside the low wall that fronted an immaculate garden with a manicured moss-free lawn and regimented borders. Christie turned to the children. Libby was busy texting but Fred was fast asleep.

‘Come on, guys. Time to get out.’ As Libby looked up at her with her big dark eyes, so reminiscent of Nick’s, Christie’s heart melted. ‘Oh, darling, please don’t make me feel bad. This could be really good for us all.’

‘Yeah, I know. I hope Granny’s made one of her sponge cakes.’ Her mood had changed with the fickleness of youth as she hopped out of the car and gave her mother a kiss. ‘Come on, Fred. We’re here.’ She pulled out the bag he was leaning on, waking him with a jolt.

Fred clambered out behind her, bleary with sleep. Christie gathered him up in a bear-hug. ‘Be good, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow after school.’

She had noticed one of the lace curtains in the bay windows move, and knew her mother would open the door at any moment. Not wanting to miss the train by getting caught up in conversation or complaint, she waited till her mother appeared on the doorstep then, as the children waved at her, she locked the car and shouted, ‘Can’t stop, Mum. I’m going to be late. Wish me luck. I’ll see you tomorrow and thanks a million.’

Then, with a wave, she started walking briskly towards the station. As her steps took her further away from her mother’s, she couldn’t help thinking back to a time when she thought she’d never be able to move on.

The hours and days after Nick’s death were wiped from her mind. Christie was visited by waking dreams of him. When the phone rang, it must be him. When the doorbell rang, it must be him. But, of course, it never was, and the blow to her solar plexus felled her more painfully each time. The agony of telling people that she was no longer part of ‘NickandChristie’ was something she began to avoid. The look in their eyes, the sound of their voices on the phone made anger roar into her brain and scorch the backs of her eyeballs. Instead, she asked Mel to tell everyone they knew.

One morning a postman delivered two letters for Nick. She heard them drop through the letterbox and just managed to open the door and give the innocent man an earful of grief-sodden abuse before he disappeared through the gate. She sagged onto the doorstep. As she wept, she seemed to float outside her body and, looking down on herself, she was filled with compassion and disgust by what she saw.

‘Get up, you stupid excuse for a woman. Get up! Comb your hair, get dressed, brush your teeth. Be a credit to Nick. Nick, you bastard!’

She only emerged from this altered state when a small hand smoothed her hair and a little boy’s voice said, ‘Mummy, I’m hungry.’

The words lasered through her. Yes. She was literally the breadwinner now, the one to put food in the children’s mouths, to clothe them and guide them through life. She had to be both mother and father to them from now on.

The protective shell that had enveloped her that day kept her strong as she organised the funeral. Her mother tried to help with the catering. ‘You must have everybody back to the house and feed them, Christine. That’s what I did for your father and it’s what people expect. I suggest sandwiches, nothing too fancy. A big bowl of cocktail sausages always goes down well. What man doesn’t like a sausage? That’s what your father always said. And what about drink? Just a little sherry and lots of tea, I think. You don’t want anybody getting drunk. And make sure they know when it finishes. If people hang about they’ll expect more food. Christine? Christine? Christine?’

But Christie had gone. She couldn’t take her mother’s wittering any longer so she had opened the front door and just walked out. For a brief moment in her life she wanted to be free of responsibility. No more widow, no more mum. Just Christie.

Her escape didn’t last long – half an hour at most – and when she got home, the children were in the middle of supper, eating chicken nuggets at the kitchen table. Maureen was at the sink, making a jug of Ribena. Christie went to her and hugged her. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘That’s all right, darling.’

And nothing more was said.

Somehow the funeral drew a line through the chaos of the days preceding it, and gradually Christie’s life began to take on a rhythm of sorts. Not the same as before, but almost bearable. Now that she was solely responsible for the children and could think of nothing else, she gave in her notice at MarketForce and devoted herself to them, so money was tight. When Libby and Fred were settled, she would start working as a journalist again. The one thing hanging over her head was the bank loan Nick had taken out to help his father, not long before he died. The debt was part of his legacy to her. She had promised him that she would never tell Maureen about its existence, and there was no way she would tell her now.

Chapter 2

Deep breathing was not producing the desired effect. Christie’s heart was still racing as fast as if she’d been rigged up to an intravenous caffeine drip. Her palms were clammy and she knew that if she unclenched her fists her hands would be shaking. She inhaled again slowly, trying to focus her thoughts. Catching sight of herself, she immediately wished she’d stuck with the simple black round-necked dress, her original choice, instead of giving in to her fashionista sister. After last night’s couple of glasses of wine, Mel had insisted she went for something more ‘out there’.

‘Chris! I’m not going to allow you to disappear into the scenery . . . as normal. This is your big chance, the one time when you want people to notice you, and you’re dressing in your usual widow’s weeds. Try this.’

She held out a funky, figure-hugging aquamarine and yellow silk sheath dress, which they both knew Christie would never wear in a million years. The neck, hemline and lack of sleeves meant there was way too much on show. Only two years younger, Mel had always been the risk-taker, edgier, unafraid of others’ opinions, and her dress sense reflected that. She had been the highest-marked student of the year when she graduated from the London College of Fashion and was now making a name for herself as a freelance stylist for the glossy mags. Although the sisters were the same size, there was little in their separate wardrobes that would happily cross over. In any case, Christie wasn’t sure she wanted people to notice her because of what she wore.

In the end, they had settled on a compromise, dug from the back of the wardrobe: a maroon wrap dress that reached to just above her knees and whispered, ‘Look at me. I’m sexy and smart.’ Even Mel didn’t know how this piece of good taste had got into her wardrobe, but they’d agreed that, zhooshed up with very sheer tights, a simple but gorgeous necklace and some killer heels, this was the look that was just right for Christie and for the show.

However, now, standing at the side of the studio, surrounded by the controlled chaos of cameramen, runners, researchers, editor, producer and the other presenters, Christie suddenly felt less confident. Instead of distracting attention from her modest bosom, the large milky amber pendant they’d chosen seemed to accentuate it. To fill out what now seemed an inappropriately skimpy neckline, she needed the breasts of Sharon Barber, the bosomy ex-soap star and Tart Talk regular who was standing a few feet away, chatting to the floor manager. Christie pulled at the jersey fabric, trying to close the V, then reminded herself of how the girls in Makeup had complimented her. Under those super-bright lights, her reflection was of someone she hardly recognised. Instead of the usual dressed-down mother of two, she saw someone elegant but not intimidating, well-groomed but not over the top. They’d given her a bit more eye-shadow and lip-gloss than she was used to and her hair was bigger and more flicked out, but she had to admit that, against her expectations, she quite liked the new her. She took another deep breath.

She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Marina French smiling at her. An experienced news reporter, now deemed too old for the mainstream news, Marina was respected for her popularity and her ballsy attitude to life, which made male presenters quail. She was still the anchor of Tart Talk because of the much-needed gravitas she lent to the otherwise unpredictable fast-talking show. ‘Christie, don’t worry. You’ll be fine,’ she murmured, as she nodded towards the audience. ‘They’ve come to have a good time. They want to like you.’

Christie nodded and swallowed. ‘Hmm. If you say so . . .’

‘Every guest presenter feels nervous their first time on live TV. I’d be worried if you weren’t. But once you’re out there, the time’ll whizz by. Try to enjoy it. You’ll soon be an old hand.’

‘I hope so.’ And she truly did. However nerve-racking the experience so far, she was feeling an excitement that she hadn’t known in years. Last week’s phone call from the show’s producer had come at exactly the right moment. She had read and loved the one-off piece Christie had written about Nick’s death, her enforced single motherhood and subsequent move to the country.

After two years, Christie had at last found she was able to look back and understand that she should celebrate the time she had been given with Nick. As the children grew older, she was even beginning to enjoy being single again as she gained a new perspective on her life. When she had said as much to her editor at a drinks party, he had immediately reacted: ‘I’ve never heard you talk like that. You must write about it for me.’ So she had. She had poured her emotions into the piece, excited to be exploring something so close to her heart, such a welcome change from the usual consumer-based features that had become her stock-in-trade. When her editor had criticised it as ‘too cerebral for our market’, and asked, ‘Where’s the sex?’ she had almost despaired.

To be asked to come on Tart Talk to talk intelligently about women surviving the loss of the love of their lives was a huge compliment. But today she was feeling rather differently. She had been up since five thirty, unable to sleep, not even in the back of the sleek Mercedes sent to take her to the TV7 building, home of Tart Talk, as it crawled through traffic held up by roadworks on the Euston Road. Sitting on the uncomfortable leather sofa in her dressing room, leafing through the pile of the day’s papers as she waited to be called to Makeup, there had been plenty more time for the nerves to kick in. She had been thankful when a runner finally took her along to the green room to meet the three regular presenters.

She had immediately sensed the great rapport that existed between Marina, Sharon and Grace: Grace Benjamin – the thin, gap-toothed black comedian with a big laugh, whose bisexuality was often the butt of her own jokes. Their camaraderie meant they had welcomed her without reserve, offering her coffee before they went through with the producer the subjects they might be going to cover on today’s show. How much would Christie be able to contribute to a discussion about middle-age binge drinking and subsequent one-night stands? Staying up late to watch Newsnight just in case had been a complete waste of time. She’d have to wing it and focus her efforts on the reason she was there.

Just before they were due to go on, a fourth woman had sashayed in, finishing a conversation on her BlackBerry. Tall and well-padded but dressed in a stylish tailored cream suit, not a hair out of its coiffured place, she sat down beside Marina. ‘Hello, darling,’ she breathed. ‘I was in the studios so thought I’d pop down and see how you were.’ Her energy and presence immediately refocused the room so all eyes were on her. Christie was wondering where she’d seen her before when Marina introduced her.

‘Julia, you must meet Christie Lynch. Remember she used to be on MarketForce? She’s going to be talking about bereavement on the show today. Christie, this is my very special agent, Julia Keen.’

Christie immediately knew who she was. Julia Keen was one of the talent agents in London, a name known to most magazine readers, loved and feared in equal measure by those in the business. She had made her reputation by poaching high-earning clients from other agents, often appearing with them at all the most prestigious showbiz events. Christie had read one or two profiles about her in the press. About a year ago Julia had been the subject of much media interest when one of her clients, the TV presenter Ben Chapman, had drowned in her indoor swimming-pool: coroner’s verdict, misadventure. But the press had been free and frequent with speculation about their relationship and the real reason for Ben having been there without his girlfriend, as well as about what had really happened. He had been the co-host of Good Evening Britain, a news/magazine show that had actors, writers and MPs queuing up to appear. Newsnight meets The One Show, it had the six to seven p.m. slot on TV7 five nights a week. When Ben died, his on-air partner, Gilly Lancaster, had made a tribute to him so moving that it was printed on every red-top front page the following day. His long-term partner, Laura, was devastated at losing him, while Julia had absented herself from the red carpets and all that went with them. Success breeds success but scandal can be a dangerous enemy.

Christie remembered the photos splashed in the press of Ben, Laura and Julia, as well as of an indoor pool that had come straight from a scene out of Footballers’ Wives: colonnaded french windows leading back into the house, white loungers, tropical ferns in large ceramic pots. Julia clearly knew how to enjoy the fruits of her success. Smiling, Christie offered her hand – to find it gripped firmly, as Julia’s clear blue eyes assessed her in an unnerving and not altogether pleasant way.

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Julia said. ‘I’ve read your Daily News column. Good luck today.’ She gave her another look of appraisal.

‘Thanks.’ Christie, feeling a little uncomfortable, was relieved when, at that moment, the green room door opened and they were called to the studio.

As she stood in the dark, behind the set, she could hear the large audience of students and pensioners filing in. Who else had time to go to a daytime show? Bussed in for the occasion, they found their seats and the buzz subsided as the warm-up man welcomed them. Christie strained to hear what he was saying.

Then someone else caught her attention.

‘Christie, my darling. Hi. I’m Tim, the floor manager.’ A young casually dressed man wearing headphones was at her side. ‘Welcome. Nice to have you. In two minutes, watch Marina and just follow her onto the set and take the second stool on the left, behind the desk. OK, love? Good luck.’ He patted her shoulder in encouragement.

Oh, God, Marina was walking onto the set. They want to like me, Christie repeated to herself, and followed, as confidently as she could, to the sound of applause. Why did I say yes to this? She could feel the heat of the lights on her face and a prickle of perspiration on her back as she went out into the bright lights. She hitched herself onto the stool, which was high enough to make the women sit up straight or fall off, and wondered what to do with her heels: let them hang or tuck them in? She tucked them in and pulled down the sides of her skirt.

‘Look as if you’re enjoying yourself,’ whispered Grace. ’They won’t eat you.’

Switching on a smile as the warm-up guy introduced the team, Christie looked up and out towards the audience where her eyes fell on Mel in the second row, resplendent in a to-be-noticed-by-my-sister neon pink scarf, grinning like a maniac and giving her the thumbs-up. If only Nick could have been there with her. He would have been so proud. She twisted her wedding ring round her finger, then swiftly reminded herself that she had to stop thinking like that. This was her life now.

‘OK. Fifteen seconds, studio. Quiet, please,’ shouted Tim. He continued the countdown to zero, then the show’s title music struck up.

As the cameras began to roll, they were all laughing. It was up to the four of them now. Christie heard a disembodied voice introducing Marina, Grace, Sharon, and then: ‘. . . and please welcome Christie Lynch, the merry widow, to ask her: is there dating after death?’

Oh, God! No! Why had no one briefed her that they weren’t going to be taking the sensitive, dignified approach she had imagined? Because they realised she’d have shied away? Of course. She should have known better than to trust them not to trivialise the subject, but it was too late now. In front of the audience and her co-presenters, she had no choice but to keep smiling and try to think of something to say. Come on, Nick. Give me strength.

Chapter 3

Before she knew where she was, the show was over. Mel had kissed her, said how brilliant she had been and disappeared off for a shoot with John Swannell, her favourite fashion photographer. Christie had climbed down from her stool and was taken to the green room, where she found all her belongings had been brought from the dressing room.

The entire programme team was there, enjoying sandwiches and a glass of wine. While Marina was sharing a joke with Sharon, Julia Keen discreetly engineered a conversation alone with Christie, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, as she said, ‘You were good, darling. Much better than I expected. Now, do you have a good agent?’

Taken aback by Julia’s directness as well as the apparent need for discretion, Christie, suddenly self-conscious, muttered, ‘No. I’ve never really needed one.’

Julia’s eyes seemed to light up from within. ‘I think things are about to change for you. Perhaps we should have a little talk some time. Take my card.’ She extracted one from a small silver holder and slipped it into Christie’s hand. ‘Just call me,’ she said, giving Christie’s arm a little squeeze just above the elbow. Then she turned to join the other women and, within moments, was laughing as if she’d been with them for the length of the joke.

Christie stared at her, watching how she stayed for just as long as was necessary before making her excuses. She realised this was her cue to leave too. She said her goodbyes, receiving polite and not unenthusiastic thanks from the producer. She left the building carrying a hand-tied bunch of Heavenly Scent flowers, a Diptyque candle and a card from the regular presenters thanking her. She had pretended not to see the producer hurriedly signing on their behalf when she’d thought no one was looking. The card that Julia Keen had given her was burning a hole in her pocket.

*

Not until Christie sank into the grey-leather back seat of her chauffeur-driven Mercedes and she was watching the black ribbon of the M40 disappear beneath them, did she stop to take stock. Only then did she realise that she had no idea what she’d said at any time over the past hour or so, or if any of it had made sense. Her brief conversation with Julia had taken on the quality of a dream. She dismissed it as an aberration. The woman had only said what she felt she had to. Hadn’t she?

The driver had been asked to drop her off at her mother’s where she’d left her car. There was just time to drop in before she went home to meet the children when they got back from school. The door chimes pealed, and through the dimpled glass, she saw the distorted silhouette of her most ferocious critic coming towards her. The door opened to reveal Maureen, slim, her streaked blonde bob as aspirationally gamine as ever, beady eyes darting this way and that, thin mouth stretched into a smile, a hand on the string of pearls that crowned her heather twinset.

‘Christine! We all watched you, darling. You were surprisingly good, although I wasn’t sure about your lipstick.’ She held the door so Christie could just squeeze through. ‘And the dress. A bit revealing but the colour wasn’t bad.’ She led the way into the sitting room where the only one of the ‘all’ who was left was Ted Brooks, Maureen’s ‘gentleman friend’, whose right hand enveloped a sherry glass. Not the first of the day, if the colour of his cheeks was anything to judge by.

‘Ah, Christie.’ He glowed. ‘Marvellous show.’

‘Thanks, Ted. I was very nervous.’ She waited, not wanting to have to prompt either of them to congratulate her on her contribution.

‘I say, that Sharon is an attractive woman.’ His watery blue eyes misted over, presumably in memory of that spectacular cleavage.

Maureen briskly changed the subject. ‘I didn’t expect you to know so much about alcohol or men, or to broadcast the fact to the entire nation. Are you looking for a new father for the children? It would have been nice if you’d at least told me first.’

‘Oh, Mum, you know I’m not. That was just what they wanted me to talk about so I went along with it. But, anyway, why shouldn’t I if the right person came along?’ She ignored her mother’s raised eyebrow.

‘I’m not sure I liked everything else you talked about.’ Maureen was lemon-lipped as she sat down, smoothing flat her tight catalogue yoga pants as she did so. ‘Flatulence!’ She could hardly say the word.

Ted laughed. ‘Nothing wrong with the occasional farty wallah, Maureen.’

Maureen, pink, continued, ‘Or S-E-X.’

‘Nothing wrong with that either.’

‘Ted, I think that’s enough. It’s only half past three.’ Then she turned back to Christie. ‘Alice and Joan left as soon as it had ended. I didn’t really know what to say to them.’

‘But did you think I was all right?’ Christie could wait no longer, dying to hear that she had been, that her mother was proud of her. As the distance between her and the Tart Talk studio had grown, she had begun to piece together snippets of the show, remembering that, as the audience listened to her and laughed with her, her confidence had grown until she had become as opinionated and outspoken as the others. Being in front of a live audience was a quite different experience from recording her prepared or OB pieces for MarketForce. What was more, she had loved the whole experience of throwing round opinions with like-minded women and, for the first time in a long time, being herself. Not just mum, daughter, sister, widow.

‘Well, yes. But you could do so much better.’

‘For God’s sake, Mum!’ Christie experienced an overwhelming urge to smash one of her mother’s precious collection of Lladro figurines into the immaculate tiled fireplace piled with artificial coal. ‘What’s happened to you? You’ve got so narrow-minded. These are the sort of subjects that should be talked about openly. Mourning, dating, farting and drinking.’

Maureen visibly recoiled.

‘Weird mix, I grant you. But we all do them.’

‘I’m not sure everyone in the village would agree with you, dear.’

‘Of course they wouldn’t. They’re stuck in the dark ages.’

‘Will you be on again?’ Ted asked, his eyes slightly unfocused as he lay back in the neat chintz-upholstered sofa that, like him, had seen better days.

‘Oh, Ted! I think Christine’s destined for higher things, don’t you?’

‘You’re impossible, Mum. I came round hoping you’d have enjoyed the show – or that at least you’d say you had. And I’ve no idea whether I’ll be asked on again. Probably not, if they felt the same about my lipstick as you did!’ Christie stood up and crossed the room, dodging the occasional tables with their coasters and empty teacups, the only reminders of the disapproving audience of Alice and Joan.

‘Now, Christine. Please don’t show off in front of Ted.’ Maureen’s reprimand turned to alarm as she realised Christie was making for the door. ‘Where are you going? Have you had anything to eat?’

Her mother always grabbed any opportunity to press food on her visitors. That was her raison d’être, and didn’t Ted know it, Christie thought, glancing at the checked waistcoat that pulled across his rotund stomach – currently filled with Maureen’s ‘tiffin’, as former ex-pat Ted liked to call it – then feeling ashamed of her lack of charity. They made each other happy in their own way and that was what mattered.

‘Home. And I’m not hungry, thanks. I’ve got to get there before Fred and Libby get back from school. I’ll let myself out. ’Bye.’

As she climbed into her car, Christie was fuming. However hard she tried to please Maureen, she never quite managed to reach the high standards expected of her, the elder child. But a word or two of encouragement wasn’t asking much, was it? That was something her father had never failed to give either her or Mel. Maureen had always been harder to please. She must realise that being asked to appear on Tart Talk was a positive step forward from writing for the Daily News, a paper with a dwindling circulation and a new slash-and-burn editor. But Maureen’s horizons had been limited by living in the sticks. Christie shuddered as she foresaw the same thing happening to her. Like mother, like daughter? Not if she could help it. She retuned the car radio to Radio 1.

As she turned into her driveway, singing loudly to the Kaiser Chiefs’ ‘Ruby’ she stopped the car and looked at her home: a proper double-fronted house, its bricks a warm red in the spring sunshine, its windows glinting, especially the large ox-eye above the front door that let light flood onto the landing upstairs. She remembered the day they’d arrived, when she had felt so angry with Nick for not being alive to help her with the move, the fuse boxes, the over-excited children and the bloody DVD player. That night, after Libby and Fred had gone to bed, she had opened a bottle of wine, poured the first glass and sobbed. The next day, she had woken up, ignored the booze-induced headache and unpacked the silver frame with her favourite photo of Nick. In it, he stood squinting slightly into the sun, with the campo of Siena behind him. With the children to help, she had chosen to put him in pride of place on a side table in the sitting room where they would see him every day.

As she parked, she made a mental note to re-pot last year’s pansies and geraniums that were straggly and half dead by the front door. Letting herself in, she dumped her bag on the hall chair and marched into the long kitchen. This was the one room on which she had splashed the money she’d had left over from buying the house, knowing it would be the heart of the home where the three of them would spend most time together. She’d had the grimy old kitchen units replaced with neat off-white cupboards, oak worktops, a heavy porcelain sink. The chimney-breast had been taken out to make space for the second-hand Aga, something Christie had always lusted after, its blue echoed in the check curtains. In the centre, an island provided an extra work area, with a two-ring gas hob for emergencies.

At the opposite end of the room a battered old sofa sat under an old school clock, but it was the long oak refectory table she had bought at auction that dominated. This was where everything and anything got done, be it eating, drinking, homework, painting, making things, chatting or good old family arguing. The windows and french windows on the long wall opposite the Aga gave onto the well-stocked if increasingly disordered garden. Whenever she came into the kitchen, looked at the kids’ pictures framed on the walls, heard the thrum of the Aga and the hum of the large fridge (second-hand again), Christie always experienced a frisson of pleasure. This was home, and Nick would have loved it.

The clock told her she had half an hour before the kids were dropped by the school bus at the end of the drive: half an hour in which to put the kettle on for a cup of tea before getting supper on the go. Still infuriated by the way Maureen had managed to pour cold water on her mood and her achievement, she began to sort out the recyclable rubbish for collection. To hell with it! With a savage pleasure, she hurled the lot into one bag and dumped it outside the back door, delighting in the knowledge of how outraged Maureen would be if she found out. Going back inside, she sneaked a packet of blue Silk Cut from the glasses cupboard on the wall above the worktop, pulled one out and put it between her lips. Flicking the gas lighter for the hob, she lit it and took a drag. She opened the french windows and blew the smoke into the warm spring air. Loathing but relishing every last puff, her head swam as she pictured her mother’s disgusted face. Tough shit. This is the new Christie Lynch: fearless, hard-working and top mum.

Expecting food, Mrs Harbord and Mrs Shrager, her two speckled Sussex chickens, ran to greet her. She had given in to the children’s pleas and bought them as Easter presents. They watched her for a second, their busy button eyes reminding her of Maureen’s. Disappointed when no grub was forthcoming, they walked very precisely over to the flowerbed, looking as if they were wearing new shoes and didn’t want to get chewing gum stuck to the soles. They wiggled down into a dust bath, sending up a small cloud of dirt as they fussed and flurried their feathers. Leaving them to it, Christie stepped outside. Her garden had been tended lovingly by the previous owner but now Mother Nature had woven a natural magic all of her own.

As she wandered, she went through the pros and cons of work. Should she stay with the paper she’d come to hate? The list of pros was pitifully short. She liked the deputy features editor. That wasn’t enough. Her days of investigating and exposing dodgy businessmen were long gone. The paper had been moving downmarket in a bid to increase its circulation and it was becoming clear that Christie’s style and character were no longer such a close fit. As a result, the commissions were becoming less frequent as the younger freelancers were given the jobs.

In some respects, that had come as a relief. After all there were only so many bread-makers, bicycles and dishwashers a woman could compare without going round the bend. Her last two budget assignments had been fish slices and cat food. She sighed. There must be more to life. Occasionally she got thrown the odd family piece, such as when she, Libby and Fred had trialled a low-cost holiday weekend in Llandudno (never the Maldives, of course) or a celebrity-oriented feature that no one else wanted, but her heart was never in them. They certainly didn’t give her anything like the adrenalin high she had felt that morning on Tart Talk. They paid the bills but had no impact on the bank loan Nick had left her. Moreover, she still missed the headiness of the early days of MarketForce when she had worked in a more investigative arena and was able to exercise her brain. When she attempted to move into writing more meaty opinion pieces that would demand research, suggesting as possible topics the anonymity of rape victims or the future of inner-city children excluded from school, she had been told firmly that the News was no longer the paper for that sort of thing. She stopped to pull out a rogue sycamore seedling. Yes, the cons were far outweighing the pros.

If Nick were here, he’d say she had to follow her heart – but he wasn’t. And because he wasn’t, she had to earn some cash from somewhere so she could sort out her finances and begin to lavish much-needed attention on the house. Besides which, she knew she couldn’t/shouldn’t let life pass her by. What had happened to the girl who used to make Nick rock with laughter? It was definitely time to give her career a kick-start. If she could do that, everything might change. She thought of Julia’s card in her pocket, took it out and read the details: ‘White Management: Britain’s Number One Talent Agency’. An agent of that calibre wouldn’t give out her cards on a mere whim, surely.

She turned it over in her fingers and reached for her mobile. How strange that Fate should have led her to Julia just when she needed her, exactly as it had led her to that first chance encounter with Nick. Perhaps this was a sign. From him?

‘Oh, God! I hate weddings.’ Christie looked up at the stoic lines of the Victorian church, which sat on a grassy island in Ealing, surrounded by large, graceful Edwardian houses. Overhead, there was enough blue to ‘make a pair of cat’s pyjamas’, as her mother was fond of saying, but the wind had got up, chasing white clouds across the sky. Christie was forced to hold on to her wide-brimmed hat as she progressed with the other guests through the churchyard and into St Stephen’s.

As she stepped into the church, the organist was playing something she knew well but couldn’t identify. Church music’s a little like lift music, she thought, immediately familiar but impossible to name. She caught a whiff of incense, lavender and beeswax, none of them quite overwhelmed by the scent of the lilies that decorated the aisle and pew ends.

This was the third wedding she had been to in almost as many months. She had reached an age when all the girls she knew were getting married – except her, as her mother liked to point out with a sharp little glint. ‘Darling Christine. You’ll never meet a man unless you try harder. You career women will learn eventually that old age without a man is just . . . old age.’

Christie smiled as she accepted an order of service from a young boy swamped in his hired tailcoat, and went to find a seat. She spotted her sister about halfway down the aisle, sitting at the end of an almost full pew – Mel turned and called Christie’s name, the single ostrich plume bouncing wildly in her hair as she waved. A flamboyant fashion-design student, she was everything that her shy, neutral-coloured sister was not.

‘Christie, I’ve saved a seat for you.’ She turned to the rest of the pew, encouraging them to shuffle along to make more room. ‘Can you squish up? Sorry, what’s your name?’ she asked the slightly reserved man sitting on her left.

‘Nick. Nick Lynch.’

Mel gave him a wide smile. ‘Nick! Let me introduce my gorgeous, very single big sister. If you’re on your own, please chat her up and make me happy. If you’re not on your own, then point her towards someone who is. It’ll make my day! And our mother’s, too, because she thinks Christie’s destined for spinsterhood.’ She stopped for a second to give Christie an encouraging grin. ‘Don’t look like that, Chris! I’m only trying to help.’

Embarrassed, Christie smiled an apology at the amused-looking Nick before squeezing into the space that had been made for her. She was hoping Mel would shut up, but her sister was on a roll and there was no stopping her. Now her attention had turned from Christie to the groom, who was standing at his seat in front of the altar, talking to the best man, then turning towards the church door, expectant and nervous.

‘I wish I could help him too,’ Mel confided in a whisper. ‘I wonder if he knows what he’s letting himself in for. I was at the hen do and there was no stone unturned . . . if you know what I mean! Here she comes. The blushing bride – with plenty to blush about.’

A shaft of sunlight suddenly lit the arched doorway and in stepped the bride on the arm of her proud father.

‘Bet she’s got no knickers on under that dress,’ Mel whispered. ‘It’s her trademark.’

Nick caught Christie’s eye over the trembling ostrich feather. He was smiling.

‘Mel! Sssh.’ Christie stifled the urge to gag her sister and burst out laughing.

‘Another good man bites the dust,’ Mel insisted. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

And with that the organ went into a hosanna of tumbling chords. The groom turned for his first glimpse of his bride, and as their eyes locked, he blushed rather sweetly. She, on the other hand, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. She continued her journey down the aisle, and their mutual gaze never wavered until they were duly joined in holy matrimony.

The reception in a nearby hotel was long and dull. The photos had taken for ever and the food as long again to make an appearance. Christie’s feet were aching. She sat in a quiet corner of the ballroom and looked at her watch. When would be the right moment to slip away without being rude? She hoped she could make her excuses before the disco hell began. She spotted Mel and beckoned her over. ‘Mel, I’ve got to go in a minute. I have to make an early start on a piece I’m writing for the News. It has to be in on Monday and—’

‘Oh, please stay a bit longer, you party pooper. You know Mum’ll grill me tomorrow. “Who did Christine talk to?” “Did she dance with anyone nice?” “What are we going to do with her?” ’ Mel impersonated her mother’s elocuted voice perfectly. Christie giggled but still kissed her sister goodbye and, with promises of phone calls and a takeaway during the week, slipped into the gathering gloom of the car park.

As she fumbled for her keys, she dropped her new handbag, spilling its contents onto the tarmac. Crouching to pick them up, she was aware of another person bending to help her. She turned and looked straight into the eyes of the man she had met in the church: Nick Lynch.

‘Hello, again. Your sister tried to introduce us before the service and I completely failed to chat you up. I’m Nick.’

‘Thank God you didn’t. I’d have been mortified. I’m so sorry.’ She picked up her purse and her keys, while he grabbed her makeup bag. ‘I’m Christie. Please ignore Mel. She’s quite mad and the doctors don’t often allow her out, but you know how lax security can be!’

They both laughed and then, in the silence that followed, Christie took in his face. Nice. Not too good-looking but pleasant with wide blue eyes, brown curly hair, broad cheeks and a slight dimple in his chin. He was a couple of inches taller than her and stockily built, but maybe that was his morning suit.

And he looked at her too. Later he would tell everyone it was love at first sight but in truth, even though he fought a strong compulsion to kiss her there and then, it took a few walks in the park, cups of coffee and dinners with friends for them to be absolutely certain that they were meant to be together.

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.

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?’

Chapter 6

Two hours later, Christie arrived home, starving and elated. Walking through the front door, she was overwhelmed by the unmistakable smell of over-fried onions and burning beefburgers. Her appetite instantly became a thing of the past. There was only one person she knew who could cook something so simple so badly.

‘Mel!’

Her sister was oblivious to everything as she jigged in front of the grill, a wooden spoon her microphone, swishing her apron can-can style over her jeans and wailing like a banshee. She had never let her family’s frequent criticisms of her voice put her off belting out a good song.

‘Mel!’ Christie shouted again, this time grabbing the oven gloves from her sister’s shoulder and swatting them at her waist.

Mel jumped round, the alarm on her face giving way to a grin. ‘For God’s sake, woman. Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?’ She turned to the iPod dock and lowered the volume, eager for Christie’s news. ‘What happened? Tell all. What did he want?’

‘Hang on a minute.’ Christie slowed her down. ‘Where are the kids? I asked you to give them a decent meal, not a few charred scraps.’

‘They’ll love it. It’s not as bad as it looks. Really. Fred won’t even notice because his mate Olly’s here.’ Mel flipped an unpleasantly blackened burger and thrust it back under the grill. ‘They’re outside on the trampoline and Libby’s in her room, comme toujours.’

At that moment, Libby skulked into the kitchen and presented herself to Christie for a hallo kiss. She stared at the hamburgers and wrinkled her nose. ‘Yeuch – what is that?’

‘Libby!’ Christie sympathised but had to draw the line at insolence. ‘Don’t be so rude. Mel’s very kind to come over so that I could go out. Why don’t you help by laying the table?’

Looking as if every movement was a huge effort, Libby took the knives and forks from the drawer and flung them in the direction of the mats before banging down four glasses.

‘I’m sure it’ll be delicious,’ Christie said, as encouragement.

‘Yeah, right.’ Clearly sensing that her mother agreed with her, Libby added, ‘Thanks, Auntie Mel. Laters.’ Before anyone could say anything else, she slipped out of the room and upstairs.

Mel was unperturbed. ‘What do you think of these?’ She lifted a foot, rotating her ankle to show off a pair of pale grey ankle boots.

‘Very practical,’ Christie observed caustically, before pulling out a stool and settling herself in a position where she could supervise the last of Mel’s culinary efforts, which was to open a tin of baked beans. But she couldn’t contain herself any longer. ‘Right. Want to hear my news?’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Mel sang, anticipation written across her face. ‘Please. Every possible scenario has gone through my mind since you left this morning from the white slave trade to Jack Bradbury falling madly in love with you and proposing. I can’t bear it another minute. Tell me!’ She shouted the last two words.

‘He only wants me to test as a replacement for Gilly Lancaster on Good Evening Britain.’ Christie’s voice rose to a shriek of excitement as Mel flung her arms round her, squeezing her till she could hardly breathe, the baked beans forgotten.

‘I knew it! You’ll be the best presenter ever and I’ll make it as your brilliant personal stylist.’ Mel was laughing. ‘Let’s celebrate. I snuck a little something into the fridge just in case.’ She opened its door and pulled out a bottle. Christie watched her, touched by her sister’s support. Then, while Christie went to the cupboard for two glasses, ignoring the temptation of her secret cigarette stash, Mel set about opening the cava. Just as the cork shot into the air, there was a tap at the door.

‘Is this a private celebration? Or can anyone join in?’

Afterwards, Christie would remember the apparent dislocation of Mel’s jaw as her eyes took in the outdoor type standing at the back door. He was wearing khaki fatigues topped by a checked shirt, open at the neck and with rolled-up sleeves Tall with dark curly hair, square-jawed with high cheekbones and wide brown eyes, he was a dead ringer for one of those rugged models in the mail-order catalogues that kept dropping through the letterbox.

‘Richard! Come in.’ Christie waved a champagne glass at him. ‘Meet Mel, my sister. We don’t normally drink so early but this is special.’

‘She’s about to take the world of TV by storm.’ Mel was exultant as she put her hand on Christie’s shoulder.

‘How exciting! Don’t let me stop you.’ Richard hesitated, then stepped into the kitchen. ‘I’ve come for Olly. Sorry I’m early but I finished work so I thought I’d come straight over.’

‘Mel, could you go and see what those boys are up to?’ Christie asked, and Mel, giving her sister a knowing look, obligingly disappeared into the garden. ‘Won’t you have a drink while they have supper? It’s just about ready.’

When he accepted, she led the way into the sitting room. The last thing she wanted was the embarrassment of him witnessing the burned offering that Mel was about to serve up to his son.

Olly and Fred had been number-one friends ever since Fred had come home from school and told her he had felt sorry for a new boy standing alone in the playground and had asked him to play. Her heart had swollen with pride at this evidence of her son’s generous spirit. Since then, she had occasionally seen Richard at the school gates where she was aware he had set several mums’ hearts beating faster. And with some reason, she thought, as he made himself comfortable on the sofa. A good-looking man with an air of mystery was bound to arouse interest. So far, school-gate gossip had it that he was divorced and had been in the army before recently setting up his own company, some sort of outward-bound executive-training business outside Aylesbury. Olly seemed to shuffle happily between Richard and his ex-wife, who also lived locally but was seen less often.

She caught him looking out of the window at the garden, still bright in the sunshine. For a moment he seemed lost in a daydream but, abruptly, he snapped back into the present. ‘So, can I ask how you’re planning to take the world of TV by storm? Sounds intriguing.’ He put his glass on the coffee-table, before leaning back and waiting for her to speak.

Feeling self-conscious under his gaze, wishing she’d had time to change back into her usual uniform of jeans and top, she gave an awkward laugh. ‘I’m afraid Mel was exaggerating. As usual. I’ve just been invited to try out for a presenting job. It probably won’t come to anything.’

‘Why on earth not? Be positive.’ He lifted his drink and toasted her. ‘Here’s to your success.’

She smiled back. ‘Thanks. To positivity!’ And raised her glass.

At that moment there was a shout as two small boys raced into the room, skidding on the large rug. ‘Dad, I’m Jenson Button and I’ve beaten Lewis Hamilton – that’s Fred!’ Olly squealed to a halt in front of his father, narrowly avoiding Richard’s raised glass. His tow-coloured hair was threaded with leaves, his hands and flushed cheeks streaked with mud, his eyes bright with excitement. Bits of grass clung to his sweatshirt.

‘No, you’re not. My McLaren’s much faster than yours.’ Just as dishevelled, Fred ran a circuit of the room and disappeared again in the direction of Mel’s shout of ‘Supper!’

‘Easy.’ Richard ruffled his son’s hair, sending a couple of leaves spiralling to the floor. ‘I don’t want you to break anything. Remember, this isn’t our house where things aren’t so precious.’

Looking round the room, Christie looked for something precious. Apart from Nick’s photo, there was nothing except the pieces of wonky pottery that Libby had made at school and presented to her with such pride. Seeing it through Richard’s eyes, she was suddenly aware of how makeshift the room looked. The furniture – the ancient three-piece, the coffee-table, two battered armchairs, the TV cabinet, a large free-standing bookcase – seemed small, worn and lost in this generous space.

‘Is Mummy back yet?’ Olly asked his father, with such hope that Christie had to fight the urge to hug him.

‘Not yet.’ Richard squeezed his son’s shoulder. ‘We’ll ring her when we get home, though. Promise.’

Satisfied with the answer, Olly careered after Fred with a screech of brakes and a roar of engine noise.

‘Caro’s in Brussels,’ Richard explained to Christie. ‘She’s a translator and is there more often than not these days.’

‘Single-parenting’s difficult, isn’t it?’ Christie sympathised.

‘Actually, I don’t find it that bad,’ he contradicted her, with an apologetic smile. ‘My work’s pretty flexible.’

‘I don’t think I really know what you do.’

‘I put overgrown schoolboys masquerading as company execs through team-building experiences. It’s actually great fun and they really get something out of it. So do the women who, I’m happy to report, are very resilient. The farmland and woods we use are a paradise for kids. Fred must come over. In fact, Olly and I are camping out on Saturday night. Do you think Fred’d fancy that?’

‘He’d love it. If you’re sure.’

‘Completely. Two boys are much easier than one. It’ll be fun.’

Christie smiled. She’d welcome the opportunity for a bit of bonding time alone with Libby. Her daughter was busy embarking on the terrible teens with gusto and Christie wanted to narrow what sometimes seemed an ever-widening gap between them. Meanwhile, Fred would benefit from being with a substitute father-figure for once. The close adults in his life were all women, with the exception of Maureen’s Ted – and he didn’t really count. ‘Yes, that would be great.’

‘That’s settled, then. Now tell me about your job.’ He sat back again to concentrate on what she had to say.

Basking in his interest, Christie began to describe her lunch. The high that had accompanied her home from the Ivy returned and Richard was soon laughing with her, clearly astonished when she described Julia’s presence. ‘God! She sounds a bit full-on.’

‘She probably goes there all the time.’ But Christie felt less breezy than she sounded. ‘But her being so near did make me feel a bit uncomfortable.’

‘Isn’t she the one who was all over the papers at the end of last year? I dimly remember reading about her.’

‘That’s her. One of her clients was staying with her and she found his body. He was on his own in her pool and must have slipped. A terrible thing.’

‘Apart from that, how much do you know about her?’ He seemed concerned.

‘No more than necessary, and she’s certainly not what I’m used to. But then again, everything I’m doing at the moment is not what I’m used to. I’m glad to have someone experienced on my side.’

‘This might be teaching my grandmother to suck eggs, but wouldn’t it be an idea to find out a little bit more?’

She was exasperated. ‘If you met her, you’d see immediately what a shrewd woman she is. Whatever the press may have said about her doesn’t make her a bad agent.’

‘Well, do you trust her?’ he asked, as if making a point.

‘Oh, God, yes.’ She thought about it, then said firmly, ‘I would never have gone with her if I’d had any doubts.’

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be saying any of this. Of course you wouldn’t.’

She could see he thought he’d overstepped the mark. ‘Oh, I don’t blame you. Really. I know how crazy it sounds. She involves herself far more than I was expecting, but she’s done some great things for me already so I can’t complain. She’ll probably lose interest eventually.’

But Julia’s unexpected appearance in the restaurant had set one or two alarm bells ringing in her mind although she couldn’t put her finger on why. Had it been coincidence? Or did Julia not trust her to do the right thing on her own? Christie was used to making her own decisions and didn’t want to be manipulated or controlled by anyone.

‘There you go again. What happened to positivity? She’s lucky to have you.’ Richard was smiling as he stood up. ‘I’d better take that urchin home. But you must let me know what happens.’

‘I will.’ Christie took him back to the kitchen where Libby was scraping the food from her plate into the bin. Mel looked at Christie and shrugged. Not my fault.

Libby glanced up before putting her plate in the dishwasher. Then she planted a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek. ‘Got to phone Jasmine. I’ll be down later.’ Christie recognised the teen-speak for ‘I’ll be down in a couple of hours when I’ve rinsed the phone bill’ but she didn’t rise to it.

When Richard and Olly had left, and Fred had gone to watch a Simpsons DVD, Mel and Christie sat together at the kitchen table.

‘You might have warned me,’ Mel complained. ‘I’d have dressed up if I’d known he was going to be here.’

‘Who? Richard?’

‘Yes!’ Mel’s voice was loud with disbelief. ‘You know – the tall dark handsome apparently single bloke who has just left the house. Don’t play the little innocent.’

Christie laughed. ‘Oh, stop. It’s only Richard. A really nice dad, that’s all.’ She paused, then said, ‘And, anyway, I’m out of the habit of thinking like that about men. There isn’t a switch I can just turn on when I want to.’

‘Well, try harder. Tune your radar in. Or I’ll have to come over more often and make a play for him myself.’ Mel rubbed at a splodge of tomato ketchup on her T-shirt. ‘I’m sorry about supper. Libby hated it.’ She looked downcast, upset to think she might be falling out of favour with her adored niece. ‘I’m worried she’ll be hungry.’

‘Don’t. She’ll be fine. You’re fantastic to come and cover for me and that’s all that matters. They like it so much better than when Mum comes.’

‘Are you surprised? Elisabeth!’ Mel mimicked Maureen exactly, brightening as she did so. ‘Eat everything on your plate or you’ll have it for lunch tomorrow and I’ll keep on giving it to you for every meal until it’s finished. For the rest of your life, if necessary.’

They both burst out laughing at their mother’s renowned insistence on the proper way of doing things – it was often the butt of their jokes. Then, changing the subject, Christie told the story of her lunch for the second time.

‘Wow!’ said Mel, when she’d finished. ‘That Jack sounds a complete prick. You must be starving. But I bet you get the job. How will you manage it with the kids, though?’

This was the one question Christie had been deliberately ignoring. Her children had always come first but this job would be an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. Things would have to change. ‘I am worried about that. No self-respecting nanny would want to look after a couple of kids for only a few hours a day and, anyway, that would be incredibly expensive. However nice the salary, I’m still paying off that enormous bloody bank loan.’ She hesitated. ‘You haven’t told Mum, have you?’

‘Of course not.’ Mel was indignant.

‘Thanks. Nick would kill me if he knew I’d even told you. It’s sometimes so difficult having to cope with all the stuff that he dealt with. I so wish he was here to help. He’d know what was best for the kids.’

‘Why don’t you ask Mum?’

‘To help out? Do you think she would? I could afford to pay her something. Or do you think she’d feel patronised?’

‘Patronage or pin money – either way, you’re in trouble. But . . .’

‘That’s Mum!’ they shouted together, and laughed.

‘Well, I’ll be picked up by a driver every day . . .’ she ignored her sister’s whoop of glee ‘. . . about midday, so I could mostly get them up and to school. I’d be in the office at lunchtime and driven home about eight thirty so I’d only need her to be around for a few hours after school. The show goes off-air for most of the Christmas holidays and then my stint’s almost over. I’ll ring her, tell her about today and then drop a hint or two.’

‘Well, you know you can count on me, if I’m not working.’ Mel stretched across the table and grasped Christie’s hand in a sudden burst of sisterliness.

‘Thanks. I know.’ Christie squeezed back, not wanting to admit how nervous she was feeling. If she got the job, what would she be letting herself in for? At the same time, she had to acknowledge that her overriding feeling was excitement, as if she was emerging from the shadows into a brave new world where she could be herself again, doing her very best for her family, and where absolutely anything could happen. What a long way she had come since Nick and she had first fallen in love. When he’d made his un expected proposal of marriage, neither of them could have known what a difficult journey would lie ahead. Those heady days could never be repeated but at least they were safe in her memory for ever.

The drive to the Highlands took two days. They stopped off in the Lakes for a romantic night in Keswick before embarking on the final leg to Nick’s parents’ house. Ma and Pa. Ma was slim and upright, wearing a good tweed skirt, thick stockings and sensible shoes. She had a voice that was used to the draughts and space of old country houses and she could use her cut-glass tones to great effect when shouting for Pa in the garden. The two Labradors, Blackie and Scottie, adored her and never left her side. Pa was a gentler soul. He liked the garden and his greenhouse, and Antiques Roadshow.

The house was imposing from a distance: turreted and hewn from granite. But, close up, it was quietly falling into disrepair. Pa had bought it when he retired from his law firm in order to give his wife, who was rather further up the social scale than he was, the reward he felt she needed for marrying him in the first place. Nick’s parents had done very well over the years with her inheritance and his hard graft, which had taken him from legal assistant to senior partner. He’d invested well but, in their final days, clearly didn’t feel like spending anything on repair bills or heating. The house was as cold as the granite it was built from.

As they parked outside the front of the house, Ma and Pa, Blackie and Scottie came out to meet them.

‘Nick, my boy. Good to see you, old chap.’ Pa pumped Nick’s arm. ‘And this must be Christie. Welcome, welcome. Good of you to come.’ He shook her hand too. ‘This is my wife, Elisabeth.’

Christie’s hand was taken in a firm but cold handshake. ‘I’m so excited to be here,’ she enthused. ‘What a glorious spot.’ Spot? What was she saying? Calling it a spot was like calling Balmoral a mobile home. She stood and took in the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. Only two houses, way in the distance, and the narrow potholed road on which they’d travelled. The rest she described later to Mel as ‘Scenery! There’s just loads and loads of scenery. And sheep. And that’s it.’

‘Thank you,’ Elisabeth said, without apparently moving any part of her face. ‘Do come in. I hope you’ll be warm enough.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ Christie followed her, dying to see what was offered inside. But she wasn’t fine. She was frozen. The fire lit in the library where they had tea and Dundee cake was barely glowing. She could almost see her breath on the air. No wonder Nick had packed for the Arctic. Later he showed her to her bedroom. It had a pretty view of the scenery, heather-sprigged wallpaper and a very high but single bed.

‘Are we not allowed to sleep together?’ she asked, taken aback.

‘Ma doesn’t approve. But it’s much more fun this way. I can come and warm you up a bit later, if you like! Shall I run you a bath? Your lips are going blue.’

She punched his arm.

The bathroom was a perfect example of early-Victorian plumbing. The enormous, stained bath stood on lion feet. Nick turned on the large brass taps only for there to be a time delay before icy water eventually came through. Ten minutes later, only a couple of inches covered the bottom but at least the water had got hotter and the steam seemed rather exotic so Christie did the best she could to enjoy it while Nick sat on the closed loo lid holding a big but balding bath towel for her. While she went to get dressed, Nick jumped into her water. As she put on as many layers as she’d brought with her, she wondered if anyone would notice that she was wearing two pairs of tights.

Supper was also in the library, where a small card table had been set up and laid by the fire. Elisabeth tottered in and out with bowls of cabbage, carrots and mash and finally a leg of lamb. Nick carved while Pa poured very generous glasses of Scotch for them all. The evening was memorable, and as Christie got to know Ma and Pa, she found them funny and kind. Elisabeth took a little time to weigh her up, but after a couple of hours she picked up her glass and made a toast: ‘To Christie and Nicholas. We’re happy to have you here with us.’

‘What was that about?’ whispered Christie, as Nick walked her up the stairs to her bedroom.

‘I think it’s her way of saying she likes you. Which is good because I like you too.’ They stopped outside her bedroom door. ‘And so does Pa. I can tell.’ To her astonishment, he dropped on to one knee. ‘Darling Christie, I like you so much I would like to marry you. Would that be all right? I love you.’

‘Oh, my God. Yes! Yes, please!’ Christie was giddy with happiness.

He stood up and just about managed to pick her up and carry her over the threshold of her room. And, funnily enough, she didn’t feel the cold once that night.

Chapter 7

The summer sun was slanting through the branches of the two magnificent chestnut trees in the south-west corner of the garden. Shadows danced on the grass where Christie had arranged the two deckchairs. She put down the mugs of tea, making sure they were steady before she let go. Between the two women, a plate of chocolate-chip cookies lay untouched. Maureen was watching her weight, as always, and had refused them with a small sniff. Christie took two, just for the hell of it, and balanced one on the arm of the chair as she took a bite out of the other. As the sweetness filled her mouth, she relaxed, but not completely. She had something to achieve first.

‘I wouldn’t ask you unless I had to.’ As Maureen bristled, Christie realised how her words might have been interpreted. ‘What I mean is,’ she added hastily, ‘no one could do the job as well as you and I wouldn’t trust the children with anyone else, Mum. So, would you consider looking after them for me while I’m at work?’

Her ruffled feathers smoothed, Maureen brightened a little. ‘I’d like to help but I need to check my diary.’ Her involvement in local affairs was second to none. She organised local fêtes, coffee mornings, charity events, and was a stalwart of any adult-education opportunities on offer. And besides all that, there was Ted, her loyal companion. Her time was a precious commodity.

Christie relaxed a little bit more. This was to be expected. Maureen relished playing hard to get. That way, when she eventually agreed to a request, the gratitude she received was always the greater. After years of being irritated by the habit, Christie now accepted it as part of her mother’s character. Her grandmother had died years ago, but Christie well remembered the straight back, the pinched face and the distressing lack of affection she showed to any of her family. Maureen had obviously paid the price for her upbringing and seemed to flourish with the reassurance she gained from being needed.

‘It’s not for ever,’ Christie urged, ‘just until Gilly returns to work full time. They’re expecting that to be next spring or early summer. In the big scheme of things, that’s no time at all. I should earn enough to keep us going for a while and do the house up a bit more. And I’ll pay you for a proper job.’

‘Let me think about it,’ Maureen hedged. She raked a manicured hand through her artfully streaked hair. ‘You know, I can’t put my life on hold much longer. I’ve promised Ted that, one day, we’ll go back to Rajasthan. He’s desperate to see his parents’ graves again. He had a happy time as a boy out there – “son of the Raj”, as he calls himself – and tempus fugit, you know.’

‘Yes, Mum, I do know, but right now I need you. We need you. Look at this place. There’s so much crying out to be done. This is my chance to pay off my overdraft at last and put the house right. I’ve got to do something about the conservatory before it falls in and there’s damp rot in my study and two of the bedrooms. Central-heating that worked would be a bonus. And I need a new washing-machine. I could go on and on.’

‘I did warn you that it would be too much when you bought the place. But would you listen?’

Her knowing tone infuriated Christie, as it so often did. ‘I’m glad I bought it, really glad. It’s home – but the upkeep’s a bit more than I’d imagined.’

Maureen sniffed again and arched her eyebrows.

‘But now I’ve got a chance to begin to sort out the house and my financial problems.’

‘Well, I’m not not helping. I’m just pointing out that it’s not that straightforward.’

For that read, ‘I want you know how much I’m sacrificing,’ thought Christie. Instead, she said, ‘It’s not for long – not even a year – just to collect the kids from school or be here if they’re getting a lift, give them supper, and then I’ll be home.’

‘Anything can happen in that time. Especially when you get to my age. Amy Stanbridge felt a bit strange . . .’

Christie gave an inner groan, knowing that one of her mother’s stories about the Grim Reaper was coming up.

‘. . . She told her husband she was going upstairs for a rest. Never came down again. He found her dead as a doornail on their bed. Hadn’t even had time to take her shoes off. You see, when you get on a bit, you never know.’

‘No, you don’t. But I have to take this job for my sake and for the children’s. If you want to go to India, fine. Just say so, and I’ll find someone else.’ But she knew that this trip was a pipe-dream – Maureen and Ted would never be able to afford it. And Maureen knew that too. Nonetheless, the look that said she was going to be as intransigent as she could be had crossed her face.

As her mother shut her eyes and angled her face to the sun, Christie resigned herself to the wait. She thought back to her screen test, which couldn’t have gone more smoothly. She and Julia had been welcomed to the studio by the programme editor, who had explained that he wanted Christie to read the previous night’s script from Good Evening Britain. She’d had to open the show, and then they had role-played a couple of short interviews. He helped her with the art of the four-minute live television interview. ‘Ask daft lads’ questions,’ he explained. ‘Who? What? Why? Where? When? And then a killer if you can.’ Despite her nerves, she managed to read the autocue, simultaneously listening to the open talkback in her ear, through which she heard the comments, directions, cuts and ribald jokes from the producer and his team in the gallery.

Afterwards, Julia assured her that she had sounded quite natural. Her panic that the autocue would run too fast for her hadn’t shown. She even enjoyed being ‘interviewed’ by Sam Abbott, who was very friendly, easy to talk to, and would be her co-host.

Thankfully, the doyenne of the show, Gilly, hadn’t appeared, due to an appointment with her obstetrician, and Christie had left feeling confident that she had at least done the best she could. Two days later Julia phoned to say the job was hers. ‘I’ve got the contract in front of me, all pretty standard stuff. Nothing we need to go through. Salary’s agreed at five hundred pounds a show payable at the end of each month. I can get it biked round to TV7 this afternoon.’

‘But don’t I have to sign it?’ Everything was happening so fast.

‘With your permission, I can sign it as your representative. Then it’s done and dusted. That’s how I work with most of my clients. They’re relieved not to be bothered with the detail.’ Julia’s brisk and businesslike attitude didn’t invite argument.

‘In which case, if you’re happy with it . . . Better get it back to TV7 before anyone has second thoughts!’ Christie laughed, glad not to have the responsibility of the paperwork.

‘Mmm.’ Julia didn’t.

Now Christie had two weeks in which to put her ducks in a row before she made her début appearance on Good Evening Britain, when she would be introduced by . . . Gilly herself.

Terrified as she was about meeting the clever, witty, much-loved Gilly, her first priority was to appeal again to the more terrifying Maureen, whose eyes were still shut. ‘I don’t want to upset the kids’ routine, if I can help it,’ Christie began.

Her mother’s eyes snapped open. ‘I’ll never get another chance like this.’ Don’t plead with her, she remonstrated with herself. That isn’t the way.

She was interrupted by the sound of her mobile. She fished it out of her pocket.

It was Julia.

‘Julia, hi.’ She made a despairing face at her mother. Her family were already only too aware of the frequent phone calls she received from her agent at all times of the day. Didn’t the woman have a life of her own? ‘No, I haven’t forgotten the photographer first thing tomorrow morning. No, don’t worry, I’ll be looking my best.’ She became aware of Maureen gazing rather pointedly at the remaining biscuit on her chair arm. Defiant, Christie picked it up but hesitated as she remembered the slightly too-tight dress she was planning to wear in her publicity shot for the programme. ‘No, Julia. I definitely won’t be wearing trousers.’

A smile crossed Maureen’s face as Christie hung up. ‘I’m glad to hear that you’ve got somebody making sure you don’t let the side down.’ She paused. ‘All right. I’ll come over in the evenings from four till eight thirty and we’ll see how it works out.’ Overhearing the phone call had obviously tilted the balance.

‘Will you really?’ Christie put the biscuit down. ‘Wait till I tell the children. They’ll be so pleased.’ No harm in bending the truth a little in the interest of family relations.

‘Where are they, anyway?’ Maureen turned towards the house. ‘I thought they might at least come and say hallo to their granny.’

‘Not here, Mum. In fact, I’ve got to go and pick them up in a minute. Libby’s been over at Sophie’s and Fred’s been staying with Richard and Olly again. I can’t tear him away from there. They have such a good time doing all those boy things that I’ve been so bad at.’

‘You can’t expect to be all things to them, you know,’ said Maureen, sounding uncharacteristically wistful. ‘You’re not a bad mother, Christine. And perhaps this second chance is heaven sent. Nick and Daddy would be proud of you.’

Christie looked at her, surprised. This was rare praise indeed. A woman of few generous words, Maureen normally managed to convey a faint air of disapproval when confronted by the chaos her elder daughter generated. But occasionally Christie had to acknowledge that, deep down, her mother wasn’t such a bad old stick. She had just become a creature of habit who controlled her life so that it ran with as few surprises and as much order as possible. They might not always see eye to eye but Christie knew her mother’s heart was in the right place.

Having waved her off, she leapt into the car and drove to collect Libby. Her daughter was sitting on the doorstep of Sophie’s house, swaying her head and mouthing the words to whatever was playing on her iPod Shuffle. As soon as she saw Christie, she got to her feet and ran down the garden path to the car.

‘Where have you been? I told you Soph was going to London with her mum at five.’ She wrenched open the car door and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘I’ve been sitting there for hours.’

‘It’s only ten past!’ Christie protested. ‘I’m so sorry. I was sorting things out with Granny.’

‘Tell me she isn’t going to be over at ours every time you’re at work. Please.’ Libby cast her eyes heavenwards. ‘We don’t need anyone. I can look after us.’

‘You’re only twelve, sweetheart. I wouldn’t put all that responsibility on your shoulders. Besides, it’s illegal.’ Christie wasn’t entirely sure whether leaving a twelve-year-old home alone was or wasn’t against the law, but grasped at the excuse, grateful that it had flashed into her mind.

‘Who’d know?’ Libby’s reasoning was impeccable. Her father’s daughter.

‘Well . . .’ Christie hesitated ‘. . . I would, and I wouldn’t be happy. Look, it won’t be for long.’ She reached out to lay a consoling hand on her daughter’s leg.

‘But suppose they take you on for ever? People stay in those jobs for years, don’t they?’

If Libby hadn’t sounded so anxious, Christie would have laughed at the idea. Instead she reassured her: ‘They won’t. I’m only going to be there while Gilly Lancaster’s on maternity leave. She’ll be back.’

‘But suppose you’re better than her? Or suppose she wants to stay at home with her children?’

‘Libby, don’t. This will only be for a few months. Just understand that it’s an opportunity for me that may work out well for us all.’ She smoothed her daughter’s hair. ‘Look at me. I promise.’ She leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘Let’s go and get Fred.’

They drove in silence, Libby listening to her music, occasionally bursting into random snatches of song, while Christie thought about their future. The prospect of being beamed nightly into households all around the country was as daunting as it was exciting. However much she tried to reassure Libby, she knew at the back of her mind that her daughter was right. There was no doubt that their life was going to change, perhaps not altogether for the best, and there was nothing she could do to stop that.

This is what I wanted, she reminded herself. And, after all, it’s only for a year tops, so I’d better make the most of it.

They turned down a long driveway, between two rows of rowan trees, the car crunching over deep gravel, and she stopped in the stable-yard at the back of a square, red-brick Victorian farmhouse. The door to the kitchen was open and Christie could see Olly and Fred’s heads bent in concentration as they studied something on the kitchen table. They looked up when they heard the car door slam but immediately went back to the matter in hand.

Christie tapped at the door before she went in. Stepping over a pile of muddy boots and shoes, she found herself in a long wide room with a large pine table in the centre and wooden units along two of whitewashed walls, which were hung with rusty old farming tools at one end, cooking utensils at the other. Richard was standing with his back to her, intent on pouring a colourless liquid from a large brown bottle into a preserving pan.

‘What are you all doing?’

‘We found a bird’s skull and some spine bones!’ Fred gabbled. ‘Olly and I are trying to work out what kind of bird from this book. You have to look at all the different shapes of beak. We think it might be a kestrel. See how hooked theirs are?’

‘We’re soaking them in hydrogen peroxide to sterilise them so they can take them into school,’ Richard said, putting the pan safely at the back of the wooden draining-board and screwing the top back onto the bottle. ‘Jigger, no!’ Said too late as a black Labrador rushed through the door and jumped up at Christie, almost bowling her over. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s not meant to do that but he’s young and very stupid.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Christie was laughing as she took the cloth he offered and wiped at the paw prints on her jeans, turning away from the disobedient dog, which was now refusing to be shooed out by Olly.

‘Mum, we’ve been learning to track in the woods too. And I know how to tell the time without a watch now.’

‘Really? How can you do that?’ she asked, giving the cue for a torrent of incoherent explanation from the two boys, who talked over each other as they described something involving the sun, a stick and some stones. ‘Come and see.’ They rushed out of a second door at the end of the room into the garden, Jigger chasing after them, jumping up and catching their sleeves with his teeth as they ran.

‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea, but I guess we haven’t got time.’ Richard let her go out of the door first. ‘Wouldn’t Libby like to see too?’

‘She’s wrapped up in her music. Besides, anything Fred gets up to is way beneath her. She’ll be fine provided we’re not too long.’

They followed the boys across the garden to a stick that was standing with a circle of stones placed evenly around it.

‘Go on, Mum. Ask me the time,’ said Fred.

Christie obliged.

‘Half past five,’ he yelled, triumphant.

‘That’s amazing and completely right.’ She knelt down to have the elementary sun-dial explained to her. When she looked up, Richard was gazing in her direction. She got to her feet. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said. ‘This is just what Fred needs. He absolutely loves coming here.’

‘And we love having him. Don’t we, Jigger?’ He bent to pat the dog that was wagging around his legs, shivering with delight at the attention. ‘We were lucky today, not having any team-building groups in. Some companies want to come at the weekend – they simply can’t waste a minute of the working week – and then it all gets a bit hectic on the childcare front.’

‘Perhaps I could return the favour on those days,’ Christie offered, as they began to head back to the car. ‘Fred! Come on.’

‘If Caro’s away, I’ll hold you to that.’

‘Oh, sorry, how stupid of me.’ She kicked herself for forgetting that his situation was not the same as hers.

‘Nothing to be sorry about. But there is one thing I was wondering, which is . . .’ He paused, as if nerving himself to say something. ‘There’s a pub quiz next Saturday and one of the regulars on our team can’t make it. I don’t suppose you’d like to come? Would you?’

Christie froze. Was he actually asking her on a date? She dismissed the idea as fast as it had entered her head. Of course he wasn’t. They had the kids in common and he probably didn’t have anyone else he could ask at such short notice. Mates, that’s what they were. But then she remembered Mel’s comment about tuning her radar. Perhaps they could be more. Perhaps she was failing to read the signs. ‘I’d love to,’ she answered. ‘Provided I can find a babysitter.’

As they reached the car, Fred hurled himself onto the back seat while Jigger, having jumped in after him, was hauled out from the other side by Richard. ‘Bloody animal! That’s terrific. I’ll pick you up at about six. We’ll eat there.’

As they said their goodbyes and thank-yous and set off for home, Christie became aware that Libby had removed her headphones when Jigger made his unscheduled entrance and exit and was now staring at her with a look of disdain cut with horror. ‘You’re not going on a . . .’ she could barely say the word ‘. . . date with him, are you?’ She mustered all the scorn at her disposal. ‘Aren’t you a bit old? And, anyway, what about Dad?’

‘You’re never too old, Libby. Never.’ Christie smiled at her daughter. ‘And Dad would be proud that we’re all getting on with our lives, you know. He really would.’

Her eyes on the road, she didn’t see the two spots of colour that appeared on Libby’s cheeks or the single tear she dashed away as she turned to stare out of the window.

Chapter 8

Thirty minutes before her first programme, Christie was looking in her dressing-room mirror, studying the professional makeup on her face. Not bad. The photo-shoot (in a beautiful coral body-con dress that Mel had picked out for her) had been good, and the accompanying articles in the papers that day were positive.

There was a knock on the door of the tiny dressing room. It opened to reveal Gilly Lancaster, balancing a hand-tied posy on her pregnant stomach. In the flesh, she was smaller than she appeared on TV. A sleek mane of immaculately blow-dried blonde hair framed her face, and twinkling arrangements of gold and silver stars hung from her ears. Not a wrinkle showed above her neat, pointed nose or beside her wide mouth – all beaten into submission with Botox and filler, no doubt. For the umpteenth time, Christie swore she would stay out of the hands of cosmetic doctors and surgeons, whatever the cost to her new career. Gilly’s welcoming smile revealed a mouthful of perfectly capped and whitened teeth. She was wearing an elegant dusty pink crêpe-de-Chine trouser suit with a jacket cut low enough to reveal a hint of pregnant cleavage, with a wide front bow, its ends long enough almost to disguise her bump. Looking longingly at Gilly’s towering strappy shoes, Christie couldn’t but remember her own pregnancies and her constant longing for comfortable slippers and tracksuits. She could no more have dressed like this than fly to the moon.

Today had been the first day they’d met and, following that encounter, Gilly was here with what must be a peace-offering. Earlier, Christie had walked into her first production meeting two minutes early to discover that everyone bar Vince, the programme editor, was already there. Gilly had been sitting on the far side of the large table strewn with newspapers, most of which were open at the page on which Christie’s glamorous photo stood out beneath headlines such as ‘NEW GIRL MAKES NEWS! LANCASTER LYNCHED’, with flattering accounts of her suitability for the job and photos showing Gilly’s burgeoning figure. There was an empty chair beside Gilly. She had put her hand on the back and nodded at Christie, saying, ‘Come and sit here.’ Grateful for the friendly gesture, Christie had sat down. Just then, the swing doors had banged open and Vince burst in. He took one look across the table, his face reddening. ‘You’re in my chair,’ he said, with quiet menace. Mortified, Christie had moved to the other empty one at the end of the table. She had seen Gilly give Vince a look, as if to say, ‘I warned you she was an idiot,’ then glance at her with a one hundred per cent smirk.

Things had not improved when Vince then championed Christie and insisted she was given the second-lead interview with Jack Brown, one of the few firemen who had survived an oil-refinery blaze. Despite Gilly’s furious objections, he was adamant that he wanted Christie to make a mark on her first show.

Christie remembered the glare Gilly had shot in her direction, yet now she was standing in front of her with a floral apology. The last thing Christie wanted to do was get off on the wrong foot with any of her new colleagues, especially on her first show.

‘I didn’t get a chance to give these to you before.’ Gilly passed the flowers to Christie who thanked her and looked vainly for a vase in which to put them. The only one there held the wilting good-luck flowers that Libby and Fred had picked from the garden that morning. Defeated, she put the posy on her dressing-table.

Gilly was oblivious to the fate of her gift and carried on: ‘Julia’s told me so much about you. We talk all the time. Is she here yet?’

‘Not yet. She called to say she was running late.’ If Gilly wasn’t going to refer to what had happened earlier, then Christie wouldn’t either. Starting out with a confrontation or an apology would not make any kind of working relationship. She’d happily accept the olive branch and leave it at that.

‘She’s so amazing.’ Gilly sat in the other chair, wincing as she slipped off a shoe and rubbed her slightly puffy feet. ‘When I started, she made everything so easy. She knows everyone.’ A burst of laughter escaped her lips. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Excited, terrified and numb,’ said Christie. ‘I’ll be glad when the first show’s over.’

‘You’ll be absolutely fine. Sam’s a poppet. He’s learned so much since he’s been working with me.’

Christie disliked the patronising note that had crept into Gilly’s voice.

‘What are you wearing?’

Julia had explained that she’d secured Gilly a clothes budget and a stylist who shopped with her, but the show didn’t run to doing the same for the second-string presenters. Once Christie had proved herself, perhaps she’d be given a budget of her own. Until then, with Mel’s help, Christie had vowed she wasn’t going to be made to feel like Second-hand Rose.

‘This dress?’ She adopted a jokey pose. Mel had found a very simple figure-hugging bluey-purple shift with cap sleeves that seemed ideal for her first appearance.

‘Fabulous.’ Gilly’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. ‘The perfect colour for you.’ She was interrupted by another knock at the door, their call to go to the studio. ‘Follow me. This place is such a warren. I don’t want you to get lost.’ She slipped her shoe back on and, limping, led the way.

Although she knew what to expect, Christie was always surprised by how small and intimate the studio was. The low, black ceiling was hung about with hundreds of studio lights that raised the temperature to Saharan heights. People were standing about, chatting quietly or listening to whoever in the gallery outside was talking to them via their earpiece. Across the smooth, shiny floor looped fat black cables attached to five cameras topped with autocue hoods that were focused on the brightly lit set, like monsters watching their prey. Against three of the walls were what looked like scuffed Ikea room sets. In the middle, two curved cream sofas sat empty in front of a softly lit orange backdrop. A carafe of water, two glasses and a box of Kleenex (for the more emotional interviews) were placed on two low tables. To the left was the demo area, the empty white corner that the designers could magic into anything: today, a kitchen set. On the right, in the hard-interview area, two uncomfortable-looking chairs faced each other across a coffee-table against a wide photographic backdrop: a collage of well-known buildings from around Britain.

As she waited for the floor manager to come over, Christie became aware that a couple of scene hands were staring at her, then looking away and smiling as if having a joke at her expense. Before she had time to ask them what was so funny, the director was talking in her earpiece.

‘Christie, hi. Ian here. Just sit on the cream sofa and let Camera Two have a look at you.’ As she sat down, his voice abruptly changed. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’

‘I’m sorry? What’s the matter?’ Christie was completely thrown. She looked around for Gilly, who had admired her outfit, but she had vanished among the crew. If something was so obviously wrong, why on earth hadn’t she said so when there had been a chance to put it right?

‘The matter? No one wears blue on set. Surely you know that. You’ll disappear into the chroma-key.’

‘Chroma-key?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Someone tell her, for fuck’s sake. And in the meantime – Lillybet!’ he bellowed down the talkback to one of the runners, all of whom were pretending not to notice what was going on. ‘Take her down to Wardrobe and see if they’ve got something suitable. Anything other than fucking blue!’

The entire studio had turned to look at her.

Wishing this was a nightmare from which she’d soon wake up, Christie was marched away through the maze of corridors. Lillybet quickly explained that chroma-key was a bit of TV magic that allowed all kinds of photos, films and weather maps to appear where they weren’t. Some chroma-key screens were green. Good Evening Britain’s was blue. When they reached Wardrobe, she banged open the door, avoiding a giant pile of discarded shoes, and yelled, ‘Quick. Emergency. Nell, we need something right now.’ She grimaced apologetically at Christie, who was feeling so small she barely noticed.

Nell, a slight girl dressed in black with purple-and-black stripy tights, punky red-and-orange hair standing on end and a multi-ringed right ear and right nostril, emerged from behind a rail of clothes. Obviously peeved at being disturbed, she eyed Christie up and down. ‘Haven’t got much in at the moment,’ she said grumpily.

‘Doesn’t matter. The show starts in fifteen,’ said Lillybet. ‘It does matter to me,’ interrupted Christie, realising she didn’t want to be remembered for making her first appearance on Good Evening Britain in a sack. Maureen and Mel would never let her live it down, never mind the press. And Julia! Oh, God. ‘There must be something you’ve got that isn’t too awful.’

‘Just a minute.’ Nell disappeared again and came back with a maroon skirt and a cream shirt with a semi-circular frilled arrangement across the bust. ‘How about this? Right size. The best I can do.’

While Christie tried the outfit on, she could hear the director shouting through her earpiece and over Lillybet’s walkie-talkie. She straightened up and looked in the mirror. As if making her look like a refugee from a seventies sit-com wasn’t crime enough – the blouse put a good ten years on her. At least. ‘I’m not sure about this. Isn’t there something else I could try?’

‘No time and you look fine. Really.’ Lillybet didn’t sound entirely convinced but another disembodied yell galvanised her. ‘Come on. We’ll be dead if we’re not back in the studio in a couple of minutes.’ She was already holding open the door.

Not wanting to make things worse, Christie had no choice but to follow her. As she approached the set where Gilly was waiting, seated on the sofa opposite Sam, she thought she saw a satisfied smile hovering on her co-presenter’s lips. But, with only moments to go, there was no time to say anything. One of the makeup girls rushed up and neatened her hair, dabbing powder on her nose to deaden the perspiration. There was no point in worrying what she looked like now. She held her head high and went to sit beside Gilly, as instructed, listening to the familiar introductory music and waiting for the show to begin.

Gilly opened as usual, and led straight into Christie’s introduction. With a saccharine smile, she addressed the nation, her fans. ‘As you all know, I’ll shortly be going on maternity leave to have my three little blessings so it gives me enormous pleasure to be able to introduce Caroline Lynch . . .’ Christie and Sam looked at each other ‘. . . who’ll be looking after things for me.’

Enough, thought Christie. Before Gilly could say any more, she cut in: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Gilly, but those hormones must be getting to you. I’m Christie.’

Sam laughed to cover the awkwardness of the moment while an infuriated Gilly tinkled through her teeth, ‘Of course. I’m so sorry.’

The next fifty-four minutes went smoothly enough, and Christie was relieved that her interview with the heroic fireman ran without a hitch.

When the show was over, the first person she saw coming towards her was Julia. Immaculate as ever in a sharp yellow swing coat, her face was thunderous. ‘What were you thinking?’ she hissed, clearly not wanting to be overheard.

‘What do you mean?’ Christie was genuinely confused. ‘I thought it went well.’ So well, in fact, that as soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Sam had got up and kissed her cheek. ‘You were terrific,’ he’d said. ‘Especially the interview with Jack Brown – very emotional.’ They’d both ignored Gilly’s audible ‘tsk’. ‘We should give you a proper welcome,’ Sam went on. ‘Come down to the bar, when you’re ready.’

‘You went well – very well, in fact.’ Julia softened slightly. ‘But what on earth were you wearing?’

As Christie began to explain, she could see Julia’s eyes glaze over. Her agent wasn’t interested in excuses or explanations. She wanted results. She came to at the mention of Gilly and her apparent approval of the fated blue dress.

‘You must have misunderstood her. She’s a pro and would never have told you to wear blue. Never.’

‘She didn’t exactly tell . . .’ But she had lost Julia’s interest again. It was true that Gilly hadn’t recommended she wear the dress, but she certainly hadn’t advised her against it when there might have been time to salvage the situation. Perhaps their relationship was already more complicated than she’d realised. In future, perhaps she would be less trusting, more cautious. Christie said goodbye to Julia, who was dashing off to a first night in the West End, then hosting an after-show dinner at Sheekey’s, so had no time to discuss anything more ‘till the morning’.

With her heart in her high heels, Christie returned to her dressing room to change. Unable to face going home to listen to Maureen reiterate Julia’s and probably the entire nation’s view of her outfit, she tossed it into a corner and zipped herself into the offending blue dress, ready to face the music in the bar. Once she was on the outside of a glass of wine, surely her faux pas wouldn’t seem to matter as much?

She pushed open the door to a crowd of staff, most of whom were completely unfamiliar to her. She spotted Sam near the bar and began to make her way to him. As soon as he felt her touch his arm, he turned and his face lit up. ‘So you’ve escaped the wicked witch’s clutches at last. Well done.’

For a moment, Christie thought he meant Gilly, but then he said, ‘The Queen of Mean? Oops!’ He winked. ‘I mean Ms Julia Keen, of course.’

‘She’s not that bad.’

‘No, she’s a good agent, I’ll give you that. But I’d keep her at arm’s length, if I were you. She’s scary. I know Ben was – well, perhaps, a little unhappy about her? And look what happened to him.’

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